answer you, if that’s okay,” said Cain, glancing at her as they stopped at a red light close to Silver Springs.
“Cain, please just . . .”
He spoke over her. “When your heart got all screwed up, when you were a kid, the whole town knew about it. The little princess at McHuid’s was airlifted to Vanderbilt, they said. Maybe she’ll die, they said. Poor little thing, they said.” He stopped talking, clenching his jaw for a moment and staring at her, his eyes fierce. “I hated it. I hated every word. I hated the thought of losin’ you. I was only eight, but I told myself that if you came home, then you were stronger than death, Gin. Stronger’n death, with the heart of a lion. And I told myself that if you could beat death, that would make you the strongest little girl in the whole world.”
“Cain . . .,” she said softly, moved to tears by a version of her story she’d never heard before.
A car beeped at them from behind, and Cain thrust his middle finger into the rearview mirror before shifting back into drive. He stared out the windshield as they pulled into the care center.
“And then you came home,” he said, pulling into a parking space and turning to face her. His face, his beautiful face, was trained on her, his eyes soft, his lips tilted up just a touch. “You came home. And you were runnin’ around and yellin’ and playin’ and ridin’ just like always, and I said to myself, My God, it’s true. She’s stronger than death. She’s stronger than anythin’. And it was so strange to me because no one else seemed to see it. Your folks pulled you outta school and got you a tutor, and your momma tried her best to keep you quiet, keep you inside. No one else seemed to see that you were so strong, you’d beaten death. No way life was goin’ to take you down if death couldn’t finish the job.”
Ginger took a deep, shaking breath and lowered her chin to her chest, which tightened with emotion. “But life does get me down.”
“Course it does.” Cain nodded. “I know it does. I know that, Gin.” He shrugged. “Still doesn’t change the fact that when the clouds part, you’re goin’ to be okay. You’ve got the heart of a lion, princess. And you’ve got the fightin’ scars to prove it.”
She thought of all the times in her life he’d called her “lionhearted l’il gal,” and suddenly it made sense to her. He was referring to her strength. He’d been talking about her survival.
The heart of a lion.
The scars to prove it.
Literally speaking, she did have a white scar over her heart, where the doctors had operated on her so long ago.
Figuratively speaking, she had other scars on her heart, and many of them belonged to Cain.
Cain, who never stuck around.
Cain, who always left her behind, brokenhearted.
“Why are you still here?” she asked him, her voice low and breathless.
“I have my reasons.”
“Tell me, Cain. Thanksgivin’s come and gone. Please tell me why you’re still here.”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
She didn’t want it to matter. She desperately didn’t want it to matter.
She nodded.
He leaned back from her and searched her face as though trying to determine something—if she was ready to know something, if he was ready to tell it.
“I tell you what, if you want to know why I’m still here, I’ll show you, but you need to take a ride with me.”
“Where to?”
“Not tellin’.” He paused. “You trust me?”
She shook her head. “No. ” She shrugged, sniffling softly. “Kind of.”
“We got a lot of water under the bridge, don’t we?” he said, looking away from her. He shrugged. “Well, it’s up to you.”
A good thirty seconds passed in silence as she struggled to make a decision. Part of her felt like running as far away from Cain as she could possibly get. The other part, however, needed him like a lifeline.
Survival won the draw.
“When?”
“Next Saturday.”
“What time?”
“Five,” he said. “And dress warm. I can’t keep borrowin’ my pop’s truck. We’ll take my bike.”
“Your bike. Oh, okay,” she said, watching as he opened his door and waiting as he walked around the truck to open hers.
She’d never ridden on a motorcycle before, but she was too intrigued to say no.
And Saturday felt like a very, very long way away.
***
For most of his life, Ginger McHuid had been forbidden fruit to Cain Wolfram. He hadn’t respected much of