A Brand New Ending (Page 18)

She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I can’t go down this road again. It’s too . . . much.”

She rose from the chair with the folder clenched in her fingers. “I’ll go over these and do some research so we can come up with a plan of action to move forward with the divorce. For now, I think it’s best if you concentrate on the script.”

This time, he allowed her to leave and lock herself into the safety of her room.

Ophelia closed her eyes and slumped against the door.

How was she going to get through the next few months now that everything had changed?

It was more than the divorce papers. It was the look of determination glinting in his green-mountain eyes, the set of his square jaw, the hardened features of his face. He was curious enough to poke at the bee’s nest to see if he’d gain honey.

Too bad. She could’ve told him it would only wreak stinging pain and little sweetness.

Chapter Nine

Kyle sat in the lingering silence and fought the impulse to follow her. The pain in her face almost drove him to his knees.

God knows, he didn’t want to hurt her.

He cursed under his breath and headed up to his room.

Better to give her some space. He’d try again later with a gentler approach. He’d really fucked things up by yelling the truth at her, but he’d been so frustrated by her refusal to even talk with him after the strain of seeing his father.

The image of his father trying to apologize stirred up a black cauldron of junk he didn’t want to investigate. He’d been sober, at least, but that didn’t count for much. It was the way Patrick had talked to him that really cut deep.

Gently. As if he actually gave a fuck. What a concept.

Memories assaulted him like a bunch of gleeful gremlins bent on torture: the little boy dying for one approving glance, one kind word, one decent gesture to remind him he had some worth to Patrick Kimpton. Instead, he got slurred insults muttered between sips of Clan MacGregor Scotch. He got emotionless grunts and blistering accusations. He got an occasional punch to keep him in line.

But it was what his father lacked that gave him the most trouble.

Kyle could’ve taken the abuse if he hadn’t had the shroud of guilt hanging over him. He’d been pretty tough, and his consistent escape into his writing helped soften the hard edges of his existence. So had the Bishops’ farm, where there was always a hot meal, a warm hug, or a good conversation to be had with guests or family.

No, he would’ve managed if there’d been no real reason his father hated him.

Books had taught him young that the world wasn’t fair, and that plenty of bad things happened to good people. Pick up Dickens or Hemingway to get a peek at the truth. It had actually helped. If you had no expectations, the good stuff was savored and held tight with gratitude. It built character, persistence, and fortitude. Not a bad bargain. He’d never been afraid of patience or hard work since it got him all the way to the heights of success.

But now he was here to look back. Unfortunately, his father was part of the story whether he liked it or not.

Kyle stumbled to the keyboard.

He came in from the barns, sticky with sweat and smelling of manure. Worry twisted in his gut, but he couldn’t show it. He had to talk to his father, and Kyle had no idea if he was passed out yet with an empty bottle at his feet, or if he had managed to stay sober and actually do some work that day.

Kyle dragged his arm across his forehead to clear his vision. He began searching the house. “Dad? I need to talk to you,” he called out, ignoring his pounding heart. Usually, he wouldn’t care what type of mood Patrick was in—they all tended to be crappy—but this time he needed something. Something important.

He heard a grunt from the office.

Good. If he was doing paperwork, maybe he was in a decent enough space to just give Kyle what he wanted.

“What is it?” Patrick was at his desk, but instead of focusing on the screen, he was slumped in the chair, staring out the window. Definitely not a good sign. Shit.

Kyle stepped in. “Got a problem with Lucy.”

“Did you make all the deliveries this morning before you decided to play? ’Cause that’s what’s keeping a roof over our heads now—not your pretty horses.”

“I did them all and even managed to score another account. Tantillo Farms wants to switch to us since they’ve been having problems with their produce. We start delivering next week.”

His father grunted again, swiveling around to look at him. His hard gaze flicked over Kyle’s mud-encrusted body.

“They can promise anything to you, but without a contract—”

“Got one signed. Along with a deposit.”

He waited, but his father just nodded. “Make sure the booth will be ready for the Strawberry Festival in Beacon,” he said. “I’m getting killed here with bills. We need all the help we can get.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Good. We don’t need any more problems on this damn farm.”

He threw out the words before he chickened out. “There’s a problem with Lucy’s leg.”

His father flinched.

Lucy was strictly Kyle’s horse, since his father avoided her at all costs. The sweet mare was the offspring of Kyle’s mother’s horse—Sunny—who had died years ago. Patrick had been ripped apart when Sunny died, as if reliving his wife’s death all over again. He’d refused to have anything to do with Lucy. Kyle had fallen in love with the foal immediately, sensing a kindred spirit. He’d named her with his mother’s middle name and had been her primary caretaker for years. Funny, when he thought of leaving home, he knew it was Lucy he’d miss the most.

“Why are you telling me this? It’s your horse. Deal with it.”

Kyle swallowed and tamped down his worry. He had to present the scenario in the best way possible. “The vet examined her and said she needs extra care to heal the fracture. I’ll need to set her up in the other barn and keep a close watch on her.”

Patrick frowned. “Wait—she fractured her leg? What was the diagnosis from the vet?”

He shifted his weight. “Officially, she’s lame. But he told me if I get her off her feet and do a strict regimen of care, she could pull through.” Actually, the horse’s leg would require round-the-clock tending, but Kyle didn’t care. He’d slept in the barn before and had no issue bunking down with Lucy for the next few months—especially if he could save her. Unfortunately, that meant he had to let his father know what was going on, though he’d prefer to keep it a secret. Kyle was usually in charge of the horses, but occasionally his father would storm the barn to check up on him and make sure things were running the way he expected.

“Boy, I’m not paying a huge vet bill to save a horse that doesn’t matter to this farm. If she’s lame, we’ll put her down.”

“I paid the bill already, and I’m the one doing the care. I’m just letting you know.”

Patrick muttered a curse and glared. “This isn’t your farm yet. I’m the one who says what goes. We’re not emptying out the other barn to care for an old, lame horse. The only reason you kept her around was to ride her, and now she ain’t going to be doing no riding. We’re putting her down.”

Kyle snapped. “You’re not touching my horse.”