Unbroken (3 page)

It was just dire.

She shuffled to the coffeemaker and picked up the carafe. Thankfully, it was on a timer, so she didn't have to worry about making it while she was this bleary. She always tried to wake up before her grandpa, which meant getting up before the sun, so that she could bring him coffee and breakfast and get him set for the day before she went off to wait on strangers.

Waiting on her grandpa was definitely preferable.

She loved the old man more than anyone else. Except for maybe Cade.

She moved to the stove and fired up the gas range. The pan was greased and waiting for her already. Her grandfather was a man of habits.

Every morning she made him whole wheat toast, two fried eggs, hash browns—pre-shredded at the beginning of the week because she was not doing that at five thirty a.m.—and two strips of bacon.

Amber didn't indulge in quite the lumberjack breakfast he did. Though he didn't seem to have suffered for it. He was still lean as could be, though he had definitely aged since she'd first arrived.

He'd been old from the first moment she'd met him.

Fourteen, angry, terrified. Because she'd been uprooted, not just from the home she was living in—that was normal—but from her city, from the people she'd called friends.

Taken from Portland and brought out to the little pile of bricks rising out of the wilderness known as Silver Creek.

At first, she'd wanted to get sent back. Back to where she had access to her friends. To drugs and alcohol and all of the crutches she'd been using to deal with the pain in her life.

So she'd done her best to make them hate her too. Since she was sure it would happen anyway. Like her mother had. Like every foster family had from the moment she'd darkened their door. Angry, sullen . . . crazy, as one foster mom had called her.

But her grandparents hadn't let her do it.

In their mid-sixties, wrinkled and gray, the oldest people she'd ever been exposed to, they'd also been the toughest. They'd expected her to work. To collect eggs. To be home when they said and to dress like they told her.

And they'd never, ever given up on her. They'd opened their home up to her. They'd given her their name.

Eventually she'd stopped trying to get sent away. Eventually, she'd decided to pour everything into being the best granddaughter she could be, because they'd given up their quiet, drama-free years to deal with the child their wayward son had never even met.

Their love, and Cade's friendship, was the thing that had pulled her off the path to what would have probably been an early grave, and she couldn't even begin to show the full depth of her gratitude.

Though bacon-making was a nice, physical representation of that gratitude. As was getting up before dawn to make breakfast, and working extra shifts to make sure the ranch didn't get seized by the government or a bank or something.

She would never allow that to happen. This was her home. The only place that had ever felt like home. The only place she'd lived for longer than a couple of months.

Sixteen years of her life had been spent here, and she wasn't going to let anyone else take it.

She hummed while she prepared breakfast and did her best not to think about the bills. Then she piled all the food onto a plate and set it on the table just as her grandpa walked in.

His gait had slowed, and his brain didn't quite hold on to everything the way it once had, but he still got up and about. Still made sure he walked around the property and checked on everything.

They didn't have much beyond a small vegetable patch and some chickens anymore, but it was still her grandpa's pride and joy.

“Morning,” she said, going back over to the stove to retrieve her egg, toast and coffee.

He sat slowly, a smile on his face as he surveyed the food she'd laid out for him. “Morning,” he said, his hand trembling as he raised his coffee cup to his lips.

“I've got an early shift today,” she said. “And I probably won't be home until late. You think you'll be okay?”

He put his cup down and waved his hand. “You know I'm fine. You act like a worried hen. Just like your grandma.”

“Well, I can't help it,” she said, sitting in her spot across from him. “I need to make sure you don't feel like I'm abandoning you out here while I work.”

“The other option is putting me in a home,” he said. “And I'd rather be alone than deal with scheduled board game nights.”

She laughed. He might be slowing down a little bit, but Ray Jameson still had the same curmudgeonly sparkle Amber had always found so endearing. He was a gruff old guy, but she liked that.

“Like being in hell, I'm sure,” she said.

“They do that, uh . . . what do you call the thing where they sing to the lyrics?”

“Karaoke.”

“Yeah, they do that at those places.”

“It makes a good case for not going there,” she said, dragging her toast through her runny yolk and taking a bite.

