Cross Your Heart

1

“Dutton? What on earth are you doing here?”

Dutton Morse fought for breath at the sound of his name. Chelsea. Chelsea at last. She stood motionless at the front porch of her family’s big ranch house, the mountain breeze tussling her long hair and chilling his shoulders. But her voice warmed him through.

Walking toward her, however, Dutton lowered his gaze, not liking the whiteness of her face against her black Stetson and dark red hair. The wide eyes almost wild, body tense against the porch post. Well, she was beautiful no matter what, and the sight was sure better than the pale, tear-streaked cheeks he’d left behind three years ago. Better because, then, he was walking away. This time, he was coming back. Things in his life had changed. He had to let her know.

A flash of guilt flickered. Well, he wasn’t about to let her know everything. Not yet. She wasn’t the entire reason he was here, but he had to take full advantage of her presence while doing Gramps’s errand. He walked faster.

“I’m here to take a Hearts Crossing wagon train adventure,” he said in the same easy voice he’d used years ago as the unofficial “tour director” of their little group’s hobble across Europe. Right now, he ached to reach for her. Instead, he forced into his pocket the hand that, back then, had taken hers for the first time while crossing the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. Dutton ran his tongue over his mouth as if tasting once again their first kiss in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

Hoped against hope his playful tone at this moment would make her smile. “Come on,” he urged. “You always said how much fun a wagon train is.”

Clearing her throat, she scraped the toes of her boots across the dusty gravel. “It will be. Welcome.” Finally, she looked him straight in the face.

“Chelsea…” Even he heard the plea in his voice. Didn’t she long for him to reach for her? Surely she’d imagined a moment just like this. Them back together.

“You’re a surfer,” she blurted. “What are you doing wearing a Stetson?”

“Aw, I just bought it in your mom’s gift shop.” He held out his other hand, and as though she weren’t really thinking, she placed hers in it. And there was a jolt, no denying. Without really thinking himself, he pulled her against him. Not an embrace. Just a hug like long lost friends did. Her arm was between them anyway. Her hat knocked to the ground, and for a second, he rested his chin in the old wonderful way against the top of her head. Her hair smelled like same peaches it had before.

Then, she stepped back and bent down to retrieve her hat. Her fingers moved restless against it to wipe away any dust, but her troubled gaze was firm and direct. “Answer me, Dutton. What are you doing here now?”

“I’ve changed, baby.”

“Don’t call me that.” She bristled. “Answer me.”

“Can we sit and talk for a minute?”

“No. You need to listen to my brother’s orientation. He’s the wagon master. Maybe then you can tell me what you’re really doing here.”

“I already said—”

“I sorry I can’t believe you. Summer is when you yacht somewhere with your mother. Or, I don’t know. Hunt down the next big wave.”

“Those days are gone.” He almost felt weak at the loss, wished he could lean against her for support. “No more yacht.” Her eyes widened again, in the motionless shock of a minute ago. “No more surfing. No more sail boat. No more trust fund.”

“Wha—” she started, but he rushed on.

“Honest. That Wall Street Ponzi mess? There it went. “ He shook his head, a colder breeze rushing down his collar. His late father’s fortune, his mother’s generous pre-nup support. Life as he knew it. All gone.

“Dutton, I—” She reached for his hand and let out a deep breath. “Maybe we should sit down.” Holding tight, he led her to a rough-hewn bench against the bunkhouse wall. They sat, not touching other than fingers still knit together.

“But your grandfather’s oil company?”

Dutton shrugged so he didn’t shudder. “Gramps merged with Charisma Oil eighteen months ago. Everything went down in flames when that rig exploded off Rio. The lawsuits and settlements. Fines. Fees. Investors gone just like that.”

But there was hope. There was always drilling and fracking and oil shale somewhere like Colorado. He didn’t say the words out loud. The lawyers and planners had managed to find five hundred acres near the Idaho border entailed to Dutton upon his birth. And Dutton owed it to the broken old man to find something useful there.

“I’m so sorry. But at least nobody died.” Her lips tightened, though. Prim.

Without her speaking one syllable, he heard her sorrow about those awful months of ecological destruction.

“That spill was a terrible thing. You OK?”

