Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (11 page)

And Cain’s own knife twisted in his heart.

“Numbnuts,” he muttered.

Woodman scoffed. “They ain’t seen the action yours have, brother, but I promise you, they ain’t numb.”

This led them down the path to one of Cain’s favorite conversations, and he gratefully left talk of Woodman and Ginger behind, the pressure in his chest easing.

“Tell me the truth: did you, or did you not, bang the redhead in Fort Lauderdale?”

“I plead the Fifth,” said Woodman, reaching for a bottle of water and unscrewing the top.

“The blonde in Marseille?”

“Da Fifth,” said Woodman in the same way the guys on
Saturday Night Live
used to say “da Bears.”

“That hot piece of ass in Rome?”

“Which one?” asked Woodman with a snort.

“Oh, man, I love Italian pussy.” Cain sighed, laughing along with his cousin until Woodman groaned in sudden pain. “Hey, when can you take more meds?”

“Whenever I want.”

“Then take one.”

Josiah narrowed his eyes. “I can wait.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Cain. “Take it when you need to.”

“You know how easy it is to get addicted to that stuff?”

Cain gave him a look. “You’re not goin’ to get addicted. You’re in pain. C’mon, Josiah.”

“Don’t ‘Josiah’ me,” said his cousin. “I’m toughin’ it out. When I can’t stand it anymore, I’ll take one.”

That conversation had happened at ten o’clock in the morning, and Woodman had lasted until six o’clock in the evening without even so much as an Advil. Finally the pain was so excruciating, he couldn’t bear it anymore, and he took half a Vicodin that knocked him out.

As much as Cain didn’t like his cousin wading through the pain when there was a more comfortable alternative, it was these little flashes of spirit that Cain clung to, that convinced him that Josiah would find his way out of the darkness of his injury. Cain looked over at Woodman—at the blond hair that had started growing back in, at the golden beard that he refused to shave, and the thousands of freckles he’d inherited from his mother. Woodman was his flesh and blood, his memory keeper and friend, and Cain loved Woodman as much as his heart could love anyone.

Which is why he pledged to stay away from her and hoped—even as the mere thought bled his heart—that Ginger would be there to guide Josiah back into the light.

***

“Cain!
Mein Sohn
!”

“
Servus, Papa
!”

Cain stepped forward into the tack room and allowed his father to wrap him in an impromptu hug. He still wore the jeans and T-shirt he’d been driving in all day, and his father wore the boxer shorts he slept in and nothing else. It didn’t matter.

Cain couldn’t remember the last time his father had embraced him, and he savored the moment, inhaling the smells of leather and horse, cut grass, and Head & Shoulders. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was home, welcomed back into his father’s arms like the prodigal son returned, and damn if it didn’t make his eyes burn so much, he had to pull away.

“You got my postcards from Germany, Pop?”

“
Ja
!” said Klaus, releasing Cain reluctantly and patting him twice on the back as though needing to maintain contact or reassure himself that Cain was real. His face was older, more weathered, but his ice-blue eyes were as clear as ever. “I get them! But I ask myself, Why doesn’t he go to
Österreich
? To visit my Lipizzaner?”

“Austria?” scoffed Cain with a wide grin, reaching back to close the tack room door. “It’s landlocked, Pop. I been on a ship for three years.”

“
Ja
, of course.” Klaus looked around the small living room/kitchen, his eyes resting on the Keurig machine on the small kitchen counter. He clapped his hands together expectantly. “You want coffee? Or
heiße Schokolade
, like when you were little?”

Had his father always been like this? In those angry years of high school, had he missed his father’s efforts to nurture and connect with him? One of his shipmates had pinned a father–son photo on a bulletin board over his berth, and beside the photo, he’d written a quote by Mark Twain: “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” At 21 himself, the quote suddenly had personal meaning for Cain, who grinned at his graying father. He wasn’t in the mood for coffee
or
hot cocoa, but he nodded.

“Sure, Pop. Hot chocolate sounds great.”

His father headed for the kitchen, and Cain looked around the sparsely furnished room, most of the items probably hand-me-downs from Miz Magnolia since they appeared to be of good quality. A leather reading chair and love seat by a potbellied stove, a modern kitchen with a flat-screen TV mounted under the cabinets and black granite countertops, and a small table with two chairs for dining. Adjacent to this common room were two bedrooms with a connecting bathroom. Warm and tidy, with wooden walls and barn smells surrounding them, Cain felt—for the first time—how good it was to be home and, in fact, how much he had missed it.

“Woodman is . . . at home?”

“
Ja, Papa
,” answered Cain, setting down his bags by the love seat. “I dropped him off at Aunt Sophie’s half an hour ago.”

“How is he?
Der Fuß
?”

“Not good. His spirits are low, and he’s got months of rehab ahead.” Cain scrubbed his chin. “But he insisted on walkin' up the front steps of Belle Royale on his crutches, even though I was there to carry him.”

“He will be okay. He’s a strong boy. A good boy,” said Klaus with soft conviction.

Cain grimaced as jealousy flared up inside him. But it was true, wasn’t it? Woodman
was
strong and good—always had been, always would be—and it didn’t take anything away from Cain to acknowledge it.

“The best,” he agreed.

Crossing to his son, Klaus held out the steaming cup of hot cocoa and shook his head, smiling sadly at his only child. “
Nein, Sohn. Genauso gut. Nicht besser
.”

As good. Not better.

Cain clenched his jaw, staring at his father for a moment before dropping his gaze to the steaming mug in his hands.

“
Danke
,” he whispered. “
Danke, Papa
.”