“I'm old and wise,” he said.

“Yes, you are.”

There was a knock on the front door. Amber jumped in her chair and looked out the window. The sun was just starting to rise above the ridge of the mountains, a golden line illuminating the tops of the dark green trees. The air was still blue, night hanging on until the bitter end.

And no one should be knocking on the door just yet.

“I'll get it,” she said, walking out of the kitchen and into the little entryway.

She looked out the top window of the door and saw a man's brown hair, and nothing else. She knew it wasn't Cade because he would call before coming over. At this hour at least.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and opened the door.

The man standing on the step was about her age, tall and decent-looking, a cowboy hat in his hand and a smile on his face.

She distrusted him. Instantly.

Mostly because not trusting someone was her default setting until they proved she had reason to do otherwise. But also because he was at the door at six in the morning, and he was smiling.

She just hoped he wasn't from the IRS.

“Can I help you?” she asked, putting a hand on her hip and mentally calculating the location of the nearest rifle in the house.

“Sorry to come by so early,” he said.

“Then why did you?” she asked.

She'd never been one to play games. She wasn't shy, bashful or easily shamed. And she would happily take the upper hand of this situation, thank you very much.

He, whoever he was, no doubt thought that showing up to do his business early and unexpectedly would put her on the wrong foot.

Too bad for him, that wasn't possible with her.

“I was given the impression, by Ray Jameson, that it would be all right. This is Ray Jameson's place?”

She felt her hackles lower a bit. “Uh. Yes. May I ask what your business is here and who you are?”

“Jim Davis.” His name rang some bells, but she couldn't quite place him. Not this early. Two cups of coffee would be required before she was feeling that sharp. “I spoke to the bank earlier this week about the standing of Ray's loan.”

“Why the hell was the bank giving you information on my grandfather's loan?”

“I'm an investor. Well, part-time, anyway.”

“What are you the other part of the time?” she asked, leaning into the doorframe, making sure that he knew he wasn't welcome inside—not just yet.

“A cowboy,” he said.

She could have rolled her eyes. “Interesting. Now what are you doing here?”

“You the typical welcome committee?” he asked, obviously getting annoyed with her now.

“Yessir, I am. If you've got a problem with that? I don't have a comment card for you to fill out, so it's just too damn bad. State your business.”

“I'd rather speak to Ray.”

“I'm the executor of Ray's estate,” she said.

Once she'd discovered her grandfather's forgetfulness with the taxes and several other bills, she'd gone and handled all that so that she could take care of all of the finer details of his life.

“Then you're the person I want to see,” he said, smile broadening.

“I thought I might be.”

She still didn't give an inch, still kept him on the porch.

She had a good sense for people. She'd been exposed to a lot of them growing up. And most of them hadn't wanted anything good, in her experience. People in general wanted to use you to elevate them. That was about it.

Cynical, maybe, but she was better insulated against douche bags than most.

“I'm here to make an offer on the ranch,” he said.

“What?”

“I want to offer on the ranch. The bank said you'd been in default, and that there were some other issues . . .”

“They had no right to disclose that information!”

“Regardless, I'd like to help out.”

“Mr. Davis, nobody just wants to help out. Everybody wants something, and it isn't to help. So you want to buy all this?” she said, looking around.

“I do.”

“Well, too damn bad. I don't want to sell it.”

“You haven't heard what I'm offering.”

She thought of the bills on the counter, and all of the stress. And then she thought of what it had always meant to come back to this place.

“Doesn't matter.”

“You say that because you have no idea what you're turning down.”

“You could be offering me magic beans and a goose that lays gold freakin' eggs and I wouldn't say yes. This is our home. Our legacy. We aren't going to sell.”

“Did I step into a heartwarming family film when I wasn't looking?” he asked, arching a dark brow.

“Nope. You just stepped onto my porch. Now step off. We don't need any more visits from you. Okay. Thanks, bye.”

She shut the door and bolted it, then went back into the kitchen.

“Who was that?” her grandpa asked.

“Damn vacuum cleaner salesman,” she said.

“Did you tell him we didn't want any?”

