April Arrington - The Rancher's Wife

“Are you okay?” Logan reached for her injured hand.

“I’m fine,” she choked.

She drew her throbbing fingers to her chest, cradling them and gritting her teeth.

“Let me see.” Logan’s brow creased and he tugged at her wrist.

“It’s fine,” she bit out, stifling a grimace. “He skimmed me.”

The kicking stopped. Amy glanced up as the strong pull and push of Thunder’s heaving breaths grew close. His broad head appeared against the bars. A savage scar stretched across his chiseled face and down his muscular neck. Amy winced at his glare, the whites of his eyes stark against the wide and wild depths of his pupils.

“He’s been through a lot,” Logan said. “It’s changed him. In the beginning, I thought there was still a chance I could bring him around. But I lost his trust along the way. I’m out of options. I have to put him down.”

“No,” she whispered.

Thunder’s lips drew back and he cried, the sharp sound screeching through the air and splitting her ears. He slammed his front hooves against the door then jerked away to pace the stall, his pained cries turning fierce.

Amy’s legs shook. She bent carefully to gather up the contents of her purse. Shoving the scattered items back inside, she caught sight of the bundle of crumpled divorce papers. She snatched them up and drove them deep into her purse.

Metal clanked as Thunder dove forward and butted the stall door with his head. Eyes flaring, he fixed his gaze to hers and stared deep, tearing past the layers of her polished appearance and creeping beneath her skin. He jerked his head, screaming louder and kicking harder.

Amy choked back a sob and shoved to her feet. Logan was right. Thunder wasn’t the same. But to consider ending his life...

“You can’t put him down, Logan,” she said, turning away and stumbling on the loose heel of her shoe. “Not without giving him a fair shot.”

Logan held her arms and steadied her. “I have. Nothing has worked. He’s a danger to himself and the other horses and he’s especially aggressive around the boys. There’s not one single rehabilitation outfit willing to relocate him after laying eyes on him.” He sighed. “I can’t, in good conscience, allow him to exist in fear and isolation with no quality of life. I’m sorry. There’s nothing else that can be done.”

Amy ducked her burning face. “That’s not true,” she said, pushing past him. “There’s always a way.”

The urge to return to Thunder was strong. To stay at his side, try to coax his spirit back and give him a fighting chance. But that would mean staying. And it was time to move on.

She dragged her purse strap back onto her shoulder and brushed at her clothes. But even though the creases in the material released, the guilt remained. It clung to her skin and clogged her throat, suffocating her. Just as it had every day for the past four years.

Her steps slowed, legs stilling of their own accord. She cast one last look at Thunder’s violent attack on the stall. “Surely, there’s something you can d—”

Thunder’s screech overtook her voice, the words dying on her lips.

“He fought hard to survive, Amy.” Logan’s expression turned grim, his thumb spinning the ring on his finger. “But, sometimes, that’s just not enough.”

She spun, taking swift strides out of the stable and away from the stallion’s broken state. She’d worked hard to survive, too. And she couldn’t gamble the new life she’d fought for to recapture a past full of failures and sins.

Logan’s eyes bored into her back. Amy hurried up the hill, thighs burning. Thunder’s painful cries lingered on the air, hovering around her and haunting the path to the main house.

Chapter Three

“Hold on to your heart, girl.”

Amy whispered the words and pressed her fingertips to the cold metal of Logan’s truck. By the time she’d made her way back from the stables, the sun had disappeared and night had settled in. The full moon and stars cast a hazy glow over the surrounding fields, lengthening the shadows stretching from the fences and barn.

She grazed her throbbing knuckles over the ring hidden beneath her collar and grimaced, recalling the band on Logan’s hand. Her chest tightened. She shook her head, reached into the bed of Logan’s truck and hefted out one of her black bags.

“Here.” Logan’s chest brushed her back. He reached around her for the bag, his fingers brushing hers. “Let me.”

“I’ve got it.”

Amy hoisted the bag and leaned over to retrieve the second one. Logan scooped it up first. He flicked the cuff of his flannel shirt back and examined the glowing hands of his wristwatch.

“It’s almost six,” he said. “We better get a move on.”

He led the way up the drive toward the main house, the strong line of his back and lean jean-clad hips moving with confidence. Amy’s belly fluttered. She tore her eyes away and surveyed the entrance to the main house which was bathed in the soft glow of the porch lights.

Massive mahogany doors were adorned with lush green wreaths and red ribbons. The colorful cheer extended beyond the wreaths to the crimson ribbon wrapped around the large columns. Poinsettia blooms nestled in the nooks and crannies of the railing lining the porch and the warm glow emanating from inside the house enhanced the twinkling of the white lights draping the posts and eaves.

Christmas. Amy’s steps faltered on the slippery ground. It’d been so long since she’d spent the holidays at home with family. Since she’d left Raintree, the color and comfort of Christmas had faded and the holiday had contorted into a pale passing of a day. A low and lifeless one she’d grown accustomed to spending alone.

Amy swallowed the lump in her throat and strived for a light tone. “Why are all the decorations out already? Mama used to say it was a sin to put up Christmas lights before Thanksgiving was over.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder, his words reaching her in puffy, white drifts. “I imagine Betty was beside herself last night when we didn’t make it back like we’d planned. She probably got overanxious and decided to keep herself busy.”

Amy smiled. Next to cooking, her mother’s second favorite pastime was decorating. Not a single holiday passed without Betty celebrating it in style.

“Betty knows how much you used to love Christmas at Raintree.” Logan waited for her to reach his side, his big palm wrapping around her upper arm to assist her up the steps. “She wants to make this visit perfect for you. We all do.”

Amy’s blood rushed at the husky note in his voice and she curled her fingers around the handle of her bag, tamping down the urge to lean in to him.

Hold on to your heart. This time, she wouldn’t mistake friendship for love. What she felt for Logan was old-fashioned lust and misguided hero worship. She’d do well to remember that.

A loud jingle sounded, both wreaths swinging on their doors as a small figure burst out of the house.

“Amy.”

Betty’s red bangs ruffled in the night breeze, her green eyes glistening with moisture.

Amy’s vision blurred. “Hi, Mama.”

She drew her bag in against her thigh and dipped toward the floor of the porch, the length of her limbs becoming awkward. Betty’s short stature had always made Amy wither, trying not to loom over her.

Betty’s warm palms cradled her cool cheeks then traveled down her arms to caress her wrists. She gently lifted Amy’s arms out to the side, trailing her gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes.

“You look beautiful. I think you grew another inch since I saw you last. You’re just as tall as your father was.” Betty dabbed at the corners of her eyes and smiled. “I’m so glad you came home.” She stretched up on her tiptoes, her kiss grazing the curve of Amy’s jaw. “I’ve missed my sweet girl.”