It was a benediction to hear these simple words fall from his father’s lips, and it filled him with a kind of hope with which he didn’t have a lot of experience. He’d never had a strong vision for his future or the certainty that he deserved anything good. But for three years, with the exception of a few days leave here and there, Cain had been trapped on aircraft carriers with a thousand other men, and he’d had time to think. While Woodman mostly made his life happen, Cain had mostly gotten in his own way.

He’d been an asshole to his parents in high school. Yes, they’d always been unhappy. Yes, they’d gotten divorced when he was fifteen, arguably the worst-possible time in a kid’s life. But for all that their interests didn’t collide, his father had undoubtedly been the force behind Cain keeping his job at McHuid’s throughout high school. And without that job—for all that he didn’t love it or value it at the time—he would have felt even more worthless. The income from McHuid’s had allowed him to buy and rebuild his bike and had given him whatever sense of freedom he’d found in those years. It had also given his father a chance to look after him and check in with him on a daily basis, even if Cain had barely grunted when spoken to. He’d never love horses as his father did, but he’d be forever grateful that working at McHuid’s had given him a sense of stability and purpose that those years had otherwise lacked.

As for his mother, while it was possible that she had known Jim Johnson during her marriage to Klaus Wolfram, she’d stayed in Apple Valley throughout Cain’s years in high school, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with the upheaval of splitting his time between Frankfort and Apple Valley. She’d quietly made that decision
for
him. In return, he’d worried her sick half the time and humiliated her with his shenanigans the rest.

He knew it would take a little time, but the way he’d managed to mend his familial relationship with Woodman made Cain long to make things right with his parents too, and maybe even to prove to them that they could be proud of him now.

His father cleared his throat. “You are staying? A little while?”

“For a few weeks, if that’s okay, Pop.”

“And you’ll help? On the farm?” His father’s hopeful smile wasn’t about relief in having help to cover the work—it was about spending time with Cain. He could see it. He knew it was true, and he felt another warm rush of affection for his dad.

“Course, Pop. Whatever you need.”

His father smiled, nodding once, pleased. “I go make the extra bed.” He patted Cain on the shoulder once more before heading back to the second bedroom.

Feeling unusually emotional and not altogether comfortable, he placed the mug on the table beside his father’s reading chair and called, “I’m goin’ for a short walk, Pop. Back soon. Don’t wait up, okay?”

“
Ja, Sohn. Lauf herum.”

Go wandering.

Cain left quietly as his father finished making up the spare room, closing the tack room door quietly behind him.

Ten minutes later, he stood with his elbows propped up on one of the many paddock fences, staring off into the night, picturing exactly what lay before him in the darkness, as he’d pictured it a million times from the hull of a ship: the brilliant green of the pastures, Heath and Bit-O-Honey grazing, blue skies, bright sun, and fresh air. He knew the valleys and vales of McHuid’s like the back of his hand and realized how much this farm, which he thought he’d hated, had come to represent home.

Bright lights coming up the driveway disturbed the dark palette of his memories and made him turn. He saw a white SUV moving slowly toward him, and though he didn’t recognize the car, he knew who it was, and every cell in his body braced itself to be in her presence once again.

Cain raised his hand in greeting, and she rumbled to a stop. Praying she wouldn’t mow him down as he crossed in front of her car, he approached her window cautiously, peering inside, and making out her shadowed face.

She lowered the window, and suddenly, after three long years, her face was mere inches from his, and the subtle hint of lemons wafted from the warmth of her car as she raised her eyes to his.

“God,” he hissed as the window finished its descent. He didn’t know how he had expected to feel, but a sucker punch to the lungs about summed it up. He wanted to catch his breath, but he couldn’t, and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling so discomposed around a woman.

Her pink lips were plump and glossy, and her cheekbones high. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore glasses. But behind them her eyes were as deep and dark as they’d ever been, trained, with wariness, on Cain.

“Welcome home,” she said softly, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Her voice trembled lightly, and it was slightly deeper than it had been three years ago, but otherwise familiar to his ears.

He placed his hands on the windowsill. “Hey, princess.”

Her eyes widened, and her lips tilted up just a hair as she stared back at him, but he would have missed the small smile if he wasn’t watching carefully. Her face adjusted into a scowl a moment later. “Ginger’s good.”

“Yes, she is,” he agreed, smirking at her.

She shook her head, scoffing with annoyance as she broke eye contact with him. “Some things never change.”

Her words bothered him because Cain felt that he’d changed materially in the years he’d been away. “How d’you mean?”

“Still the shallow flirt, huh?”

He winced, lifting his hands and stepping away from her car, though he still held her eyes. He swiped at his lower lip with his thumb before putting his hands on his hips.

“Still mad, huh?” he volleyed back.

She reached up and took out the rubber band holding her ponytail, running her hands through her hair. Her movements hypnotized him, and he watched her greedily as she turned her neck to face him again.

“Just saw Woodman.” She blinked back tears, then lifted her chin. “Thanks for bringin’ him home.”

Cain shrugged. Here was common ground for them. Comfortable ground. “I’d do anythin’ for him.”

“Me too,” she said evenly, her eyes finally softening.

His hand reached out from his hip, and he realized it was headed for her cheek—to touch it, clasp it, feel its warm sweetness beneath his palm once again. He forced it to change direction at the last minute and flipped her side-view mirror up so he could see himself. He ran his hands through his stubbly hair like primping had been his object all along, then winked at her.

“How do I look?”

“Like you’re ready to raise Cain,” she snapped.

He chuckled, righting her mirror. “I’ve changed. My troublemakin’ days are behind me, darlin’. I protect and serve now.”