Reclaimed (7 page)

“Yeah, you have to pinch.” Paul snorted. “Your daddy left you plenty. And you could have bought the property six years ago, just like any of us. You didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to deal with the EPA, with fines, or with the undertaking required to reclaim all of it. Suzanna has more claim to that dirt than anyone, based solely on what her daddy did. You’re out of line, Chuck, and I won’t be intimidated by your not-so-subtle threats. If my neighbor needs help, I’m gonna help her. End of story.”

Chuck’s face went red, and his eyes narrowed. He stared Paul down, and then suddenly his brow smoothed. A malicious smile spread from one ear to the other. “You go down to the sale barn today?”

Paul scowled.

Chuck threw his shoulders back. “I know what goes on in this little town, Rustin. I may not have anything to bend you, personally, but I hold plenty on your associates. People you work with. People you care about. Rodney has more out on that little operation than it’s worth. Know who holds it?” Chuck spit, aiming near Paul’s boot. “Don’t cross me, boy.”

His boots clicked against the asphalt as he sauntered away.

Paul hopped into the cab, slamming his door. Yeah, he got himself into something all right. And if Chuck was going to wave fire in his face, he wasn’t about to back down.

He’d stop by Suzanna’s. Often. Just so Chuck would know he couldn’t palm his neck.

Suzanna dumped the soapy water, wondering why her socks weren’t black from the dirt she’d just scrubbed off the wood floor. Almost two months since she’d moved, and she hadn’t gotten around to the floors. Yuck. Hopefully, the tree wouldn’t mind the brown, soapy water.

Paul’s truck peeked around the curve coming from town. He slowed to a crawl, and she stepped to the road.

“Hey there, neighbor.” He set his vehicle in park and hooked his arm out the open window. “How’s the new pipe holding up?”

Suzanna grinned. “No mud craters as yet.”

“You’re not hauling water for something else, are you?” He dipped his head toward the bucket she still held.

“No. Just doing some long-overdue cleaning.”

“When you’re done, you can just head on down the road. I have all sorts of dirt in my house.”

Laughter tickled her throat. “I’ll pass, thanks. Unless you pay well.”

“Lucky Charms, lady. That’s all I can offer you.”

Suzanna wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not then.”

“You can’t blame a guy for trying.” Paul tapped the outside of his door with his palm. “So, I was thinking about you today. Wondered if you’ve set eyes on all your property.”

Warmth spread in Suzanna’s chest. It was nice to be thought of by someone. “I’ve poked around here and there.”

“Not everywhere?”

She smiled. “No, not everywhere.”

Paul nodded. “I thought maybe not. Do you know how to ride a horse?”

“My mother is into equine, so I’ve been on one before. But I don’t know the equipment—I wouldn’t try by myself.”

His smile held a hint of laughter. Had she said something funny?

“Well, I think you should see your place. And I happen to believe anyone living with a horse ought to be able to ride it. How about I come out on Saturday, and we take a ride together?”

Seriously? He’d put up with her again for a whole Saturday? “Are you sure? I know you have better things to do than to babysit your citified neighbor.”

“Nothin’ better than sitting in a saddle, Suz.” He rubbed at his chin. “Saturday work for you?”

“It will.”

Paul nodded and tugged at his hat. “Evening, Suzanna Wilton.”

“Paul—” She caught him by the elbow before he put the truck in drive. “Thank you.”

He dipped his head again. “See you Saturday.”

Suzanna stepped back and watched while he eased down the road. Holding her bucket with both hands, she swung it in front of her knees. How long had it been since someone worried about her out of the clear blue? Something fresh poked her dreary soul, like new blades of grass breaking through barren soil. It felt like life. Like hope.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Paul stirred the soup he’d heated, inhaling tomato and basil. Man, the things Dre could do with a tomato. She ought to give lessons.

Maybe Suzanna would like to learn.

Bizarre. Why should he care if Suzanna would like to learn how to make Dre’s tomato soup? His brain had gone goofy.

He smiled in spite of himself. The little gherkin.
My mother was into equine
. Who talked like that? Wait, she said
is
. Not
was
. Is. Where did her mother fit into her life? Mike hadn’t talked about a wife, past or present. Hadn’t worn a wedding ring, either.