“I told him we had a vacuum that worked just fine.” Their vacuum was possibly older than Amber, but her grandma had always insisted that nothing new was made as good as the old, reliable appliances that were made out of solid hunks of metal.

If it had really been a vacuum cleaner salesman she probably would have taken what he had on offer. She could really use an eight pound wonder instead of that forty pound beast that always sounded like it had just sucked up a cat.

“I thought maybe it was a boyfriend of yours,” her grandpa said.

She rolled her eyes and pulled her purse and sweater off of the counter. “I don't have time for boyfriends.”

“I wish you did.”

She leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I know you do. But trust me, I don't.”

“And when I die, who's going to take care of you?” he asked, his tone gruff as ever, but with tenderness running beneath it.

“I'm going to take care of me,” she said. “But you're not allowed to die,” she said, her throat getting tight, “for at least another thirty years.”

“I'll be eating bacon from a tube by then. Best you let me go before that.”

“It's too early to be this morbid,” she said. “And I have tables to wait. So if you'll excuse me . . .”

“Have a nice day.”

“I will,” she said.

She dug her keys out of her purse before she went outside, just in case Mr. Jim Davis was still loitering. Happily, he wasn't.

Then she got into the truck and started it. And her thoughts shot to Cade. Maybe because they'd just ridden together last night, and maybe because when he'd stumbled out of the truck last night at his house, something in her stomach had tugged hard, low and tight.

Because she knew he wasn't in a good space, and she hated that.

And part of her had felt like maybe she should follow him in and hang out for a while, but . . . early morning and waiting tables and all.

She took a deep breath and shot him a quick
good morning, how ya doin?
text before throwing the truck into reverse and heading out toward town.

In spite of the weird start, she hoped the day would end up being normal.

Three

The lunchtime rush was just starting to slow when Cade
walked into Delia's and spotted Amber, rushing around between tables.

She hostessed during the dinner hour, when they opened up the back of the building, but during the day she just ran herself off her feet serving three-egg breakfasts and giant burgers.

He seated himself on the red, glittery, vinyl-covered bar stools at the formica counter and waited.

“I'm here to see Amber,” he said, when one of the other waitresses paused near him.

She smiled and winked. “Sure, Cade, she'll only be a minute.”

Everyone knew that he and Amber were best friends. He had a feeling a lot of people misconstrued the nature of their relationship, and he couldn't exactly blame them. He and Amber had both cultivated a bit of reputation around town, and even though both of them had calmed down considerably since their teenage years, they'd earned the label of town hellions, and they'd done it with style.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Amber standing there. “What's your poison, handsome?”

“Burger. You don't happen to have buffalo burger, do you?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. And you know we don't.”

“It's better for you.”

“And that matters to you?” she asked.

He patted his stomach, which was flat and hard thanks to the workouts he did to keep the muscles in his back as strong as possible. He'd always been into fitness. A strong core was essential to keeping your ass on a horse. But he'd had to really work at it since his accident.

It was the only thing that kept him mobile. If he put on weight and didn't have the muscle tone to support himself, there would be no getting around at all.

“I'm a total health nut,” he said. “Now bring me a beer, extra french fries and a hamburger.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you sure they didn't hollow out your leg during one of your surgeries?”

“Pretty sure all they did was leave a bunch of metal behind.”

“Well, either way, I'll get your food. Just a second.”

“Do you have a break coming up?”

The bell above the door sounded and they both turned as a group of people walked in. “Probably not. I'll just end up eating a sandwich over the counter in the back.”

“They have to give you a break,” he said.

“I know, but I need the tips. I don't want to skip a table. And if you stiff me, Mitchell, so help me, I'll stab your thigh with a butter knife.”

“I'm not going to stiff you,” he said, watching her walk to the door to greet the large party that had just come in. He turned back to the counter, his stomach growling.

It smelled like griddle grease, bacon and beef in here, and he was starving.

The bell above the door sounded again, and a man walked in wearing a cowboy hat. A man that Cade knew.

He slid off the stool and stood. “Jim,” he said, just loud enough to get his former competitor's attention.

