Page 77 of Savage Heart

She takes a step back. Her hand is shaking when she lifts it to brush her wet hair away from her eyes. Her fingers pause by her mouth, and she shakes her head.

“I can’t talk here,” she says. “I don’t want Linc hearing any of this.”

My mouth parts, my gaze skating over her face, taking everything in.

Finally, I nod. “Okay.” I nod again. “Okay, I understand. Will you . . . will you please come talk to me? Tonight? I . . . I’d understand if you never wanted to speak to me again, but, please, Iris. I want to hear it all. If you’re willing.”

She bites the side of her lip. “I’ll see if I can borrow Otis’s car and if he can come over in a couple hours after Linc has gone to bed.”

“Thank you. My house is the one with the black door.”

“Of course it is.”

I smile slightly and hear her breath catch again.

“You’re going to be the same when I get there?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Kind? Warm? Open?” Her voice cracks.

I feel my face fall, and I step forward, my hand going to her cheek. I drop my forehead to hers, and we both stand there, rain falling all around us.

“I promise, Iris,” I say hoarsely. “No matter what you tell me, I will not be the motherfucker you’ve been dealing with for all these years.”

She stares at me in disbelief, and I don’t blame her. I have no right to her trust. I can only hope she’ll give it to me anyway.

Chapter 19: A Dream

Iris

My hair is still damp when I pull into Harrington Ranch. I’ve changed into dry clothes and am much warmer, but my heart rate still hasn’t calmed down from Maverick’s visit.

I knock on his door, and he opens right away. His smile is like the Maverick I grew up with, and I’m so shaken to see it, I almost start crying. I search his expression, but I find only tenderness there, and the concept is so foreign, I think I must have it wrong.

His eyes look blue enough to dive into, and I close mine, not wanting to be swayed. I’ve yearned to have Maverick look at me like this for more years than I can count, but it’s too late. That door closed a long time ago. Why would he ever look at me that way? And why would I want him to? Our friendship died with Lincoln.

I remind myself to not be so quick to let him back in. He’s had moments of kindness before, and then the walls slam back down. Tonight I’ll give him answers, and then life can go on.

I step inside and look around his house. It’s beautiful. Wood floors. Big windows. A table that looks handmade. Everything has a place, even if it’s sparse. There are a few softer things—a quilt folded over the back of the couch, a vase that looks fancier than something he’d pick out, and framed photos of him with his family. There’s one of him and Lincoln in front of Lucky and Copper.

No sign of me anywhere, but that’s to be expected.

“It’s nice,” I say quietly.

“Thanks. Do you want coffee?” he asks. “Or water . . . or wine?”

“I’m okay,” I say.

He moves toward the couch. “Have a seat.”

We both sit on the couch, not too close but not on opposite ends either. The space between us feels tentative, and I can’t believe how nervous I am.

Finally, I exhale. “You talked to Brandon.”

He stills. “Yes.”

“I wasn’t drinking that night.”