Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (31 page)

But now?
Now
she was alone.

Gran was sick and wouldn’t last much longer.

She’d never been especially close to her parents.

She had no siblings, no real friends.

She was an island.

At the funeral—the full military honors had made it feel even more unreal to Ginger—she remembered the little girl who loved two boys. And now she had, as her grandmother had predicted on her twelfth birthday, lost them both.

Woodman was gone, and Cain hated her. And since they’d shared her heart in different ways, losing them meant that her heart was broken beyond repair, with no hope for salvation or solace. She didn’t fight this realization. She quietly accepted it. Then she changed into her pajamas, slipped into bed, and, aside from the occasional cup of tea or the need to relieve herself, didn’t get out of her bed for a week. And when she finally did, she saw no reason to leave her room. And when she finally did, she saw no reason to leave her cottage. And so she hadn’t. She hadn’t been outside in almost a month. Nor had she cried once. And every day that passed made her feel more dead inside than the day before.

That was just fine.

In fact, it was for the best.

She pressed the pad of her thumb into the channel-return button, and Lifetime returned. Two female police officers questioned a young pregnant woman who had her elbows propped on a table, looking confused, disbelieving, then distraught. Ginger stared at the young actress who sobbed and screamed, beating her hands on the metal table. What had they just told her? That her car had been stolen? That her house had burned down? That her boyfriend had been killed?

That would be sad, wouldn’t it? To be a young pregnant girl with no car, no house, and no boyfriend? That was the sort of heartbreaking story that should make Ginger cry, and yet no tears came. No lump in her throat. No burn behind her eyes. Nothing. Just . . . nothing.

She sat up, then stood up, then walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, standing at the sink for a moment.

How long will you go on like this?
she wondered.
Will you just keep fading away? Until someday the ghost that you are is the ghost you become.

“Maybe that’s how it ends,” she said softly, to no one. “You just fade away until you’re gone.”

Aknock on her door made her turn listlessly toward it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing her mother or father to leave, to go away, to just leave her the fuck alone. Couldn’t they see that she was an island? Didn’t they know a ghost when they saw one?

Again, a soft knock.

She leaned back from the sink and glanced at the window over the door, but her parents were smart. They didn’t peek into the window. They stayed out of sight so she couldn’t just wave them away.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Fine,” she muttered under her breath, crossing the small kitchen and swinging open the door.

Her eyes slammed into a heather-gray waffle-weave Henley, then slid upward to a square jaw. She lingered on his lips for a moment, ruthlessly pushing down the tiny spark of a memory of those lips pressed against her own. Raising her gaze, she took in the cut-marble slashes of his cheekbones, finally meeting the arctic blue of his eyes.

“Ginger,” he whispered gently.

“Cain,” she answered, the sound small and stunned.

She answered his voice because she could barely see his face.

Her eyes were swimming with tears.

She looked awful.

In fact, in the twenty-one years that Cain had known Ginger Laire McHuid, he couldn’t ever remember her looking so terrible.

“Hi,” he said, sweeping his eyes over her face.

Tired, glassy eyes stared back at him, with two sets of bags under each. Her hair, which was usually blonde, shiny, and curled, lay limp and greasy around her face. He dropped his gaze to her clothes and realized she was wearing a sweat suit or some sort of pajamas—a light pink shirt that read “Sleepy Time!” had several dried stains of different colors, mostly concentrated across the straining ledge of her breasts, and black cotton pants with white and gray fingerprint smudges on the thighs.

“What do you want?” she asked.

His eyes trailed back up her body quickly until he met her eyes. And as he stared at her, relief coursed through his body because there, behind the tears and the tiredness, the anger and the bleakness, was Ginger. The Ginger he knew. The Ginger he hadn’t seen at the funeral.

“I’m goin’ for a ride and you’re comin’ with me,” he said, leaning against the doorway.

She shook her head and reached for the door as if to close it. “I’m not up for a ride.”

Cain stuck his foot in the door. “You’re always up for a ride, one. And two, I didn’t ask if you were up for it.”

She took a deep breath and sighed loudly, giving him a look that would freeze boiling water. “Cain, go away.” She glanced at his foot, then back at his face. “I mean it.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, meeting her icy gaze unflinchingly. “No.”

“Christ!” she bit out, stomping one foot. “Why’re you botherin’ me?”

He shrugged. “You need to get out of this cottage.”

“You’re not my momma.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I’m warnin’ you . . .”

