Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(33)

“He will be okay. He’s a strong boy. A good boy,” said Klaus with soft conviction.

Cain grimaced as jealousy flared up inside him. But it was true, wasn’t it? Woodman was strong and good—always had been, always would be—and it didn’t take anything away from Cain to acknowledge it.

“The best,” he agreed.

Crossing to his son, Klaus held out the steaming cup of hot cocoa and shook his head, smiling sadly at his only child. “Nein, Sohn. Genauso gut. Nicht besser.”

As good. Not better.

Cain clenched his jaw, staring at his father for a moment before dropping his gaze to the steaming mug in his hands.

“Danke,” he whispered. “Danke, Papa.”

It was a benediction to hear these simple words fall from his father’s lips, and it filled him with a kind of hope with which he didn’t have a lot of experience. He’d never had a strong vision for his future or the certainty that he deserved anything good. But for three years, with the exception of a few days leave here and there, Cain had been trapped on aircraft carriers with a thousand other men, and he’d had time to think. While Woodman mostly made his life happen, Cain had mostly gotten in his own way.

He’d been an * to his parents in high school. Yes, they’d always been unhappy. Yes, they’d gotten divorced when he was fifteen, arguably the worst-possible time in a kid’s life. But for all that their interests didn’t collide, his father had undoubtedly been the force behind Cain keeping his job at McHuid’s throughout high school. And without that job—for all that he didn’t love it or value it at the time—he would have felt even more worthless. The income from McHuid’s had allowed him to buy and rebuild his bike and had given him whatever sense of freedom he’d found in those years. It had also given his father a chance to look after him and check in with him on a daily basis, even if Cain had barely grunted when spoken to. He’d never love horses as his father did, but he’d be forever grateful that working at McHuid’s had given him a sense of stability and purpose that those years had otherwise lacked.

As for his mother, while it was possible that she had known Jim Johnson during her marriage to Klaus Wolfram, she’d stayed in Apple Valley throughout Cain’s years in high school, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with the upheaval of splitting his time between Frankfort and Apple Valley. She’d quietly made that decision for him. In return, he’d worried her sick half the time and humiliated her with his shenanigans the rest.

He knew it would take a little time, but the way he’d managed to mend his familial relationship with Woodman made Cain long to make things right with his parents too, and maybe even to prove to them that they could be proud of him now.

His father cleared his throat. “You are staying? A little while?”

“For a few weeks, if that’s okay, Pop.”

“And you’ll help? On the farm?” His father’s hopeful smile wasn’t about relief in having help to cover the work—it was about spending time with Cain. He could see it. He knew it was true, and he felt another warm rush of affection for his dad.

“Course, Pop. Whatever you need.”

His father smiled, nodding once, pleased. “I go make the extra bed.” He patted Cain on the shoulder once more before heading back to the second bedroom.

Feeling unusually emotional and not altogether comfortable, he placed the mug on the table beside his father’s reading chair and called, “I’m goin’ for a short walk, Pop. Back soon. Don’t wait up, okay?”

“Ja, Sohn. Lauf herum.”

Go wandering.

Cain left quietly as his father finished making up the spare room, closing the tack room door quietly behind him.

Ten minutes later, he stood with his elbows propped up on one of the many paddock fences, staring off into the night, picturing exactly what lay before him in the darkness, as he’d pictured it a million times from the hull of a ship: the brilliant green of the pastures, Heath and Bit-O-Honey grazing, blue skies, bright sun, and fresh air. He knew the valleys and vales of McHuid’s like the back of his hand and realized how much this farm, which he thought he’d hated, had come to represent home.

Bright lights coming up the driveway disturbed the dark palette of his memories and made him turn. He saw a white SUV moving slowly toward him, and though he didn’t recognize the car, he knew who it was, and every cell in his body braced itself to be in her presence once again.

Cain raised his hand in greeting, and she rumbled to a stop. Praying she wouldn’t mow him down as he crossed in front of her car, he approached her window cautiously, peering inside, and making out her shadowed face.

She lowered the window, and suddenly, after three long years, her face was mere inches from his, and the subtle hint of lemons wafted from the warmth of her car as she raised her eyes to his.

“God,” he hissed as the window finished its descent. He didn’t know how he had expected to feel, but a sucker punch to the lungs about summed it up. He wanted to catch his breath, but he couldn’t, and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling so discomposed around a woman.

Her pink lips were plump and glossy, and her cheekbones high. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore glasses. But behind them her eyes were as deep and dark as they’d ever been, trained, with wariness, on Cain.