3

Dutton raced away from her because nobody had ever seen him tear up. Not when Dad died. At six, he had been old enough to know grief. Not when Mom stuck his seven-year-old self on a plane to New Hampshire. Not when Gramps called Mom names and raged war for custody. Not when Dutton’s financial world had tumbled down.

Not even Chelsea herself when they’d parted, and she’d taken the best piece of him—.

Her family, her ranch, her God. Oh, Dutton should have run after her then, like he was trying now. Should have written, called, emailed, texted, whatever, these past three years. Years both tumultuous and empty at the same time.

Oh, well. The morning had warmed enough to calm him. At least they had three days together. Close quarters even with the wide sky overhead. She’d said it herself.

Beneath him, the sturdy paint Amigo trotted so easily they might have been friends for years. Above him, a blue he’d never seen in the atmosphere before almost had his eyes ache. Giant clumps of white clouds moved so fast and so close he could almost touch them when he reached up.

Next to him, the meadow bisected by a creek was crammed full of every petal and color, stuffed with native grass and tall green spiky plants. Here and there a tree. No doubt Chelsea knew the name and genus of every single one. He recognized a cottonwood. Unbidden, a memory flashed, a memory of him pretending to sleep in a Sussex garden while she drew flowers. His slitted lids letting in visions of her long, red, unruly curls flowing down her back, her deft hands showing hard work, talent and femininity all at once. Now, like then, he raised his hand to touch that hair, meeting only air. He shook away the memory and nudged Amigo faster, forcing his eyes to the green hills dashed with tan that ran up the mountainsides.

The mountains, though, they were high and cold. A place where Chelsea’s God must live. She’d said something once or twice about the Ten Commandments on Mount Something or other, and the ark full of animals that got stuck on another mountain. So Dutton felt sure God didn’t live among regular folks in the down-below. He’d taken her advice, reached out, and found nothing. And he sure had arms long enough. He’d burrowed his surf board out of enough thirty foot waves to know for sure.

He slowed Amigo, knowing the horse respected him as much as he did the paint gelding. Oh, he’d ridden waves most of his life, but today, he felt the bond with Amigo. The special rapport when a horse trusts his rider, the harmony built from that instinctual trust—even a trail horse raised and trained for the most hapless, novice tourist.

Dutton might be good at riding waves and horses, but he was hapless in love, a novice in family. Coming here, seeing Chelsea again, might have been a mistake except that he wasn’t ready for another cold, lonely summer. And he wasn’t about live a cold, lonely life. He’d long felt an invisible bond with her that stretched and pulled and never came apart. Deep down he longed for her and whatever she had.

Ahead of him, Shadow Ridge. Ah. Pictures from the Hearts Crossing website and brochures morphed to life in front of his eyes. He couldn’t help a sigh at the welcome suddenly surrounding him. Maybe he was right to come. Across the bluff, ponderosa pines trees spired upward, alder and aspen trees, thirty, forty feet tall all but pounded the clouds. He grinned, recalling the website also had a page that identified native trees and local wildlife. Chelsea’s idea no doubt. Maybe he ought to do some homework and impress her. Birdsong merged with the whispers of the stream tumbling next to the trail.

Water. White noise. Not quite the ocean, but comforting enough.

Not far ahead, he saw a group of big boulders on the edge of a clearing set with rustic picnic tables and benches, and some portable furniture as well. A middle-aged woman, her long flowing skirt woven from a hundred shades of blue, dug around the chuck wagon.

“Need some help?” he called out.

“Welcome, rider.” The wind tossed the woman’s long, pewter-colored hair across her face, and she brushed it away with bare, un-manicured nails. “If you’re a fire starter, you can get the coals going.” She pointed to an ancient grill, and her big bright smile drew him in. “I’m Snowy September, at your service.”

“Dutton Morse, at your service.” He laughed out loud as he dismounted. “You sound like a weather condition.”

“Long story best saved for another day.” She chuckled. “Suffice it to say our son had the good sense to marry a daughter of Hearts Crossing, so here I am in my golden years, finally settled down. And what a place to settle.” She waved her arms wide. “Grandkids to boot.”

“You’re very lucky,” Dutton said softly, knowing he’d blown it before and, for some reason, had been given a second chance. His gaze ran up and down the mountains.

Regret prickled his spine as he tethered Amigo at a nearby hitching post. He’d blown it before he started, felt it deep in his bones. Revealing to Chelsea his further loss of God couldn’t have happened at a worse time. How in the world had he ever imagined a girl like Chelsea taking him on? Taking him back?