“Quit bein’ a pain in the ass and go get some jeans on.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re goin’ for a ride either way,” he said, adding a little extra steel to his voice as he recalled his promise to Woodman to take care of her. He hadn’t honored his promise, and look at what had happened. He shook his head with equal parts anger at her and himself. “And if you don’t get your ass up on that horse on your own, princess, I will pick you up over my shoulder, walk down the hill to the barn with you screamin’ and shoutin’, throw you into that saddle and smack Heath on her rump as hard as I can. Now go put on some pants. You’re comin’ for a ride with me.”

She blinked at him.

Then she ground her jaw, her face tightening and turning red with fury.

“Pants,” he said, pointing to the stairs beyond the kitchen. “Now.”

“Fine!” she spat. “But I’m
not
goin’ to like it.”

“Your enjoyment is optional. Your need for fresh air . . .” He leaned forward, took a whiff, and then scrunched up his nose as he jerked back.  “. . . and a
shower
. . . is not. You stink, princess.” He gestured to the rocking chair on the porch as he removed his foot from the doorway. “I’ll wait here.”

“You’re a bully.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

With one last fuming look, she slammed the door, and he heard her grumbling as she walked through the kitchen and headed for the stairs.

He sat down in the rocker and looked up at the manor house. He was hoping to avoid the McHuids. Not that he couldn’t hold his own with them, but he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He wasn’t really in the mood for a ride either. His body was out of shape after weeks of drinking, but his promise to Woodman had tormented him over the past month, and finally, in the past few days, he’d felt some measure of peace in his heart where his cousin was concerned. At least he was doing
something
to help Ginger.

And in order to help her, he’d been forced to clean up his own act too. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in three days and had gone for three painful jogs. He’d finally taken his bikes off their pallets and wired some high-tech showroom lighting that made them gleam. Knowing that he had to be there for her meant that he had to take responsibility for himself first. And nothing less than a promise to Woodman—he preferred not to credit Ginger personally with any portion of his transformation—could have elicited such a change.

But mercifully, for the first time since Woodman’s death, Cain felt a sense of purpose. He didn’t feel like a caged animal anymore, stalking back and forth across the same trod ground. He had a purpose, and whether she liked it or not, its name was Ginger.

Standing up, he noticed that the white picket fence that surrounded the cottage had seen better days. It needed a few new pickets and a fresh coat of paint. He’d get to it. And her gran’s old truck, covered with pollen from falling leaves, could use another washing. He’d get to that too. Maybe over Thanksgiving weekend, which he planned to spend with his father, he’d sneak up here for an hour or two while she was at the manor house and tidy up around the cottage a bit.

The door opened and slammed shut, and Cain looked over at Ginger.

She still looked pretty terrible, but her face was scrubbed shiny, her wet, freshly washed hair slicked back in a tight bun. She was wearing a clean sweatshirt that read “ I ♥ Nursing” and jeans that hung slack on her thin frame.

“Well, you look a little less awful,” he observed.

“The compliment of my dreams.”

“At least you’re clean.”

“I even put on deodorant,” she sniped.

“Thank God for small mercies.” He paused, staring at her baggy jeans. “When’s the last time you ate somethin’?”

“You know what? Screw you, Cain.”

She turned around and reached for the doorknob to go back inside, but Cain grabbed the hand that swung back and held it tightly, keeping her on the porch.

“We’re ridin’,” he growled, ignoring the warmth of her hand and the way it felt clasped in his. It was a long time since he’d voluntarily touched her skin like this. Even when he’d told her about Woodman and carried her to her room, he hadn’t touched her skin. And at the funeral home, she’d reached for
his
hand, not the other way around.

She turned to look at him, flicking a quick look at her hand in his before snatching it away.

“Christ! Fine! I’ll ride, but I’m
not
talkin’ to you.”

“Fine with me. Can’t say your conversation is rockin’ my world much this mornin’ anyhow.” He stepped off the porch, giving her a no-nonsense glare. “Now let’s go.”

***

Ginger had no idea what had propelled her feet upstairs and into the shower. She had no idea why—amid bitter complaining—she’d pulled on fresh underwear for the first time in three or four days and found a clean pair of jeans and sweatshirt from her month-old unfolded laundry basket in the corner of her room.

Then again, for most of her childhood, when Cain said “jump,” Ginger jumped. So perhaps she’d just been shocked into autopilot by his sudden appearance on her doorstep. Besides, she had to grudgingly admit that it was a relief to
feel
something again, even if she felt manhandled, pissed off, and annoyed.

For all the murky water under their mutual bridge, Cain was still someone she’d known her whole life. Not even her parents had been able to get through to her the way Cain just had. On the most visceral possible level, Cain
affected
her—always had, and maybe, she thought ruefully, he always would. Oh, she’d never allow herself to fall for Cain again, or to feel the rush of joy she used to feel in his presence—she was too jaded by his rejection to ever be that stupid again—but their
connection
, for lack of a better word, was forged over a lifetime, and she could feel it now between them as they walked in silence, side by side, down to the barn. The snap and crackle of energy, the way their footsteps had synchronized within moments of walking, the way he felt beside her—familiar, warm, and strong, even if he hadn’t been able to love her the way she’d once loved him.

