Текст книги "Change Rein"
Автор книги: Anne Jolin
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 9 страниц)
Change Rein
Copyright © 2015 Anne Jolin
Cover Design: Sara Eirew
Cover Photo: Diego Durden
Cover Model: Carmen Delgado
Editors: Mickey Reed, Kayla Robichaux
Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Change Rein
Books by Anne Jolin
Dedication
Quote
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Chasing Rhodes
Also by Anne Jolin
Rock Falls Series
Chasing Rhodes , Book 1
Choosing Henley , Book 2
Breaking Bennett , Book 3
Keeping King , Book 4
Athens, Greece, August 2012—Equestrian Day Eight—Olympic Grand Prix Dressage
Pre-Competition Interview—The Equestrian Journal
“MISS DANIELS, THIS IS YOUR first appearance at the Olympic Summer Games, and rumor has it you’re favorited to win gold. What do you have to say to that?”
Looping my arm underneath Achilles’ reins, I rub his muzzle with my gloved hand. “I’d say they’re right.” I wink, flashing my award-winning smile.
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Persistence,” I say firmly before edging back into my media-darling persona, “and him.” I nudge the nineteen-hands Dutch Warmblood flanking my left side.
Scribbling down on his notepad, the man looks over the rim of his glasses. “That seems like a lot of credit to give to just a horse.”
Clenching my jaw, I smile through clenched teeth, but speak with grit. “I give credit where credit’s due.” Then I purse my lips. “And he’s hardly just a horse, sir. He’s Achilles War,” I correct, “and he’s as much the Greek hero his lure alludes to.”
Shuffling off my defensive tone, the journalist continues, “Some say the bond you share as rider and horse is remarkable. What would you attribute that to?”
“He’s as much a part of my soul as I am his,” I praise effortlessly. “I trust him with my life.”
“Hmm,” he hums before pointing at the roof of the indoor arena with his pen. “Will the weather be an issue for you in today’s competition?”
The sound of raindrops hitting the tin roof echoes around my answer. “I’m from Canada.” I smirk. “I can handle getting a little wet.”
“You’ve chosen an incredibly unique performance for your final round. Some might even call it risky. Can you tell us why?”
Leaning into Achilles’ neck, I breathe in his smell, drawing strength from the way his powerful body complements mine. “You’ve got to bet big to win big, and that’s a risk we’re willing to take. Aren’t we, Chil?” I ask, moving to rest my forehead on his much larger one.
He neighs, playfully shoving me with his head in response. My laugher floods the waiting arena.
“It’s time,” my trainer, Harlow Kent, instructs, officially ending the interview.
As I shed the outer layer of my Team Canada warm-up jacket, he hands me my black blazer, and I pull it snugly around my upper body. Pressing the fabric down, Harlow checks me over for anything out of place before helping me tuck my white-blond hair into my helmet.
“You good?”
Stretching out the tightness in my neck, I nod. “I’m good.”
Holding his hands out by his knee, Harlow gives me a leg up into the saddle, waiting as I slip the toe of my Ariat boots into the stirrups. Then, he taps me once on the thigh. “Good luck.”
Feeling Chil’s muscles dance between my legs, I squeeze back in reassurance and lean forward to rub his neck. “Just you and me, Chil. Forget the rest.”
Sitting up straight, I drop my shoulders back and position myself for entry to the ring.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Canadian favorite’s up next!” the announcer shouts, battling against the cheering crowd. “London Daniels riding Achilles War!”
Three Days Later
General Hospital—Athens, Greece
Post-Competition Interview—The Equestrian Journal
“Can you tell us what happened?” the journalist asks, settling into the chair across from my bed.
Sitting up, I wince and fight back tears.
I refuse to cry.
“It was my fault.”
The man’s eyes widen in shock at my confession. “One would argue it was your horse’s fault, Miss Daniels. Achilles, your Greek hero, seemed to spook mid-routine. In fact, rumors are spreading that he may, indeed, have been your Achilles’ heel.”
Gripping the side rails of my bed so hard that my knuckles turn white, I withhold the urge to pummel the opinionated asshat in the face. Being cordial goes against the basic fiber of my being, but Harlow was insistent I would never progress if the media didn’t adorn me with attention.