“More than OK,” he said, but he didn’t mean it, not entirely. His mom’s current stint in rehab cost money nobody had, and his grandfather had long despised her as a gold-digger. Well, Gramps had proven right. Truth was, she wasn’t easy to love, but she was his mom, and he loved her no matter. Chelsea knew all about his childhood fraught with its custodial drama after the car crash that had killed his father and grandmother. Knew all about his longing for a real family. He might as well let her in on most of the last three years. “I sold my sailboat to pay tuition to finish my MBA. After graduation, I went to the Big Island of Hawaii and worked for a surf clothing corporation. Every time I drove by Parker Ranch, I, well...you came to mind.”

“Me? Because I’m a paniola?” Her face brightened, fingers tightened.

“No.” He had to hold back his feelings but be honest as well. “No. Because you’re you.” He tried to relax against the hard back of the bench, but their clasping hands made it impossible. “Thought of you every day.”

Her blush made him crazy. Reminded him of how she’d looked after their first kiss.

“So how’s business?” She broke the moment but kept their hands intact.

“Aw, even selling online, the company folded. Too much competition. I’m actually here in Colorado. For good.” Well, maybe.

“Why here? Your grandfather’s in Malibu. Your mom, the Upper West Side.”

His throat tightened. “Mother’s in rehab.”

“Ouch.” Chelsea grimaced. “Dutton, I’m so sorry.”

He held tight as he wiggled away the sting of her neglect. “Looking back, we should have seen the signs. But she’ll be all right.”

In time he’d tell her of his true errand, finding out how profitable horizontal drilling might be on those five hundred acres, but right now Dutton didn’t have the heart. Then, she gave him a half-smile and squeezed the hand she hadn’t let go. “But how…I mean, I’m just surprised you’re here. Without even a text or an email.”

Should he tell her about countless times he’d stopped himself from hitting send on a keyboard? Would he sound weak and needy? But some of the truth was in order. “After the explosion, when all was said and done with Gramps’s lawyers, I’ve got some land of my own near the Colorado-Idaho border.”

“Colorado? You’re kidding.” Her eyes widened like blue moons.

“Nope. Big surprise to me, too.”

“A lot of land?”

“Five hundred acres set up by my grandma. Nothing as grand as Hearts Crossing Ranch.”

“Well, what do you plan to do?” Chelsea finally released his hand. He breathed deep, taking in her slow movement, feeling cold without her warmth. Nobody said it would be easy getting her back, but he had to hope she wouldn’t let him go. “Sell? Ranch?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he hedged, swallowed guilt. “I’m on my way there now, after, you know, this little vacation stop here at Hearts Crossing. The land’s got a lot of potential.” And he had thought about it. To Gramps’s disapproval.

His words set some kind of spark. “Well, do good, whatever you do. I just finished an internship, part of which dealt with the impact of development on wild lands.”

“I know,” he admitted. .

“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed.

“I keep up. I check out the Hearts Crossing website.” Had since Day One. “I get the e-mail newsletter. And I’m a Hearts Crossing fan on Facebook.”

For a moment, he thought she shuddered, but her smile was real. “I sure hope you’re not stalking me,” she said, voice light.

“Nope. But I did come to get you back.”

“Oh, Dutton.” She frowned and stood. “You said this was a pit stop on your way to your land. Don’t be silly. I was never yours to get back. We want completely different things.”

“I’ve changed, Chels.”

She gripped his forearm. “It’s over. We were good together when I was homesick. When you led all of us around Europe.”

That magic trip. Of course he remembered. “Chels, we were in love. You said so yourself.” The only time in his twenty six years anybody had told him those three wonderful words.

She flushed. “Maybe then. But not the real kind. It was just Paris. I mean, that’s what you do, what you feel, what you say, in Paris. Besides, sometimes love isn’t enough to fix things.”

And you have a lot to fix. He heard her words again, and heat swam in his veins. Well, he’d done his part since then, pulling up the boot straps. He didn’t just long for her. He ached for a family, something else he’d never had. And she’d had a whole grand mess of one.

“Now, I’ve got things to do,” she rushed before he could get a word in edgewise. “And so do you. You need to go listen to your wagon master.” She gestured to the modern-day Conestogas parked along the gravel drive. “I’ll be wrangling on the wagon train, so of course, we’ll be seeing each other a lot because it’s close quarters, and I can’t help it for the next three days. I want you to have fun, and I truly wish you well. But that’s all.” She placed her hands on her hips. “And I mean it, Dutton.”

She walked away, and his heart both broke and healed. She just said it herself. They’d be seeing each other. A lot.

Close quarters for three whole days.