Page 35 of Then You Happened
It’s the singing.
It has to be the singing.
8
JACK
She moves like a force to be reckoned with. Stroke after measured stroke, she cuts through the water with a determination that is part admirable, part intimidating.
Standing on the edge of the deck, I watch her as the sun begins to set in the west, slowly painting the sky with oranges and pinks.
I came to ask her about Ruby’s feeding regimen and the breeding schedules that I couldn’t find in the stack of papers she handed over to me. Ever since Willow spooked this morning, though, she’s avoided me. Maybe I’ve done the same since singing isn’t something I share with most people, and Tate is now part of that small number.
Hell, I came here to ask her questions about doing my job, but all I want to do is watch her.
Now all I want to do is try to figure her out.
She does some kind of tuck when she hits the edge and pushes back through the water. I try to find something else to look at, but the rest of her backyard is sparse. There isn’t any patio furniture for entertaining or umbrellas for guests to gather under to beat the late afternoon Texas heat. Besides the pool, there is a barbecue that looks like it hasn’t been used in ages, a plastic chair that her towel is draped over, more flower pots filled with dead plants, and a dilapidated dog house that hasn’t seen a dog in a long time.
So, when I turn my attention back to her, I blame it on boredom instead of intrigue. Her movements are fluid and confident and natural. When she’s on the ranch and with the horses, she pretends to be just this sure of herself, but there is an underlying insecurity over whether she is doing the right thing. It’s slight but there, and I wonder what exactly that husband of hers did to her to cause it.
The question is why do I care?
Trust.
That’s what it all comes down to, and for the fucking life of me I’m not sure why I care so much if she trusts me . . . but I know that I hate that she doesn’t.
Feeling like an ass for standing here watching her, I take a step in retreat. But it’s the minute my back is turned that I hear the sound. The muffled scream beneath the water.
I whip back around, afraid for her safety, and spot her on the bottom of the far end of the pool as if she’s sitting there, body still. Each air bubble that breaks the surface releases part of her scream into the air around me.
Each one relieving only what I can assume is a tiny bit of her stress.
Each one helping to bring her slowly back to life.
Unsettled, I watch her when I know I need to leave. I tell myself that it isn’t my problem and that whatever she’s screaming about is because of something that happened way before I showed up here. That whatever she’s hurting from isn’t my fault.
“Not your place to care, Jack,” I mutter when every part of me wants to step forward and ask her why she’s sitting at the bottom of her pool screaming.
As I retreat, the sound carries with me.
The sound eats at me.
The sound all too familiar to the one that fell from my own lips when I found out my father had died and I wasn’t there. My scream that said I was too damn selfish to stop my own life and give in to his requests for me to come home and so all I was left with was to fulfill the promise I made him instead. My shout that expressed how I felt knowing I’d missed the chance to see him one last time and let him know that I loved him with everything I had.
I know that sense of loss that makes you want to scream until you lose your voice, and I’m not sure why I’m surprised to see it in Tatum Knox.
The woman has ice in her veins.
At least, I thought she did until I heard the cry for help in her screams.
9
TATE
The strength in his hand as he holds the reins. Each muscle defined. Each white scar highlighted by the light.
Click.