These days kids grew up with parents who had separated all the time. It still bothered Paul. Mostly because his home had been whole, and it was good. Mom and Dad had their spats, sometimes maybe a little more than that, but they were committed. Paul had never known the instability of a broken home.

Sadness weighed on his heart. Would he be intruding to ask Suzanna about it?

Suzanna shivered in her dark kitchen. Wrapping her grandmother’s sweater around her thin frame, she wished the heavy cable knit would ward off the chill inside her. She reached for the coffee pot and slipped into autopilot while her mind replayed the words that taunted her in her sleep.

“Have you found a new church yet, Suzie doll?” Daddy leaned forward, closing the space between them on the park bench.

Suzanna picked at her chipped nail polish. Why had she painted them? She never went out. Hospital. Pharmacy. Home. A once-a-week trip to Whole Foods. Nothing ever beyond those stops, including church.

“Suz.” Daddy’s hand felt warm on her elbow. “You need a family.”

Yeah, she did. They’d shattered, like the wedding platter she’d dropped after Jason fell two months ago. Did Daddy really expect a church to act as a surrogate for their family?

“I know, Daddy. I have Jason.”

“You take care of Jason.” His hand moved to her shoulder and squeezed. “You do it all on your own. You need help. Support. There are people in the body of Christ who would gladly offer it to you if they knew.”

What people? Their old church? Not a chance. Daddy left for good reason. She was a daughter of shame, of scandal. Nobody would ever see past it. Suzanna swallowed. Tears built behind her eyelids, and her nose stung.

“Does your mother help?”

So, he’d let the church thing go.

“No.” She ground her teeth, swallowing back her tears. “I don’t want her help.”

Daddy didn’t argue. Certainly he shared her contempt.

“Suz.” He dropped his hand and leaned his elbows against his knees. “God takes broken things and makes them beautiful again. He reclaims our desolate places. But you have to let him, hon.”

The tears came back and there was no stopping them. Daddy would know. He was deeply connected with pain—with betrayal. But… but something. Her heart felt like it’d been shoved through a meat grinder. If God couldn’t prevent it all, if He couldn’t spare her, then why should she believe that He could heal her? And even if He could, she had no reason to bet that He would.

She’d been forsaken. Nothing fixes that.

Water ran over her hand. Coffee. She was making coffee. Suzanna trembled again.

Daddy was wrong. Her life hadn’t been fixed; she’d been beaten down further still. What kind of a god takes a girl’s husband and her father in less than two years’ time?

Beauty? God didn’t take broken things and make them pretty. He left them to decay. How could she love that kind of god?

Paul slid from his saddle at the edge of Suzanna’s front yard, letting the split reins slip off Bronco’s neck. His gelding nudged his shoulder as if to say, “Done already? We just got started.” Paul chuckled, rubbing the horse’s face.

“There’s more, old man.” He stepped forward, leading the animal toward the barn behind the house. “But fair warning, we’ve got a green gal today. It’ll be a slow wander for us.”

Reaching the small hitching post, he flipped the reins around the cedar crossbar, letting them dangle loosely. “Hang out here, old man. Oh, and you might be carrying our pretty neighbor, so be nice.”

Bronco nickered, dropping his head against Paul. Patting the horse’s neck, Paul leaned against his trusted friend before he retraced his path back to the house.

Suzanna answered the door with her hair pulled back in a short ponytail. An oversized sweatshirt swallowed her torso, and her fitted riding pants were tucked smartly into a pair of English riding boots.

Equine.
He should have guessed she’d be set to go looking like she was ready for a foxhunt.

“Hey there, Pip.” Paul grinned. She looked cute, out of place, but adorably so.

“Pip?” Suzanna’s eyebrows pinched.

Paul laughed. “The first English name that came to mind. Dickens, right?”

She laughed, though her face still looked befuddled. “Jeans would have been better, right?” She tugged her sweatshirt over her hip. “I wasn’t sure how they would work with my boots, and I don’t have the Western kind.”

He’d made her feel silly. Paul’s chest squeezed. “You look just fine, Suz.” His gaze passed over her again. She was really quite attractive, especially without a wall of contempt shrouding her blue eyes. If she smiled more, she’d be the kind of lady who’d turn heads in town.

“I suppose you’ll laugh if I put this on?” A riding helmet dangled from her fingers.

“No laughing, Miss Wilton.” He tried to squelch a jovial grin.

