Dare Me(69)

“Unless,” she prods.

“Unless it’s important.” I turn around and look at her. She knows the meaning of important. Important is Saige. Important is only Saige.

“Yes, sir.” She stands and walks out of my office. I follow behind her, and she offers me a sympathetic yet stiff smile, and I nod at her in return as I leave.

At the elevator, I pull my phone from my suit pocket, hoping, praying for any word from Saige. I don’t know why I’m disappointed when I see nothing. She’s gone. I confirmed her flight back to North Dakota on Sunday, but I hoped she’d break and reach out to me. She’s stronger than that, though. I know her. She won’t break.

“Mr. Hamilton.” Rowan’s voice surprises me. He’s standing next to me, waiting for the elevator. Everyone has reverted to extreme formalities with me since Saige left. Just one more sharply painful reminder of how she brought life to this office—to me.

“Rowan,” I acknowledge him less formally, and we wait together, quietly, until I finally turn to him. “Would you mind closing Mr. Perez’s account tomorrow? Wire him a refund and add five percent.”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and nods. “I will.” He clears his throat. “Taking the rest of the week off?”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

Rowan and I ride silently down until we reach the ground floor. When the doors slide open, Rowan steps forward but pauses. “Go bring our girl home,” he says softly before stepping out of the elevator and walking away.

“I plan to,” I mumble to myself. I plan to do whatever it takes to get her back.





Saige

After five days at home, I finally walk down to the creek like I did every day when we first moved back to the farm. It seemed so much further away than it does now. Murphy, slow and arthritic, hobbles along carefully behind me. The beautiful creek runs along the edge of our property. The water is crystal-clear and you can make out every rock that lines the bottom of the water. Cattails shoot up along the banks, except in the area Brent and I cleared out years ago. We lined that area with large river rocks to keep the area clear of grass and cattails, making for easy entrance into my favorite swimming spot.

I used to spend hours down here during the summer, wading in the creek to cool off from the warm, humid North Dakota summers. I’d ride the horses down and let them drink the cool water while I’d swim and lie out on the grassy banks for hours. I could get lost in the blue sky, tall grass, and clear waters.

There is a giant boulder that sits just up from the creek bank, and I climb up on top of it like I used to so many years ago. Murphy’s legs give out just at the edge of the water. He falls and pants heavily before stretching out into the grass, my poor old boy. But he makes the effort to army crawl to the water’s edge and lap at some of the cool water before finally resting his head on his paws. I stare at the giant oak tree across the creek, admiring how much it’s grown. Its branches are more dense and full of brightly colored autumn leaves. It amazes me how some things become so much stronger over time, yet others become more frail, weak like me.

This is my place. I bared my soul on this very rock, in these very waters in the days, months, and years after my dad took his life. I cursed God. I cursed Jonathan Berkshire. I swore revenge, and I thought I’d finally made peace with my father’s death. Thought.

But I’ve never felt rage hit me like it did when Jonathan introduced himself and I realized Holt had lied to me. In that flash of a moment, I realized I’d never truly be at peace with my father’s death. I’ll always be broken.

I pull my knees tightly to my chest and let the crisp autumn air sting my tender face. There is absolutely nothing better than fall in the Midwest. You can smell the change of the seasons in the air. The trees are colorful, full of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, and yet the grass is still green. It will be until the first freeze.

I sit in the silence for a while when Murphy lets out a quick bark and lifts his head, looking behind me. His ears perk up as I hear the footsteps approach from behind me. As I’ve always been able to, I can smell him. I can feel him. I’ve always been able to sense his presence. My heart races and I will myself not to turn around to look at him. I’m not ready. He betrayed me.

“Hey, old guy,” he says as he walks right past me and over to where Murphy lies in the grass.

I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye as he kneels down next to Murphy and runs his fingers through his thick fur. Murphy lets out an audible moan as he rubs that sweet spot behind his ears, his favorite spot to be rubbed.

“Traitor,” I whisper under my breath while my dog rests his head on Holt’s thigh, soaking up the attention.

“It’s beautiful here,” Holt says, his back to me.

Whether he’s talking to himself, Murphy, or me, I have no idea, but I don’t respond. I won’t deny his words because he’s right, but I’m not going to answer him. This farm, this land is the most beautiful place on earth. This is my home; it always will be.

After a long moment, he stands up and brushes off his jeans. Even dressed casually, Holt is the epitome of a runway model. Worn jeans and a cream sweater, he looks like a J Crew model, but I keep my eyes fixed on the creek. His feet shuffle through the long grass over to the boulder I’m sitting on.

I can’t be near him. I’m not ready for this. I slide down the opposite side. “Let’s go, Murph.” Murphy struggles to get up, his old legs shaking, and it takes a few seconds for him to get moving. “Come on, boy,” I encourage him, and he begins a slow, stiff walk over to me.