Chapter Four

Hannah…

It’s not long before the field is filled with famous personalities, with Jason and Roarke in the center of it all. And the horses. Roarke has four magnificent stallions with him, their coats glistening with beauty. And as angry as I am with him, even I can admit there is something magical about that man and his horses. I send my team to the outer edges of the field, capturing the crowd and the panoramic views. I take the field, the close-ups, and do so despite my reservations about how close this places me to Roarke. He doesn’t get to push me into the shadows. I shoot the horses and resist my desire to touch them and talk to them. They’re in a crowd, and I don’t know their temperaments, but shooting them takes me home again, back to the ranch, back to that summer with Roarke.

Jessica begins testing a mic at the podium setup in the center of the field, and one of the horses is not pleased. I’m close, and I know what fidgeting like that means. “Roarke!” I shout, backing up, but he’s already there, pulling me behind him as he soothes the beast.

“Easy, Mr. Rogers.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t still feeling the sting of his touch, and “sting” is a loosely chosen word. It doesn’t sting. It’s more like a tingling warmth that has spread up my arm and across my chest and might now be climbing my neck. The horse jumps in the air, and my God, Roarke gets close, too close for comfort. I shake myself and pull my camera into position, trying to stave off my fear for him by way of staying busy. The camera becomes my outlet, and with it, the shots are incredible. Roarke works the horse, and Mr. Rogers settles down. Two men who I assume work for Roarke rush forward, feed Mr. Rogers a carrot, and then lead him toward an exit. The crowd erupts in cheers. I lower my camera, and Roarke isn’t looking at his admirers. He’s focused on me, quickly closing the space between us, and then his hands are on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

No, I’m burning alive with your hands on me, I think, but what I say is, “Outside of you scaring me? Screw this Horse Wrangler junk, Roarke. You got too close. He could have killed you with one kick.”

“You of all people know I know how to handle a horse.”

“I know a lot of things about you, Roarke,” I say, and I can’t stop the crack of a whip in my voice. “Too much.”

His hands fall away, his jaw sets hard. “Not as much as you think.” He steps around me and walks toward the podium. Clapping erupts again, and I rotate to watch him raise his hand to acknowledge the crowd, my camera automatically lifting, the shots coming fast and furious, but even so, his words stay with me: Not as much as you think. Asshole. I get that. I found that out. I thought he was the greatest man I’d ever known. That’s what young love does to you. It makes you stupid and romantic. I’m not that girl anymore.

Jessica tries the microphone again but not without checking with Jason first. Once he waves her onward, she announces Jason, who joins her, now wearing his team jersey. “Welcome, everyone. I can’t wait to talk about a very special kids camp, and who knew Mr. Rogers—that’s the horse—would have allowed me to show you why this is so special?” He motions to Roarke, and Roarke joins him. “Did you see how calm this man was, how cool? Well, let me tell you, those are the batters who every pitcher, myself included, hates to face. Those are the pitchers who batters fear. Together, Roarke and I are going to teach these kids how to focus, how to stay calm, how to embrace the moment instead of fearing it. Skills that reach beyond the baseball field. And yes, we’ll have some animals on board to help, with supervision, of course.” He pats Roarke’s arm. “This man is more than the Horse Wrangler. He’s an amazing vet, with a zoo of animals the kids can enjoy.”

My mind travels through a history of witnessing that man save animals, and it’s one of the things I always loved about him. It’s one of the things that made him seem too good to be as bad as he was to me. I shake off that thought, and for the next two hours, I follow the event and take photographs, checking in with my team and staying busy. There are occasional brushes with Roarke, but for the most part, we keep our distance. Until we can’t.

The crowd begins to dissipate, and Jessica catches up with me. “Do you need any shots of the group together?”

“I got plenty,” I say. “I got some incredible action shots outside with Jason and Roarke.”

“Let’s get Roarke and the horse and then game-plan on what you need for Jason. We need to get the horses off the field.” She waves at Roarke. “Roarke!”

Roarke looks up from a conversation he’s having with a man I don’t know and waves back before saying something to the stranger and heading this direction. “What’s up?” he asks, joining us, and while I can feel his eyes on me, I stay focused on Jessica.

“We need to get some shots of you riding and training the horses. I’m about to clear the field for you and Hannah. I’m going to let you two talk it out while I handle the clearing.”

Roarke gives her an incline of his chin, and she squeezes my arm before hurrying away. Roarke shifts his stance to give me his full attention. Now I have to look at him, and the impact is pretty much like a wrecking ball. This man’s stare slams into me, and I can barely catch my breath. “I’m all yours, Hannah,” he says softly.

It’s the wrong thing to say to me. “For now,” I reply and motion to the horses. “I need you riding whatever pretty thing over there you want to ride.”

He grimaces. “Hannah—”

“Don’t say whatever you want to say,” I warn. “It will piss me off, and I’m not as gently pissed off as I was back in the day when you initially pissed me off. Go ride, Roarke.”

He doesn’t go do anything. He just stands there, staring at me. I think he’s going to speak. I want him to speak. I want him to yell and give me a reason to yell, but that’s a safe fantasy because that’s not Roarke. Roarke is Mr. Cool and Calm. That’s who he is, and clearly, that hasn’t changed since I left. I used to like that about him. I used to think it spoke of a man in control, a man who couldn’t have his buttons pushed by anyone. Now, it’s irritating. I want him to react. I shouldn’t, but I do, and I tell myself that’s called being human. It’s also called looking for self-worth in a man, and that’s a problem. And if he stands here one more second, I’m going to say something we both might regret.

Almost as if he read my mind, he turns on his heels, and I ready my camera, which may or may not have the lens land on his butt. I may or may not notice through said lens that said butt still looks perfect in jeans. Okay, I do, but it’s a fashion thing, from the fashion industry now inbred in me. I must assess how clothing looks and fits. The butt, and the man attached to that butt, stops beside a black stallion with a gorgeous mane. He reaches up and strokes the stallion’s neck, all long and luxuriously, something he does in the intro to his videos, not that I watched more than a couple here or there. I wonder how many women—not me, of course—have seen that intro and thought about him stroking them. At least they weren’t stupid enough to let him actually do it, like I did.

He climbs onto the horse’s back, and I fire away with the camera, but not without a pinch in my chest at the memories of my youth that man on a horse delivers. God. This isn’t home. Dallas isn’t home, but this man, he is home. He was a part of my life from birth until I left for L.A. Shoving aside such thoughts, I race forward and lift my hand, motioning with my finger for him to ride. He waits on me, and when I’m close enough to run with him, he begins a trot—that’s how easily we’re in sync. We begin what is a game of him performing with the horse and me following along, lines, circles, prances, and poses, until I send him on a fast run away from me to return. Once he loops back, I step directly in his path, gobbling up every moment with my camera. I don’t even realize how in his path I am until, suddenly, he and the horse are right in front of me, but I don’t get run over.

The horse, at the man’s direction, bows in front of me, bringing Roarke eye level with me. I’m standing there with two magnificent beasts in front of me. My eyes meet Roarke’s, and I see the message in the depths of those brown eyes that I know so well. This is the apology I wouldn’t listen to earlier. The problem is that I can forgive, but I can’t forget.