“To suggest Achilles War is anything less than a champion would be both ignorant and stupid on your part.”
In the corner of my room, Harlow chokes on his coffee. Holding my palm out towards him, I interrupt his attempts to ‘put a spin’ on my outburst.
Goodbye, gold medal.
Goodbye, media darling.
Never missing a beat, I continue my tirade and proverbial chewing out of the reporter’s ass. “The competition grounds were wet from the unlikely monsoon of rain over the weekend. I’d taken Achilles out the day before to give us both a chance to settle in, but I mistook his uncertainty and allotted it to the travel time. It was my mistake.”
He continues jotting notes down in time with the sound of the loop on his recorder moving.
“By the time the morning had come around, most of the arena was underwater, the dry ground just asking for flooding. I took for granted the trust Chil had put in me in the past. I should have withdrawn, but my pride and ego are what led me here.”
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, accepting fault in losing the gold medal for your country, but that would hardly be enough of a reason to let the blame rest on Chil’s shoulders, however wide they might be.
“How did the weather result in your fall?” He’s grilling me, circling like a shark that smells blood in the water.
The one thing the press loves more than a rising star is a fallen angel.
Looking past his scrawny frame, I seek strength in the bright sun. Achilles has always been my rock, and being separated from him for any length of time is next to impossible for me to bear, let alone in a situation such as this.
“The routine started fine. I could feel his tension, but urged him on regardless. It wasn’t until we moved into the pirouette that I could feel how off he was. When he reared, I was not in any way prepared for such a sudden reaction, and I was unable to get my arms around his neck.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay those fractions of a second in my mind. “When he came down, he threw an exaggerated buck, unseating me before rearing to his hind legs again. This time, I was holding on only by the reins. It seemed like forever he was standing there, frozen in midair.”
“It was at this time you made the decision to forfeit?” he prompts.
Opening my eyes, I drag them off the window. Then I narrow them at him, putting all the force of my physical and mental hurt into my stare. “It was not a matter of forfeiting or ‘tossing in the towel,’ as I’ve heard it said on the news. In the moment, I decided it was best to bail on my own regard, as I didn’t want to pull Achilles over on top of me.”
“Brave,” he murmurs sarcastically. “Did you know you had hurt yourself right away?”
“When I threw myself off and landed on my lower back, I knew instantly I had done damage”—I wince inwardly—“and sure enough, moments later, the pain kicked in, confirming my suspicions.”
“You were later taken by ambulance to Athens General Hospital. What is the seriousness of your injuries? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I mind, you clown, my brain screams, but thankfully, my mouth does not comply. “I have fractures in my sacrum on both sides.” It’s not hard to miss the depression settling in my voice at the possibility of being faced with the end of my professional riding career. “The sacrum is a triangle-shaped bone that is found at the bottom of the spine,” I add for effect, hoping he feels as stupid as he looks.
“What is your prognosis?”
“Standard procedure is three months off before I can start riding again.”
“But you won’t know to what degree until that time,” he finishes for me, and I nod.
Anxiety is creeping up my throat and into my features; I have no idea what life would be like without horses or riding.
“You wish to stand by your earlier statement that this national loss is attributed only to your lack of skill, not your horse’s temperament?”
He is pushing my buttons, and he knows it.
“As a horse has its own mind and sometimes objects to being through or in front of your leg, or just finds things a bit hard, they will react in a way that can trigger those fears.” I look him directly in the eye so there is no possibility of him misinterpreting what I have to say. “I imagine you’d see no kindness or flattery in being whipped or sparred through an event that crippled you with fright, all for the sake of a shiny, gold coin around your boss’s neck.”
The reporter later describes me in his article as ‘hostile denial in its finest form,’ which is followed by a brutally accurate portrayal of my injuries and a detailed description of my shortcomings as a rider. No longer do I push the boundaries of the sport in a fresh and challenging way. It has now been deemed that I have no respect for the discipline and, for lack of a better phrase, got what I deserved. However, it is in his last statement where he truly kicks me while I’m down.
With the injuries sustained during her fall, it is unlikely London Daniels will return to ride professionally at any capacity, but I suppose the real question is: Would the equestrian industry as a whole want the fallen favorite, even if she could?