Jim saw him and his expression shifted from flat to a wide smile. “Cade Mitchell.” He walked over to the counter and extended his hand. “How you been?”

“I lean slightly to the left now, but other than that, pretty good.”

“You seem to have recovered pretty well.”

“Yeah. Pretty well.” In that permanently damaged way. “You eating?”

“Hell yeah.” He sat on the stool next to Cade and put his hat on the counter.

“Great.”

“Actually, it's interesting I ran into you.”

“Is it?” Cade asked.

“Yeah. I'm moving to town. Or rather, I'm looking into it.”

“Really?” Cade had never had a lot of thoughts about Jim Davis one way or the other. He was fierce competition, that was for sure. But he was quiet, and he'd always been respectful.

He didn't have that brash swagger that Quinn Parker—and in truth that undoubtedly Cade himself—possessed.

Cade had always liked him in a passive way. As much as you could like the guy you were trying to beat at everything.

“Yes, really. Thinking of starting a ranch.”

“Is there any land for sale?” Cade asked.

“Not at the moment. But something's bound to come up.”

Amber came back just then with a basket of fries and a bottle of beer. She froze when she saw Jim. “Hi there,” she said, blinking rapidly. Then she turned to Cade and offered him a look that held a thousand words. Not necessarily words that Cade could easily translate, but they were there for sure.

“This is Jim Davis,” he said. “We used to compete on the circuit.”

“Jim . . . oh,” she said. “That's why I recognized you earlier.”

“Earlier?”

“Yeah . . . Jim came by to pay me a visit this morning,” she said.

“I did. And I'm actually here to pay you a visit too.”

Amber's dark brows shot upward. “How did you find out where I worked?”

“Just did a little asking around.”

Everything in Cade stood up, took notice, and got ready to bust skulls. He didn't like this. Didn't like that Jim was here and nosing around Amber. And he especially didn't like the stiff line in Amber's neck.

He knew her as well as he knew himself. Probably he was actually better in touch with her emotions than his own, if he were honest.

“Who have you been asking?” Amber asked, her voice brittle.

“Not a big deal, darlin',” he said. “I wouldn't worry about it.”

“Did he just ‘darlin'' me?” she asked Cade.

Jim continued as if she hadn't spoke, and Cade's passive liking of the other man started a rapid descent into active disliking. “I'm willing to buy you out for half a million.”

Amber about got whiplash. “Are you kidding me? What the hell kind of lowball offer is that? And no.”

“I have to warn you, baby, I don't take no very well.”

She looked at Cade. “Did he ‘baby
'
me?”

“I'm going to keep asking,” Jim said.

“You're going to get tired of me real quick,” she said, crossing her arms under her breasts.

He looked her up and down. “I doubt that.”

“Hey,” Cade said, standing and putting his arm around her waist before he could fully think the action through, “she said she didn't want to talk about it. We aren't talking about it. And if she tells me that you're bothering her, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

“Thank you, Cade,” she said stiffly. “I have to go and get your burger.” She turned to Jim. “Can I get you something?”

“Not now,” he said, picking his hat up from the counter and putting it back on his head. “I'll see you later,” he added, nodding toward Cade.

“You better make sure I'm happy to see you then. Maybe find a new topic,” Cade said as Davis walked back out.

“Tell me the story,” Cade said, turning back to Amber.

She shook her head. “I don't have time. Later, okay?”

“When do you get off?”

“Dinnertime. I have to bring leftovers home to Grandpa.”

“Can I meet you over there?”

“Yeah, sure. I'm just hoping he'll still be awake when I get there. Do you want me to grab you something for dinner too?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that'd be good.”

She smiled, then scurried back toward the kitchen, disappearing for a second, then reappearing with his burger on a plate. “Later,” she said.

“Yeah.”

He watched her wait tables while he ate, and pretty quickly he realized some of the regulars were watching him watch her. And he realized that his protectiveness could easily be misconstrued by old busybodies who had nothing better to do than speculate on the lives of the people around them.

It was fine if Davis wanted to make assumptions. Cade sort of hoped he would.

He took a bite of his hamburger and kept his eyes on Amber. She was the best view the room had to offer anyway. And he didn't have anything to prove or disprove to these people.

