But this barn had also been a prison of sorts. Because Cain had never enjoyed working with horses, his job at McHuid’s had felt like aimless grunt work. A job for a check. Mucking stables. Shoveling manure. Birthing colts. It was hard, unglamorous work, and he wouldn’t miss it. Not a moment of it.
Nor would he miss the way his father and Josiah enjoyed every moment of it with the same passion that Cain hated it. The way his father ruffled Josiah’s hair or patted him on the back after a tough breech delivery. The way his father’s face lit up when Woodman walked into the barn, anxious to tell him about the new mare’s breeding lines or the stallion that Ranger was importing from England. It hurt Cain to see their natural, unforced camaraderie. Now that his parents were divorced, he didn’t hate his father as much as he used to—he could see that both of his parents were happier, healthier people apart than they’d ever been together. And Cain loved Josiah as much as always. But seeing his father and cousin together still made Cain feel like shit, and he wouldn’t miss it.
Then again, this barn was the place where Ginger had jumped into their arms year after year, her twelfth birthday notwithstanding. No matter what was going on in Cain’s life, no matter what he was doing or whom he was fucking, he had caught Ginger McHuid in his arms almost every year of her life, and he’d miss it come October. Yes, he would.
Not that he spent much time around Ginger anymore. She’d started attending public high school as a sophomore this year, and she was around the barn a lot less, he’d noticed. He’d also noticed that she had grown into, hand to God, the prettiest, sexiest girl in Apple Valley. Golden blonde waves tumbled down her back, and those deep brown eyes that had so captured his attention on her twelfth birthday now caught the notice of every other guy under the age of thirty. Her legs went on forever, toned and muscular from riding, and her smile—Lord, her smile!—stopped his heart whenever she flashed it at him, which was every time he saw her.
But the very transparent reality of Cain Wolfram’s life was that no matter what he felt for Ginger, there were three reasons he could never have her.
The first? She was way too good for him. She was as bright and shiny as silver in the sunshine, sweet, kind, smart, and rich. As for Cain? He was badly tarnished to a dull gray and cynical and selfish. He’d boned every girl worth having in a ten-mile radius. He’d been a poor student and a troublemaker, racing around Apple Valley on his motorcycle at all hours, and drinking down at the distillery with a rowdy crew of friends.
The second? Ginger loved Apple Valley. It was her home—a home he knew she loved to the marrow of her bones, when all Cain really wanted was to see Apple Valley get smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. And if he had his way, he’d never return again.
But the third reason was the most implacable, the most nonnegotiable reason he could never have Ginger McHuid. Because she belonged to Woodman. Always had, always would. And Cain loved Woodman too much to lose his cousin’s kinship over a girl. Even an angel–girl like Ginger.
Will you miss her? whispered his heart.
That was like asking if he’d miss something he could never have. A better question would be, Will you long for her? And the answer, of course, was a sad and simple Forever. She would always be the sweetest something that the earth had to offer. And someday Cain would enter heaven or hell still wishing that he’d had a chance to love her.
Shaking off his thoughts and deciding against going up to the main house to find her and say good-bye (because, really, what was the point?), he walked into the barn and knocked on the tack room door. Looking around, he noted that the new stablehand, a sophomore from Apple Valley High who was probably a friend a Ginger’s, was doing a good job. The concrete floor between the stalls was clean as a whistle, and the barn smelled like fresh hay. Cain inhaled deeply, grudgingly admitting that the smell wasn’t totally unpleasant, and maybe even a little comforting.
“Papa?” he called, knocking on the door again, but there was no