Jessica Nelson - Love on the Range

One, she was the boss’s niece.

Two, she was young, probably inexperienced. Though looks could be deceiving.

Three, a hypocrite. He couldn’t forget the trace of snobbery in her voice when she’d been lecturing him about the benefits of the city.

Four, he’d known the girl a short time. Yep, plenty of reasons.

Her pale hand rested on his kitchen counter and he resisted the urge to touch her skin, to see if it felt as smooth and warm as it looked.

“I need to get back. Thank you for the water,” she repeated. Her gaze slipped away, scanning his counter and stopping on a letter he’d meant to burn. It lay propped against where the counter met the wall, the handwriting legible from where he stood.

“I’ll let you out,” he said quickly.

Gracie looked up, and he could tell she’d seen too much. She didn’t ask questions like he’d expected but rather waggled her fingers at him and stepped out the door. A blast of cold slammed the door shut behind her.

Trevor watched her from the window in his living room, a lone figure huddled against a harsh wind. The sky was streaked orange by the setting sun. He should take her back in his Ford. It would be the kind thing to do. He reluctantly grabbed his hat and yelled out the front door. “Gracie, let me give you a ride. Wait up!”

She turned, the wind lashing her skirts against her legs. He led her to the back of his house where he kept his truck. She wore a small smile as she got in. The engine coughed to life, and they drove over the rough terrain, bouncing in awkward silence. He trained his gaze forward.

Gracie cleared her throat. “I didn’t notice the lack of a road when I walked over.”

“No need for one.” Trevor concentrated on avoiding shrubs. It helped him ignore her perfume, some flowery scent that made him think of spring.

“Thank you for driving me back. The weather turned colder than I expected.”

“Winter’s coming,” he said, voice terse.

“I’ve always loved winter, how it shows God’s goodness, His faithfulness.” She smiled, her eyes glowing in the sunset like a newly oiled rifle stock. He loved his rifle. “I can feel how close He is and how small I am in the desolation of winter.”

He looked ahead, jaw tight. “What I sense is the harshness of this place.”

“But the plants grow. He provides sun and rain, and despite the harshness, there’s life. He is good.” The unbridled optimism of youth rang in her voice.

“Time will temper that outlook.”

Gracie studied Trevor’s sharp, lined profile, wondering how to respond.

His face reflected him in many ways. Strong, stern. Weary of soul, as if the winter of life had deadened within him all ability to grow. The hope was that good seeds still lay in the frozen soil of his heart, waiting for spring.

Back in the kitchen, before seeing that intriguing letter on his counter, she’d observed how Trevor filled out his earth-stained Levi’s with muscular strength, and how his plaid shirt stretched tight against his broad shoulders. She was unaccustomed to noticing men in such a physical way, but at that moment she’d had trouble removing her gaze.

What would have happened if she’d leaned forward and kissed him?

The thought brought a stinging blush to her cheeks. She wasn’t so bold. A woman simply didn’t kiss just anyone, especially a man known for such a small time. Most important of all, it was Striker who she longed to forge a relationship with, not some taciturn cowboy.

The truck jolted over an uneven piece of land, bringing her attention back to Trevor’s profile. “Why don’t you believe in God?”

He shot her a glare. “I don’t believe in a God who lets people live in a world like this.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not even going to ask what’s wrong with it because I’m sure you’ll have a whole list of doldrums to recite. Nevertheless, you should consider the good things.”

“It’s not that easy, Gracelyn. You can’t just simplify pain and suffering.”

“I’m not. I am not trying to, at least.” She cocked her head. “You have a good life, Trevor, in a place you love. And yet you’re bitter?” She was fishing, she knew, but it was in her nature to probe. He awakened something within, and she found herself longing to discover more of him.

Trevor parked his truck next to Uncle Lou’s wagon, then turned to Gracie, eyes blazing. Her curiosity withered beneath his hard gaze.

“‘God is so good,’” he mocked. “What do you, socialite of Boston, know about pain? I could tell you stories that would shock you. You’re lighthearted and completely unaware of the suffering around you. We don’t believe in God around here for good reasons.” Trevor struck the wheel with the palm of his hand. The sound ricocheted in the truck like a gunshot. “What do you know about a drunken father who beats his kid unconscious every night for smiling the wrong way, mothers who prostitute themselves and then spend the money on whiskey and opiates. Do you know why Mary doesn’t go to church? They won’t let her in because she’s part Paiute. That’s some God you serve.”

Gracie pressed herself back against the passenger door, a faint tremor working through her stomach. No wonder Trevor hardly smiled. He was obviously a man tormented.

She frowned. She didn’t like his implication that she was a shallow child incapable of empathy, ignorant of evil. She was torn between defensive anger and deep sorrow.

As he glared at her, the scar on his brow stark white against his skin, perception filled her. She straightened from the door and leaned toward him.

“You do believe in God,” she said slowly. “You just hate Him.”

A shocked expression crossed his grim features, then a look of dawning knowledge.

There was silence as he looked away from her. “You’re right,” he said, voice low.

Gracie wanted to say more, but he looked so defeated. Gone was the strong presence she had been attracted to in his kitchen. In its place sat a lonely, desolate man. A man who had lived in darkness for far too long. She gently placed her palm on his shoulder.

“Get out.”

“But I—”

“Now.”

She opened her door and slid out quickly. Autumn sliced through her, and she wrapped her arms tightly against her ribs. The menacing intensity vibrating through his voice made her lungs feel squished within her rib cage. She’d barely made it to the front porch before his truck squealed, digging up dirt as it turned and bounced across the land, not headed toward his house, but somewhere else.

For a moment she held perfectly still, a deep pain spreading through her, immobilizing her. Would she ever say anything right? She drew a full breath, released it, then turned and went inside.

Mary stood in the hall, forehead puckered. “What’s wrong with Trevor?”

“We were talking about God,” Gracie murmured.

Her brow smoothed. “That explains it, it does. He doesn’t like the mention of Him.”

Gracie followed Mary into the dining room. “You’ve known Trevor a long time.”

“Since I was a wee babe.” Mary ran a dust rag over the rich-hued furniture. “His mama and mine shared a profession together, and he watched out for me. He’s a good man, he is, just can’t accept that God loves. He can’t put it together in his head because of his upbringing, I expect.”

“His upbringing?”

“Our mothers were prostitutes.”

“Oh.” Gracie winced. Trevor had been speaking from his own experiences. “What about your fathers?”

“Mine just wanted his whiskey. Don’t look so sad, Gracie. Bad things happen in life. So do good. It’s the way things work out.”

“It’s not right, Mary. I wish there was something I could do to change things. You don’t seem bitter.”