Page 164 of Lost Trust

I’m wiping down the counter when Ginger speaks from behind me.

“Thank you.”

I glance over my shoulder.

She’s sitting at the island, watching me.

“I should be thanking you,” I tell her. “You’re the one who helped me out.”

Her brow lifts. “With what?”

“Everything.” I toss the rag over my shoulder. “You told me their favorite things.”

She shakes her head. “No, honey. That was all you.”

I start to argue, but she holds up a hand.

“You asked.”

Something about the way she says it makes me stop.

“It’s such a simple thing,” she continues, her voice softening. “But most men never get it. They think if they buy a woman something expensive or take her somewhere impressive, that’s enough.”

She gives me a small smile. “But you wanted to know what she actually liked.”

I look down at the counter, suddenly more interested in the damn peach juice. “I just wanted to make her happy.”

“I know.” Ginger folds her hands on the granite. “But I want to thank you for something else.”

I look at her.

“When I came here, it was because I was worried about them.”

She looks to the hallway.

“I know Marina is self-sufficient. She always has been. And she’s a damn good mother.” Ginger smiles faintly. “But I didn’t know how she was going to do out here.”

Her gaze drifts toward the window, toward the ranch beyond it.

“Wyoming. Cowboy country.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “Back on a barrel horse.”

I lean against the counter and listen.

“I thought her heart was going to break a little more every day, being so close to something she loves so much and still not being able to do it.”

I know exactly what she means.

Because barrel racing isn’t just something Marina does.

It’s something that lives in her. It’s what she was born to do.

Ginger exhales slowly. “That’s at the very top of her list of favorite things, you know.”

“I know.”

“And she doesn’t get to do it anymore.”

The words settle between us.