Page 120 of Holding Hope
Because she felt it. Because she saw me — all of me — and still chose me.
“With fierce conviction,” she had said. And I still didn’t understand why. Clarke was loyal, determined, gentle, fierce, honest. And I was… me. Impulsive. Rash. Loud. Messy. Hard to love. Hard to keep.
Yet she loved me anyway.
“Oh my god,” Delia gasped as we turned onto the King family ranch. News vans lined the driveway while reporters swarmed the property. Cameras pointed at the house, the barn, the road — everywhere.
They were waiting for us.
I spun, looking for Clarke but she was already pushing Hestia through the crowd of nagging bodies, not caring if they got caught under foot.
She slipped off the animal before she even had time to come to a full halt; bounding up the wooden steps, Clarke pulled open the door with a fluid movement.
“Melody?” I heard her voice echo from where I sat atop Apollo; around me, reporters pressed forward and shoved their microphones into both mine and the horse’s face.
“Avalon Kennedy, is it true you stole horses from—“
“Miss Kennedy, is this where you’ve been all this—“
“Why has no one heard from—”
“Have you kept in contact with—“
Their questions mixed together, loud and jumbled, their voices spooking the nervous animal beneath me. Apollo’s ears flattened against his skull and I could see the bright whites of his eyes as he chewed anxiously on his silver bit.
I pulled him back with the soft command Colton had taught me in the mountains, relief flooding me as he readily obeyed. He wanted out of this wannabe mosh pit just as badly as I did.
“I advise you all to step back,” I called out, keeping my grip on his reins firm. “I’m sure you all remember what happened the last time one of you go too close to me—now imagine that but with a 1600-pound horse.”
The crowd wisely took several steps back, their microphones tight in their hands. I knew they still expected me to answer their questions—to answer my fans’ questions, but I had wanted to tell Melody about Clarke’s confession and my acceptance.
The paparazzi could and would have to wait. But then another voice rang out, higher and more familiar than the rest.
“Avalon Penelope Kennedy! You get off that animal right this instant!”
My body stilled—well, as best as you could on a nervous and slightly agitated horse. I turned Apollo towards the voice, ignoring the camera flashes.
“Mother.”
“Daughter.”
I laughed without humor and pulled my leg over the saddle. Sliding off the golden horse, I winced as my boots made contact with the compact earth. Turning to one of the nearby reporters, I held out the reins; the bewildered man looked from my outstretched hand back up to my face, his face red and pudgy.
“Wh-what am I supposed to do—“
I scowled and tossed him the reins. “You weren’t doing anything useful before, and now you are.” I gave him a forced smile, flashing it at his cameraman. Through gritted teeth I added, “Or would you like to find out how much my right hook has improved?”
He swallowed and clutched the reins tightly, as if his life depended on it.
“No? I didn’t think so.” Returning my attention to my severely out of place mother, my smile was quickly replaced by a scowl. “You, what the hell are you doing here?”
Clarke didn’t need this. Hell, I didn’t need this. I didn’t want her here, she wasn’t wanted here. There was so much I needed to figure out, I couldn’t have here around making me second guess every decision I made.
Ayana matched my scowl with one of her own—the original. “Avalon, that is no way to speak to me—I am your mother.”
I halted in my tracks, my boots kicking up gravel. Spinning, I grabbed her arm. “My mother? Mother?” I wanted to laugh, how stupid did she really think I was?
“You’ve always hated that term, what, now you don’t now that it benefits you? You want to be my parent when I fuck up or make a decision you don’t approve of, but what about when I need you? Are you my mother then?”
