Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(61)

“It’s really nice.” Her eyes sparkle as they settle on the car sitting in the driveway. Probably the same way mine did. The lust has dulled considerably in the past ten minutes, though.

“I’m leaving it.”

“No you’re not, Jesse.” Her eyes widen. “Viktor was excited to give that to you. He’ll consider it an insult.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks.” My gaze rolls over his cars—his “babies.” “What a f**ker.” A steel pipe propped against the wall catches my attention. Without thinking, I let go of Alex’s hand and march toward it.

“Jesse, what are you . . .” When I start heading toward the Ferrari, holding the pipe like a bat, she figures it out pretty quickly and starts to run. “Jesse. No! Please!” She cries out in pain and I turn to see a grimace contorting her face. I instantly lose my momentum. The pipe clatters to the ground with a hollow ring.

“Please don’t do anything stupid, Jesse,” she pleads, her face flushed. “Just take your car and leave. If you don’t, he’ll start to get suspicious and ask questions. I don’t want him asking questions. Not about you. I’ll be fine, until I can figure something out.”

This girl just doesn’t get it. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Alex.”

She looks up at me, a sad smile tainting her lips. “Maybe it does, for me. For now.” Her fingers lift to smooth over the light stubble on my chin, the scratching sound somehow soothing to me. She sighs. “I should probably lie down. I have eight days without Viktor, at least.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m used to being alone.”

“Not like this, you’re not.” My eyes inadvertently glance down to see a dark bruise on the top of her left breast. What did that ass**le husband do to her? It doesn’t matter right now. I know exactly what I want to do. “Can you handle packing a bag?”

TWENTY-FOUR

Water

now

“Can I buy the quilt in the window?” the middle-aged woman asks, her green eyes glued to Dakota. I understand why. Dakota oozes charisma—she’s a natural, exotic beauty, wrapped in simplicity. She’s wearing a blue-and-white maxi dress today, with just enough jewelry to make her look glamorous without even trying.

“Yes! You may.” Dakota practically sashays over to the window—it’s as if she puts on a show for customers sometimes—and pivots the hanger to turn the quilt’s front inward. “This is made by our very own Ginny Fitzgerald.”

“I’ve seen them at the quilt fair before and a friend of mine has one. They’re all very distinctive. This one, though,” her brow pulls together in thought, “I don’t think I’ve seen one with anything besides the tree and landscape before.”

“Perfect. Water will ring it up for you,” Dakota says, climbing up onto the window display ledge to begin removing it. I automatically adjust my stance and wait as the woman walks down the aisle, credit card in hand.

“My daughter will love this for her room.”

“I have one of Ginny’s quilts on my bed. It’s pretty,” I offer as I swipe the card through the manual credit card machine—something else that Dakota hasn’t gotten around to upgrading yet.

She sighs. “Yes, well, my husband and I are divorcing and I can’t afford to pay the boarding costs for my daughter’s horse. She’s absolutely devastated. I hope this little gift might make her a bit happier.”

I hand her the receipt. “How old is your daughter?”

“Twelve. She’s been obsessed with horses since she could barely talk. One of her first words was ‘ors,’ ” the woman reminisces, a faint gloss coating her eyes now. “My ex-husband bought her the horse for her eighth birthday—without consulting me, of course,” she rolls her eyes, “and now he refuses to help pay for the cost to keep it.” She tucks her wallet into her worn leather purse, the straps cracked where it hangs off her shoulder. “He needs his money for his new girlfriend.”

While this woman is divulging way more than she needs to be to a complete stranger, the wheels in my brain are churning. This feels far too coincidental to be ignored.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how much are you paying to board your horse now?”

“Eight hundred dollars a month!” she exclaims. “And plenty of places cost more.”

“Whoa.” How much could Ginny get away with charging?

“I know. I looked into something cheaper, but they’re all full or at least a forty-five-minute drive away. You’d think with all the ranches around these parts, I’d be able to find something nearby. I just don’t know what to do. We’re staying with my mother right now, on the south end of Sisters, until I can figure things out. But I can’t see how I can take care of a thousand-pound animal on top of my daughter and me.”

“How much were you looking to pay?”

She looks at me with a questioning frown.

“I may know of a ranch. A really good one that I think would price reasonably.” I pat the quilt. “This lady’s ranch.” I hold my hands up cautiously. “I can’t promise anything, but maybe it could work.”