Historically speaking, he’d hurt her more than any single person in her life, but there was a comfort to walking beside Cain that she recognized, that made her feel less lonely. And in that quiet fellowship, she found the smallest morsel of the peace that had been denied her since Woodman . . .

Since Woodman had gone away.

“We may not be the best of friends, Gin,” said Cain, as though sharing the same wavelength on which her thoughts were traveling, “but Woodman loved you. So I’m not just goin’ to—”

She spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to talk.”

“I get that, but I just wanted to say—”

She stopped walking, put her hands on her hips, and watched him continue down the driveway until he realized that she wasn’t beside him and turned back around to face her.

“Don’t talk about him,” she whispered, her voice a hair short of crazy. “I mean it.”

Cain flinched, his eyebrows furrowing for just a moment as he stared at her, searching her face. “At all?”
She was clenching her jaw so hard, she was afraid it would pop. She couldn’t speak, but she managed a jerked shake of her head.

Cain nodded slowly, holding out his hand to her to coax her along. “Okay.”

She glanced down at his hand, then back up at his face, and stepped around it, refusing to touch him, but was relieved when he fell back into step beside her.

After two hours of riding side by side in utter silence, they returned to the barn. Ginger slipped down from Heath and led the mare into her stall, quietly removing her bridle and saddle and hanging them up. She nuzzled the horse’s nose gently.

“I promise I’ll come back tomorrow, pretty girl. I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.”

Cain peeked through the stall slats at her. “Want a cup of coffee?”

She shook her head, still looking at Heath. “No, thanks.”

“Tea?”

“No.”

“Hot chocolate?”

Sighing with annoyance, she turned from her horse and left the stall, locking it behind her. “No.”

Cain nodded. “Okay. Then I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday. How about I pick you up at ten?”

She wrinkled up her nose, facing him. “What are you talkin’ about? For what?”

“Pop told me they’re layin’ a wreath on Woodman’s grave for Veterans Day,” he said, watching her face intently. “We should be there.”

Her chest compressed, squeezing the air from her lungs, and she squeaked, “I’m not goin’ to that.”

Cain took a step toward her, his eyes lasering into hers. “Oh, yes you are, Ginger McHuid. You be ready, or I’ll come up to your room, pull you out of that bed, and you’ll stand there by his grave in your dirty pajamas, you hear?”

“No, I
don’t
hear. I’m not—”

He turned to walk away, throwing, “See you on Tuesday, princess,” over his shoulder before disappearing into the tack room and kicking the door shut.

“Oooofsh!” she grunted, her eyes burning as her nose flared. “Who the
hell
do you think you are?”

“Cain Holden Wolfram,” she heard him say, his voice muffled from the other side of the door.

She balled up her fingers into fists by her sides.
I’m not going. I’m not. He can’t make me. He can’t fuckin’ make me!

“Now go on home, princess.”

“Go to
hell
, Cain!”

“Just got back,” he said, his voice fading as he walked farther into the tack room, away from the door.

Her feet started moving, away from Cain, out of the barn, onto the gravel, which crunched under her furious footsteps as her arms swung by her sides. She kept walking until she stomped into her kitchen, pulled out a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and two bananas, cursing Cain a mile a minute as she made herself a sandwich, then ended up eating two.

***

“God
damn
it!” she muttered, throwing a dark gray dress on top of the navy blue and black ones already scattered on her bed.

Over the past three days, her appetite had gotten better, but every dress she had still hung unattractively loose on her thinner frame.

She sat down on the bed and flicked an unhappy glance at the clock: 9:48. He’d be here any second, and she knew Cain well enough to know that he was completely serious about hauling her to the cemetery regardless of what she was wearing.

And what was her recourse? To scream at him? Sure. Much good it would do her. He’d pick her up screaming and kicking and toss her in Klaus’s truck one, two, three.

Lock all the doors? Great idea . . . if Cain hadn’t taught himself how to pick locks when he was eleven. And if memory served, he hadn’t yet met a lock he couldn’t pick.

Call the police and have them stand guard at her door? Theoretically this was an option, but one, it would cause a major scene in Apple Valley, and two, calling the police on Cain was a line not even Ginger could cross. As angry as he made her feel, she just . . . couldn’t.

Which really left her only two options: to call his bluff and let him haul her out to Woodman’s grave wearing her pajamas, or find something decent to wear and get dressed.