Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(27)
It’s not that Woodman had ever declared his feelings for her per se, but they were clear in the warmth in his voice when he spoke to her, in the way his eyes lit on her and lingered. He was smitten with her, and Ginger knew it, though she was committed to ignoring it, lest her rejection create an awkwardness between them.
The last thing she wanted was awkwardness with Woodman. He was her escort to every country club dance, her most frequent riding companion, her confidant and best friend and big brother. She was closest to Woodman after Gran, and she loved him deeply, but the reality was that, regardless of his tender voice and loving looks, Woodman had only “set her blood on fire” once, a long time ago, for a fleeting moment on her twelfth birthday. He was handsome and kind, but most of the time Ginger wished he’d find a girlfriend and stop looking at her with those eager, longing eyes full of the kind of love she didn’t feel and couldn’t return.
Anxious to make their farewell as genuine yet brief as possible, she waved to him as he pulled into the circular driveway, coming to a stop in front of her and cutting the engine. She fixed a smile on her face that came easily and naturally. Though she craved some freedom from his watchful eyes, she also knew she would miss him desperately once he was gone, and she knew they both deserved an unrushed, heartfelt good-bye.
“Hey there!” she called as he opened his car door. “Stoppin’ by on your way to the club for dinner?”
He stood up, and she grinned at his carefully groomed blond hair. But her smile faded as her eyes dropped lower. Woodman was wearing a tux. Why was Woodman wearing a tux?
“Awful dressed up,” she murmured, her eyes slipping to the bouquet of flowers in his hand. “And are those your momma’s prized dahlias?”
“They are,” he said, raising his arm to offer them to her.
She didn’t take them, because she was frozen, searching his face for the answers to unasked questions.
His smile was off. It was kind of hopeful, but kind of sad, and maybe a little bit worried too. It was the way he’d smiled at her the morning she found out that Bit-O-Honey’s last foal had died during the night—a gentle smile that didn’t reach his eyes, that tried to calm her before he said words that he knew would hurt her.
She raised her chin, cutting her eyes to his, and she saw it there too. Anger made his green eyes darker and deeper, but the color was brightened with a thick topcoat of compassion that made her fists ball by her sides, a growing realization flushing her skin to uncomfortable warmth.
She gathered her courage. “Say what you have to say, Woodman.”
“First,” said Woodman, that gentle, sorrowful smile still in place, “let me tell you how stunnin’ you look tonight, Gin. You are a—”
“You’re just makin’ it worse. Say it.”
His jaw tightened, twitching once, twice, and the smile faded completely, until Woodman’s face wasn’t gentle or sorry anymore, just angry.
“He’s not comin’.”
“Who?” she murmured, the sound of a baby barn owl waking alone in the darkness, calling for its momma while she was out hunting.
“Cain.” Woodman took a step closer, letting the dahlias fall listlessly to his side. “Cain’s not comin’, darlin’.”
Cain. Cain’s not comin’, darlin’.
She swayed in her dyed-blue, high-heeled shoes and heard the light rustle of Miz Sophie’s dahlias hit the ground as Woodman’s hand slid under her elbow to steady her. Her eyes filled with hot tears, and she dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, ruining her lip gloss, scraping off the imprint of Cain’s lips brushing hers.
“Why not?” she managed to ask, staring down at the dahlias, which looked limp and forgotten on the gravel driveway.
“Because he’s an . . .” Woodman made a tsking sound, then took a deep breath, and Ginger knew he was choosing his words. “Cain’s Cain. You can’t count on him, Gin. You know that, honey.” Still holding her elbow, Woodman pulled her gently against his body. His arms came around her, and she closed her eyes, resting her cheek on his shoulder and biting her tongue to keep from crying. “I’m sorry.”
She struggled to swallow over the lump in her throat, Gran’s words coming home to roost in her head:
But do you really know him? Are you really seein’ him clearly?
Dragging in a shaky breath, she understood the worry in Gran’s eyes now. Somehow her grandmother must have known. And stupid, naive Ginger had still believed in Cain, had still hoped for the best.
A sob escaped her as she thought about the tenderness of his touch, the gentle pressure of his lips parting hers. You still want that first kiss?
It had meant everything to her but nothing to him.
Nothing at all.
Something very much like anger, sprinkled with a healthy dose of self-preservation, seeped into her heart, and she felt her tears dry. She wouldn’t cry for Cain. No, goddamn it. She wouldn’t cry for a boy who treated her like garbage.
“I’m so dumb,” she sighed, her voice breaking a little as she tried to take another breath.
“No!” cried Woodman, holding her tighter, validating her instinctive demand for self-respect. “You’re not dumb. You’re—Gin, you’re the most amazin’ girl in the world. Don’t let Cain make you feel bad. Cain is a, well, he’s just a rat bastard, if you want to know the truth. I’m ashamed to be his cousin most days, but today? I’m furious. I’m so sorry he hurt you. I could just—”