“Liar. You already are.”

He glanced at the ground and shuffled his feet, feeling bad that he couldn’t stop the chuckle. “It’s not a bad idea—protecting your brains. Accidents do happen. We just don’t see much of your style in the pastures ’round here.”

Suzanna snapped the helmet into place. “Laugh away, Paul Rustin. I’ve already known you to be a heartless cad.” Her eyes actually danced, wonderfully complementing her smile and mock accent.

“She can tease.” Paul held the door while she passed from the house. “Who knew pickles had a sense of humor?”

“Pickle?” She turned, her hands coming to her hips. “Is that what you call me?”

Paul kept silent while a grin tickled the corners of his mouth. Shrugging, he moved toward the corral.

Suzanna joined him, her chin coming up in good humor. “I’ve been called worse. Probably deserved it too.”

They reached his saddled mount, and Suzanna’s look darted as if she felt lost. She was trying to be a good sport. Very much so. But her effort didn’t cover her nervousness—the chewing on her bottom lip or her hand tugging at her ponytail. Compassion lifted Paul’s heart, making him feel protective and somehow privileged. Honored that he got to glimpse this version of a woman who kept herself tightly locked away.

“Do you know anything about horse tack?”

She scanned the leather equipment fitted to his horse. “Not that kind.” She nodded toward his horse. “Why is the saddle so huge?”

“Well, first off, it’s sized for me.” Paul held his hand above her head, level with his hairline. A good four inches separated them.

Suzanna glanced up, and her smile peeked out again.

“Second, it’s Western.” He dropped his hand and jerked his head toward the barn. “I know your dad rode from time to time. Let’s see what he’s got in the tack room.”

Her eyes fell as some sort of sadness shadowed her expression. The lightness of the moment had vanished as she followed him in silence.

Paul opened the tack room door and stepped back, waiting for her to pass. Stepping into the twelve-by-twelve-foot room, he scanned the space. Two saddle trees and one western style saddle waited against the opposite wall, clean and well conditioned. A leather headstall hung on the right, and two halters filled the hooks beside it.

The room smelled of earth and leather and horse. Paul inhaled deeply. Home. Suzanna sniffed and frowned. She seemed confused or lost or angry. Paul missed the woman she’d been in the sunlight.

“You okay, Suz?”

“Fine.”

He examined her. Her voice sounded angry, but her eyes looked …
something tragic in her eyes.
Was this what Dre had seen?

“Are you still up for this?” he asked.

She lifted her chin. A week ago he would have described the move as defiant. Today, he saw determination.

“I am.”

“Let’s get to it.” Paul reached for a bucket on a middle shelf near the door. Rummaging through it, he was satisfied with the currycomb, brush, and hoof pick. “Grab the saddle and the blanket just above it.”

Back in the sunshine, he squinted to watch her drag out the saddle. Literally.

“Why are these so heavy?” She hefted it against her hip and dropped it near the hitching post.

Paul chuckled. “They’re built for ranch work.”

She squinted skeptically.

“An English saddle is built for speed. It’s lighter and less complicated. On a ranch, we work cattle, so the equipment is different.” Paul reached for Bronco’s muzzle. “Did you ride much with your mom?”

“We took lessons when we were younger.” Suzanna stared at nothing and then dropped her gaze.

Lessons in horseback riding should have been every little girl’s dream. Suzanna seemed uncomfortable with the memory.

“Did your dad ride much?”

“Not with us.” She looked at the ground, tugging at her sweatshirt. “He said he used to though.”

She was growing more uncomfortable with every question. Paul dropped the interview. “So, this mare of your dad’s—she seems solid, but I never rode with Mike. Are you comfortable on her, or do you want to ride Bronco?”

Suzanna hesitated and then shrugged. “I don’t know. I really don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve only ever ridden in an arena, and the horse was my mother’s. I’ve never ridden in an open pasture.”

What kind of lessons had she been given? Paul pulled at his chin. “Okay. So, I think we’ll saddle the mare—I’ll teach you how—and then you can do it once. Then, to start out, maybe you’d better ride Bronco. Just in case. We’ll switch if everything goes well.”

She watched him with uncertainty. Maybe she wasn’t up for this. Should he offer her an out?

“Do we need the halter?” She gestured back to the tack room.