Two Weeks Later
Willow Bay, Alberta
I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME my heart was broken. I was ten. Tommy Pruitt had just given his Valentine’s Day card to Heather Boston, and I was crushed. Completely and utterly devastated. That afternoon, after barreling into the barn when I got home from school, a mess of tears and wracked by confusion, I dramatically flopped down into the sawdust of the stall Momma was cleaning.
After leaning her pitchfork against the wall, she slowly sits her lean frame beside me and pulls me into her lap. “Hush now, my sweet girl. What’s wrong?” she coos, sweeping my blond hair off my face.
I babble out the gut-wrenching story in waterfall fashion, the rejection stinging my young heart.
Pressing her lips to my forehead, she curls them into a smile before she speaks. “When life feels as if it’s become too difficult and our momentum threatens to break stride, remember, London—hope is not lost. We are strong women, we are horse women, and when push comes to shove, sweet girl, we can always change rein, for a new direction never ceases to bring with it a new light.”
“He was my soulmate,” I wail into the crook of her neck. “What if no one ever loves me again?”
Cupping my wet cheeks with her frail hands, she lifts my face to meet her gaze. “I think there are people out there for all of us. Not necessarily one perfect person, but a multitude of individuals who shape us into who we are. Then, hopefully, when we’ve twisted and turned, gathered some scars of our own, fate sends us the person to fade our scars and shine light into the dark parts of who we are. When they come? I’m not sure. Some get them sooner than later. Others get more than one. But I do believe we all find that at least once in our lives, and at that point, fate’s job is done. It’s on us to keep them.”
“I’ll love someone again?” I urge.
Tugging playfully on the ends of my hair, she smiles. “You’ll love so many things in life, London.” Tears pool in her eyes. “So very many things. But our hearts have to break a little sometimes. How else would we make room for all of that love?”
Satisfied with her answer, although not quiet understanding the depth of it all, I push to my feet and kiss the top of her head. “I love you, Momma.”
“Love you too, sweet girl.”
She was right. I grew to love a multitude of things in the sixteen years since that day, and occasionally, my heart breaks from loving or wanting some of them a little too much. But I don’t regret the passion or the fire that caused me to be this girl, the girl who has the kind of heart that breaks. Because it was just like her, just like Momma, to love so much that she’d sacrifice herself for others, time and time again.
I run my fingers over the letters in stone.
Abigale L. Daniels
I lay the flowers against the green grass. “Love you, Momma.”
Looking over my shoulder, I see Chil eyeing me between the panels of his horse trailer.
“I know, big guy,” I whisper under my breath.
It is time to go home with, once again, another break in my heart.
Standing up, I brush the grass off my knees and glance down at the tombstone one last time before turning back towards the road.
It’s been almost ten years since my mother passed away from pancreatic cancer. She had a long and brutal battle with the disease, but in the end, we were able to hold her hand during her final moments on this Earth. Which was, indeed, both a blessing and a curse. I’d not wish that experience on even my worst enemy.
Stepping up on the wheel wells of the trailer, I reach one of my slender arms between the panels and give Achilles a rub on his nose. “Let’s go home,” I whisper, resting my forehead on the cool metal.
He acknowledges my voice, impatiently stomping his front right foot and shaking his large neck in agreement. Achilles is a four-year-old, dapple-grey Dutch Warmblood. In plain speak? He’s grey with sporadic white patches and a white mane and tail, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.
Sliding—not so gracefully—back down onto the ground, I wince at the pain in my backside. The doctors said I’d be able to do minimal work, so long as it didn’t require standing or sitting for an extended period of time, or any heavy lifting. So, basically, their guidance wasn’t helpful in the least.
Yanking the driver’s side door to my black Chevy open, I groan as my eyes fall onto what has become the bane of my existence. The donut pillow—a.k.a. the medically prescribed ass pillow I must carry with me everywhere, public places included, for the next two and a half months, despite its unique quality to embarrass the ever-loving shit out of me on a consistent basis. It’s ugly, it’s brown, and I absolutely loathe it.
After carefully positioning my ass onto the butt pillow so as not to aggravate my injuries, I turn the diesel engine over and pull out onto the highway.