He shook his head. The odd-named woman pointed with enthusiasm, brought him back to where he wanted to be—near Chelsea.

“You get the coals going and then help me slice tomatoes,” she ordered, and he grinned. Her weathered face couldn’t have been more different from his tightly wound mother who once kept her plastic surgeon on speed dial. His heart tugged, hoping she was doing well. Snowy gave him a hug to send him along, and he almost melted.

“Your first wagon train?” she asked over the breeze, drawing a long thin knife to split hamburger buns. “We do have repeat visitors, and I don’t recognize you as a Hearts Crossing hand. Although….” She gave him a motherly once-over. “You could be.”

“Yeah. I’m...an old friend of Chelsea’s. I remember her talking about these adventures. I’m in the area on business and…” He shrugged.

“An old friend?” Snowy pursed her lips over the word and held the knife up like an exclamation point. “Your cheeks are red beneath that tan, young man. More than this breeze would do. I’ll bet you and she are something more. Bet you had a spat a while back, and you ran off.”

“Aw, you’re right, Snowy. We had a…thing once. I’m not sure she likes me showing up here.”

“Aha. A thing. So you came to get her back.”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. Of course he had. He’d even told Chelsea so. He did have Gramps’s business, but as Dutton squirted more lighter fluid over the coals, he reminded himself the land was his and his alone. He should do what he wanted with it. Saying he’d tied in the wagon train trip because he was in Colorado anyway hadn’t been the truth. The interview had been the excuse for something he should have done a long time ago. Come to Hearts Crossing for Chelsea.

Except, he reminded himself, Chelsea hadn’t wanted him in her life. He groaned, pretended he’d burned his finger. Snowy looked up, but he didn’t meet her gaze. He’d ruined it for good, reminding Chelsea again of his lack of faith. The loss swamped his shoulders, the aloneness that always seemed a part of him.

The loss of love, faith, and family.

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Snowy said as she piled slices of onion and beefsteak onto a burlwood platter. “Sometimes, you just can’t convince it otherwise.”

She came over to put her arm around his shoulder. The gesture was nothing he’d ever gotten from his own mother. Just like he had sensed with Amigo, he knew he could trust this woman. “Tell me.”

“We were in love with each other. When Chelsea studied in England. I know we could have had something together. She…” As he hesitated, Snowy plunked him down on a bench. “She comes from all this, though.” Dutton waved his hand over the landscape, the singing meadow. The rising mountains, and humming creek. “I…got sent across the country every couple of months. My dad died young, and his father—Gramps—and my mother battled for custody of me. Gramps had a lot of money and clout, likes to get his way and doesn’t like her. A real bulldog. Gramps lives on the beach in California; she had a penthouse in New York City.”

“Must have been wretched, darlin’.” Her fingers warmed his. “But scars can strengthen and thicken skin.”

Dutton shrugged. “I guess. When I took up competitive surfing, Mom finally let Gramps have me most of the time. That was almost worse. Lots of travel and never four real walls. You know?” He looked into sweet, understanding eyes.

“Matter of fact, I do know, Dutton. But the heart makes its own home. I followed my man all over the world. He didn’t want walls. Until now. Finally, the past caught up, and we decided we wanted a better future. We built a house, took vows. We hadn’t been fair to our son, either. There’s still time.”

He shook his head. “My dad’s been gone for a long time. Mom’s in...has health issues. And I was mostly a pawn, you know. With her and Gramps.”

Snowy gathered him close. “My condolences, darlin’. But I meant with Chelsea. Don’t ever give up on love.”

Dutton swallowed hard. “It’s not that easy. Me and God. It just doesn’t work. And her faith is part of her.”

“Ah. I understand. All of us Easterdays, despite our name, well, we followed whatever religious drummer we heard. Until we got to Hearts Crossing. God and His Son Jesus wiggled into our lives and souls almost without us knowing. Give Him a chance, too.”

Dutton wanted to protest because he had already tried, but past a screen of aspen, he could see a rider coming up. Black Stetson and flying red hair. His heart both sank and swelled. Chelsea.

Snowy got to her feet. “Welcome, rider,” she yelled.

“Hello, camp.” The voice sweetest to Dutton’s ears floated across the late morning sunshine.

In a quick motherly way, Snowy wrapped her arms around him again. “Don’t give up. And if I might be so bold, say your prayers.”

Dutton might have tried prayer, one more time, except his gaze landed on Chelsea, hair ablaze atop that matching red horse. His mind emptied of almost everything but her as Snowy’s words played a silent refrain in his head.

Don’t give up on love. Give Him a chance, too.