And if they did spread some rumors, maybe it would help to discourage Jim Davis from showing his face at Amber's place again.

*   *   *

“Meatloaf,” Amber said, putting the casserole dish in front
of Cade. “Yum. And Grandpa went to bed before I came home, so it's all for us.”

She was in the habit of bringing plates from home so that she could transport leftover food to and from the restaurant. Delia was great like that. Nothing went to waste. It all went to employees or to the homeless shelter, but everything got eaten.

“I'm actually excited about Delia's meatloaf,” Cade said, looking too broad and too masculine for the little wooden chair he was sitting in.

“She's pretty awesome,” Amber said, sitting down across from Cade and handing him a fork.

He smiled and took a bite straight out of the casserole dish, and she did the same.

“I agree. So explain the douche bag to me,” he said.

“Uh . . . you're the one who knows him,” she said. “Explain him to me.”

“I don't really
know
him, know him. I competed against him. He wasn't real offensive or anything.”

“He wasn't Quinn, in other words?”

“No. Actually, the fact that he is a douche bag is sort of a surprise to me. So tell me the story.”

“Well, he showed up at my house this morning at freaking six a.m., asking to buy the place. I told him where to shove it.”

“You didn't even listen to the offer?”

“Hells no. I'm not moving from here. Ever.”

“What if you could get him to give you a good offer?” he asked.

Leave it to freaking Cade to play devil's advocate. Freaking Cade.

“It doesn't matter. Money is not as important as a home.”

“Some would argue that money is essential to buying a house. So . . . money is important to home ownership.”

“Shut up. I'm not talking house. I'm talking home. I've lived in a lot of houses, Cade. A lot of freaking houses. I had to have a small enough amount of stuff that I was easy to move. Everything I ever had fit into a plastic bag. One plastic Albertson's grocery bag. Blue and white, depressing as hell. I hate moving,” she said, squeezing her eyes tight, trying to ignore the moisture that was building in them, the sting that was growing stronger back behind them. “This house . . . It's the first place that ever had people in it that seemed to want to keep me. You like moving around. You seek it out. I don't think you can understand my attachment to it.”

He frowned. “In a way I can. Yeah, I like to stay mobile, but I always know the ranch is there. I always know I can go back to it. So whether or not I live in it, I do have my stability. And I have more than what fits in a plastic bag. I won't even pretend to understand that kind of trauma.”

“Like you didn't have your own,” she said, taking another bite of meatloaf.

“Yeah, well, we all have our crosses to bear, right?”

“You and I seem to be carrying more than one. At least I think so,” she said.

“I won't argue.”

She sighed. “We're in debt, though.”

“What? Why didn't you tell me?”

“For this exact reason,” she said, frowning and stabbing at the top crust of the meatloaf.

“What reason? Because meatloaf?”

She scowled at him. “No, because your posture immediately went Superman. Stiff shoulders, puffed-out chest. I can practically see your cape billowing in the wind.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“I'm not yours to save, Cade Mitchell. I have my own life and I have to figure things out. And I don't want you giving me money, because heaven knows there's no surer way to kill a friendship.”

“It wouldn't kill ours.”

“That's what they all say. Anyway, it's not that dire. I'm going to fix it. It would help if this was a producing farm, of course.”

“Have you ever thought about leasing pasture space?”

“Uh . . . I hadn't, actually. I don't really have the rancher gene, so sometimes these things just don't occur to me. I should work at getting the rancher gene though, unless I want to be a waitress for the rest of my life. Which is fine, but it's not really what I want to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Dunno. I'll figure it out eventually. But on my own time. Anyway, what do you want to do?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I don't know either. I didn't know there would be a quiz with my meatloaf.”

“There is no such thing as a free meal, Mitchell. Meatloaf special, navel-gazing required.”

“I don't navel-gaze. I drink.”

“Drinking makes you navel-gazey. Trust me. I was just with you last night while it was happening.”

“Don't let me do it two nights in a row.”

“Maybe your new calling has to go with singing ‘Kumbaya' and talking about your feelings?”