Alberta is flat prairie land, and this time of year, it’s hot as hell. Thankfully, it doesn’t take me longer than fifteen minutes in my hot box of a vehicle before I’m making a right turn onto a long, gravel driveway—our driveway. When I reach the open gate to our property, my heart swells a little upon seeing the sign hanging above it.
Willow Bay Stables
Home.
My ass protests as the truck and trailer bounce down the winding driveway, and I curse out loud. Of all the injuries I could have gotten, I literally had to break my ass. The stupidity and embarrassment of it all seems like some sick punishment. Truthfully, I should have been home over a week ago. The doctors in Greece released me after only four days, and I was cleared to fly immediately. However, Achilles was not.
As you can imagine, it takes a great deal of time, planning, and—more importantly—money to fly an animal of his size around the world. Harlow promised he would wait and fly back with Achilles, but that was something I could not bear. Travelling was always hard on my equine best friend. Sometimes, it took him days to recover. I protested much like a child and refused to leave the country without him. Thus, here I am, nearly twelve days later, arriving home on the heels of my nationally televised loss and freshly battered from the magazine article that portrayed me as a petulantly ignorant young woman with a hot temper. While the latter may be true, I have and will always have the utmost respect for the sport and discipline of dressage. Even if I’ve become the number one outcast.
As I pull through a clearing of trees, the property comes into view. It’s exactly as I remember it—breathtaking. To the right side, on top of one of Alberta’s few rolling hills, sits the main house. Despite being only a single floor, it’s expansive in size. Daddy had it built to match the design of the existing stables, a mixture of stone rock face and logs, complete with a forest-green tin roof that is perfect for listening to the rain falling at night. A large porch wraps around the outside of the house, and steps lead down to the frontyard.
To the left side sits one of our barns. It’s the larger of the two, housing nearly twenty horse stalls, a full room of tack lockers, and an attached full-size indoor riding arena. Its most unique attribute, however, is the apartment loft. Just inside the large barn doors, painted green to match the roof, there’s a stairwell to the right, which leads up to a thousand-square-foot, fully furnished apartment, with windows that look out onto the pastures lining one wall. The best part about it is it’s mine. As a child, I was frequently sneaking out in the middle of the night to lie in the horses’ stalls or simply muck about in the barn. Finally, the year I turned sixteen, my father simply had enough and converted the existing hayloft into an apartment.
Farther down the road, there is a large outdoor riding ring, a lunging ring, and a series of turnout pastures for the horses. Behind those is the second barn. It houses only ten stalls and a feed room, and the upper floor is a hayloft. However, it too was designed to resemble its counterpart.
When I glance up at the house, I check my spine and find that it’s lacking the steel I need to face my family. I’ve been training abroad for nearly three years, rarely coming home—with the exception of Christmas—so something about my return seems as much cowardly as it does humiliating. After rolling through the excuses in my mind, I settle on the idea that it’s best I unload Achilles before advancing to the house.
After veering left, I put the truck in park outside the giant barn. I take a minute, glancing right and left, but I see no one. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t see much of anything. No horses. No people. Nothing. Which seems unusual, given that this is the barn usually boarded out to people and their horses. Taking advantage of the empty area, I slide out of the truck and make my way to the back of the trailer, where Achilles is moving around inside.
“Cool your jets, big guy,” I drop the tone of my voice, increasing the softness and coo through the panels.
My voice always changes when I talk to Chil.
After unlatching the hooks, I open the back of the trailer. The gentleman at the airport helped me load Achilles, and I forgot how heavy the gate is. When I reach past my waist, my lower back spasms. Reaching around to press against the screaming area causes me to lose my grip, and the gate crashes the remaining three feet onto the pavement. The sound of the gate echoes through the courtyard and out in the fields. Shit. Achilles neighs wildly as he stomps and shifts his weight nervously.
Certain that the sound scared him, I grip the side wall to steady myself before using it to haul my small frame inside the trailer to comfort him. “Easy, Chil,” I hum.
His ears twitch backwards at the tone of my voice. I touch him softly on his butt before moving my hand gently over his back towards his neck. His muscles ease under the recognition of my touch, and he swings his head to the left, straining to see my movements.
After pushing off the wall with my other hand, I hook my other hand under his neck and lean into him for support. “Sorry, big guy. Didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologize into his neck.
