But the very transparent reality of Cain Wolfram’s life was that no matter what he felt for Ginger, there were three reasons he could never have her.
The first? She was way too good for him. She was as bright and shiny as silver in the sunshine, sweet, kind, smart, and rich. As for Cain? He was badly tarnished to a dull gray and cynical and selfish. He’d boned every girl worth having in a ten-mile radius. He’d been a poor student and a troublemaker, racing around Apple Valley on his motorcycle at all hours, and drinking down at the distillery with a rowdy crew of friends.
The second? Ginger loved Apple Valley. It was her home—a home he knew she loved to the marrow of her bones, when all Cain really wanted was to see Apple Valley get smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. And if he had his way, he’d never return again.
But the third reason was the most implacable, the most nonnegotiable reason he could never have Ginger McHuid. Because she belonged to Woodman. Always had, always would. And Cain loved Woodman too much to lose his cousin’s kinship over a girl. Even an angel–girl like Ginger.
Will you miss her? whispered his heart.
That was like asking if he’d miss something he could never have. A better question would be, Will you long for her? And the answer, of course, was a sad and simple Forever. She would always be the sweetest something that the earth had to offer. And someday Cain would enter heaven or hell still wishing that he’d had a chance to love her.
Shaking off his thoughts and deciding against going up to the main house to find her and say good-bye (because, really, what was the point?), he walked into the barn and knocked on the tack room door. Looking around, he noted that the new stablehand, a sophomore from Apple Valley High who was probably a friend a Ginger’s, was doing a good job. The concrete floor between the stalls was clean as a whistle, and the barn smelled like fresh hay. Cain inhaled deeply, grudgingly admitting that the smell wasn’t totally unpleasant, and maybe even a little comforting.
“Papa?” he called, knocking on the door again, but there was no light shining through the crack under the door, and when he pressed his ear against the darkened window, all was silent on the other side.
Figures, he thought, tamping down feelings of anger and disappointment. He’d told his father he’d be by to say good-bye this afternoon, and his old man couldn’t even bother to be around. Bet he’d made time to say good-bye to Woodman.
“Fuck it,” he growled, turning on his heel and heading back out toward his motorcycle. He had better things to do. He had a few more hours of drinking and fucking before a 5 a.m. bus from Lexington to Chicago and a three-month hiatus from both. He had—
The sound of quiet weeping distracted him as he exited the barn, and he looked up to see Ginger sitting in the hayloft opening, her legs hanging down and ankles crossed. She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders trembled with sobs.
As though shot through the heart with adrenaline, Cain turned back into the barn, running through the stall bay and up the hayloft ladder, bending over at the waist to walk under the low-pitched roof as he made his way over to her.
“Gin?” he said softly from a few feet away, anxious not to startle her.
She gasped in surprise and turned at the waist to look at him, dropping her hands flat on the planks behind her.
“Cain,” she sobbed, tears slipping down her cheeks as she looked up at him. “Thought I might’ve heard a m-motor below, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Aw, princess,” he said gently, stepping over hay bales to make his way to her. He sat down carefully, letting his legs dangle beside hers and putting his arm around her shoulders. “What’s got you so sad?”
She sniffled, her small body shuddering as she laid her head on his chest like a wilted flower. The scent of her shampoo—fresh lemons—surrounded him, and he flinched, closing his eyes and memorizing the smell so he could pull it out and remember her when he was far away from home.
Since the day of her twelfth birthday, when Cain had first started seeing her as a woman, Ginger had appeared regularly in his dreams. But even his fantasies were careful of her. Sometimes fully clothed, oftentimes not, she represented something lovely and untouchable, something clean and innocent that squeezed Cain’s heart. Whether she was naked or not, her softness, her goodness, her undiluted, luminous beauty, beckoned him like an answered prayer, but Cain kept his distance. He never fucked Ginger in his dreams. He stared at her from afar. He silently worshipped her. He wished things were different.