After unclipping the ropes from his halter, I attach the lead rope underneath his chin and rub his nose with the palm of my hand. We stand like that for a few minutes, his massive frame taking the weight of my smaller one until the pain in my back subsides. When I feel as though my strength has returned, I test it by pulling away from him and flattening my feet inside my cowboy boots.
No buckling.
No crying.
We’re good.
While pressing a finger into his front, I make a clucking sound with my tongue, and Achilles begins to back out of the trailer. He’s done this so many times that I’m certain he could nearly do it without any guidance from me. After looping the lead rope over his neck, I give him a quick kiss on the forehead and then walk towards one of the single-horse turnout pens. Achilles follows behind me despite the fact I’m in no way holding on to him.
The memory of Harlow’s voice the first time he caught me doing this rings in my ear. “You put too much trust in that horse, London. He’s still an animal.”
Upon reaching the gate, I slip Achilles’ halter over his massive head and cluck my tongue again. He takes off into the field, every bit the beautiful, raw power he is, and like every time, I’m mesmerized by the way he moves, elegant and graceful.
“Welcome home, Chil,” I say as he finally settles on a patch of grass to graze on.
“Still talking to horses, I see.”
Startled, I spin around on my heel, nearly falling flat on my face. His deep chuckle twists into the wind, and my lips purse together in annoyance.
“Jesus, Owen. You scared the shit out of me.” I snarl, wincing at the sting in my lower back.
My brother tosses his head back. This time, his laughter takes a stronger presence in the open area. “Nice to see you too, sis.” Then he smirks, folding his arms over his chest and nodding the tip of his black cowboy hat in my direction.
While I am the middle child, Owen is the oldest and, by far, the wildest. He’ll be thirty next year, and he’s one of Canada’s highest-ranked bareback bronc riders in the rodeo circuit. Towering over me, he leans his hip against the fence, and I marvel at how much he looks like our father. It’s uncanny, really, and for some reason, it makes my eyes water, and all thoughts of kicking him in the shins for scaring me fly out the window.
“Lord love a duck, London.” He huffs, hauling me into his arms.
Burying my face into his shirt, I let a single tear fall. “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, Bridge.”
My shoulders shake with laughter at the sound of my old nickname.
After giving me a squeeze, he pulls me away from him and playfully pretends to knock my chin with his fists a few times. “There she is.”
Owen started calling me London Bridge when we were little kids, and eventually, he shortened it to Bridge. Even though it’s an odd nickname, it took off like wildfire in our family. I was always falling off horses when I was younger, mostly due to the fact I thought I could ride anything. I was utterly fearless, and thus, Owen loved to chant, “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” every time I took a tumble off a horse, which was often.
“You got old,” I tease, jabbing him in the stomach. Somehow, it manages to hurt me more than him, so I shake my wrist.
The playful lines in his face disappear. “How are you holding up?”
Shrugging, I let my eyes fall to the ground. “Fine.”
“Fine, eh?” he argues. “I saw the—”
“The magazine article. It’s bad. I know.”
“The guy’s a prick, London,” he growls, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “I bet you no one even read it.”
I arch an eyebrow at him as a smirk forms on my lips.
“Okay, well, maybe everyone probably read it.”
I wince outwardly at the idea that our small town has not only seen my failure displayed on their televisions, but also read the slaughtering of my career.
“Hardly changes the fact his face deserves to make its acquaintance with your scary big brother’s fists.”
“I think it defeats the purpose if you have to call yourself scary in order to get the point across.” I laugh, walking in step with him towards the house.
“Rude,” he protests, giving me a noogie. “You shouldn’t rain on people’s parades, London.”
“London!” a female voice shrieks.
Looking up, I see my little sister come barreling down the steps of the front porch, her hair whipping in the breeze.
It’s obvious we’re sisters. We both have Momma’s white-blond hair and blue eyes and Daddy’s dark eyelashes, but where I am more slender, Aurora is a twenty-two-year-old, curvy bombshell, and her heart is nearly an exact copy of our mother’s. While I guard mine and choose to protect its breaks by being hard, Aurora is so soft. She gives and doesn’t hold her love back from anyone.
She’s about to launch herself at me, when Owen catches her midair.
“Whoa, killer. Bridge is broken, remember?” he reminds her.
Swatting at his arms, she gripes, “I know, you goose. I wasn’t going to plow her to the ground.”
“Looked like it.” I laugh at the way she beams, even when she’s trying to come across angry.
After finally breaking free from our brother, she folds her arms around me. “I missed you,” she chokes out in little sobs into the crook of my neck.
“Hey,” I say, running my hand over her hair. “I’m sorry.” For what? I’m not exactly sure. For everything, probably. For not having been here as often as I should have.
“You guys are going to be the death of Dad with all of this crying!” Owen proclaims from somewhere beside us before his boot steps sound on the porch and the screen door closes.
Pulling away from me, Aurora palms my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
I try to look away from her, but I can’t. I know what she’s sorry for. I know what everyone’s sorry for. But the look that comes with it is always the worst—pity. Instead of answering her, I nod.
Taking that as a cue, she wipes her cheeks off and nods toward the driveway. “Daddy went to get some wine for you. He’ll be back soon. You still drink wine, right?”
“Right.”
Daddy never keeps any in the house. I think that’s because it reminds him of Momma, and since Aurora doesn’t drink and Owen doesn’t live there, there’s no need to have it on hand.
“I cleaned up the apartment for you, and I put some snacks in the fridge, but I didn’t bother with too much food, as I figured you’d come eat with us most nights anyway,” she babbles, dragging me into the house.
I acknowledge her with little nods, but my senses are completely overwhelmed the moment my boots cross the threshold of our house. It looks the same as always, knitted couch pillows still adorn the various furniture and given Aurora’s love of baking, which she got from our mother, the smell of baking cherries still reaches your nose as you walk in the door. After toeing off my boots in the entryway, I follow her into the kitchen.
“Get your filthy man-hands away from my pie,” my sister snarls, picking up a serving knife and waving it in Owen’s direction, “or you’ll become the next episode of Criminal Minds, you hear me?”
Sibling banter has always been unique with the three of us. Hovering somewhere between loving and then hoping people don’t overhear us because they’d likely want to lock us up. Nonetheless, hearing it makes my heart swell.
“Has anyone here even gotten wine from that liquor store in the last decade?” my father huffs, setting his twelve-pack and a bottle of wine down on the counter. “It’s absurd. Bloody Google Maps in that joint if you ask me,” he announces before dramatically growling off the countries that have their own wine sections at the local Liquor Barn. He’s nearly finished most of Europe when he finally sees me standing in the kitchen.
“Hey, Daddy,” I whisper, feeling somewhat out of place in the home I grew up in.
“London Bridge,” he says before swallowing against the lump in his throat. “You’re home.”
“Yeah,” I let out lamely, shifting on my feet.
Opening his arms, he grins, showing off the wrinkles of a life well lived. “Well, give the old fart a hug, would ya?”
There are men—salt-of-the-Earth, work-hard, love-hard, honest men who’d give you the shirt off their back when you really needed it—and my dad is the very finest of that bunch. While, to us kids, he’s a loving yet burly teddy bear who protects us from the monsters under our beds, to the outside world, Larry Daniels looks like a grizzly bear—the kind you absolutely do not mess with. Not that I’m suggesting messing with any bears is a particularly wise life choice, but for argument’s sake, you get my drift.
He’s nearly six-foot-four, always sporting a five-o’clock shadow, and the epitome of rough around the edges. His frame is hulking—not just in height, but size in general, after years of working on a farm. That, coupled with the fact he’s nearly always carrying a buck knife on his belt, means he’s pretty intimidating. And while I may have gotten my dainty European looks from my mother, I definitely got my mouth from my father. Heaven knows I have a mouth like a sailor, despite years of people telling me women oughta sound like a Hallmark card.
Looking at him now, I’d say the only difference between him and Owen, obviously other than age, is that my brother has tattoos. Otherwise, they’re like carbon copies of each other.
After moving around the island, I step into his arms, and the moment I breathe in the smell of his Brute cologne, my composure shatters. Making fists in his shirt, I cry against him.
“I know, sweet girl,” he sympathizes with a softness in his rough voice meant only for his children. “Your daddy’s got big shoulders, London. Why don’t you let me carry some of that weight you’ve been holding?”
