Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Read online

  Whatever It Takes

  A Saratoga Falls Love Story, Book One

  By Lindsey Pogue

  Copyright © 2016 Lindsey Pogue

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Sarah Kolb-Williams

  www.kolbwilliams.com

  Proofreading by Lauren McNerney

  Cover Design by Covers by Combs

  Written and Published by Lindsey Pogue

  101 W. American Canyon Road, Ste. 508-262

  American Canyon, CA 94503

  OTHER BOOKS BY LINDSEY POGUE

  The Ending Series

  After The Ending, Book One

  Into The Fire, Book Two

  Out Of The Ashes, Book Three

  Before The Dawn, Book Four

  The Ending Beginnings, Prequel Novellas

  I: Carlos

  II: Mandy

  III: Vanessa

  IV: Jake

  V: Clara

  VI: Jake & Clara

  The Ending Series: World Before

  A Saratoga Falls Love Story

  Whatever It Takes, Book One

  Nothing But Trouble, Book Two

  Told You So, Book Three (TBR)

  Forgotten Lands

  Borne of Sand and Scorn (Prequel Novella)

  Dust and Shadow

  DEDICATION

  For my mom, who has always told me I’d do something big and special when I grew up.

  And for my grandparents who provided me such a special place to spend the summers. Grandpa, you always asked me what I was writing. Well, here it is. I wish you were still around to read it.

  I think about you every day.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Sam

  The drive is silent, the road wet, and the wind howls as the rusted F-150 accelerates up the mountain. I’ve driven up and down this road all my life, each bend and bump predictable and mostly unnoticed. But never has the drive been so long and damning as it is this night, with Papa silent in the driver’s seat.

  Mike had changed right before my eyes, turned into someone horrible and nasty. I still can’t believe his scathing words; it was like he was someone else entirely. My mind—my heart—screams at me as I remember his bitter laughter and taunting words: “This was never real, anyway.” But that’s not true, it can’t be true. He’s all I have.

  Had.

  Then Reilly’s face flashes to mind and something hardens inside me. I replay the words I’d overheard—the threatening tone of Reilly’s voice when Mike asked him when he’d become such an asshole. “When you decided to steal my girlfriend. End it.” Reilly’s reply still stings. If his intention was to hurt me the way I’d hurt him, he succeeded—he’d ruined everything.

  I begin to shake. What now?

  My mind is clouded with disbelief. I’m too stunned to see life beyond the rain-streaked windshield. It all feels like a dream—a nightmare. But I know it’s real. Papa’s disappointment is earsplitting in his silence. I’m afraid to know what thoughts keep his jaw tightened and his hands clenched so tight around the steering wheel. I watch his knuckles whiten. I’m afraid of the meaningful void of what he doesn’t say.

  My late-night call wasn’t one Papa was expecting and definitely wasn’t one he’d soon forget. It’s not his anger that makes my gut sour and my eyes sting with tears; it’s his disappointment in me for lying. It’s thick and suffocating in the air around us, and each passing minute seems slower and more torturous than the last.

  I turn away from him and follow the steady stream of raindrops across my window. I wish I could disappear into nothingness, like they do. I wish I could forget this night, that I could go back and never allow Mike to answer the door.

  My cheeks burn, and I swipe the tears away before I lose myself headfirst into the black hole of my own creation.

  A broken heart is only half the problem. I force myself to grab hold of what scraps of self-respect I have left. Alison’s loving this. I know she is. And that turns my simmering resentment for her, for Mike, for Reilly, into white-hot rage that feels better than the pain.

  Straightening in the passenger’s seat, I try to focus on something other than the pregnant silence, the expectance I know hangs between Papa and me. I’m eighteen, I’m an adult. I don’t care if he’s disappointed. This is my life. These are all things that I know are bullshit, but I grasp onto them anyway. I stare out at the road as we drive around each curve, out at the darkness illuminated by the headlights, at the windshield wipers as they work frantically against the raindrops pelting the glass. I focus on anything and everything else until Papa lets out a deep breath.

  My eyes met his for a fraction of a second, but that’s all the invite he needs. “I thought we agreed Mike is bad news,” he says quietly, his voice nearly lost in the cacophony of rubber blades against the glass, the truck’s noisy engine, and the sound of my own snivels.

  Somehow, the hurt in his voice makes me feel worse than I already do. I glance sideways at him. He looks haggard, like he’s done nothing but worry about me since I woke him with my sobbing telephone call.

  Guilt mixed with anger makes it difficult to manage an explanation. “I know,” I whisper.

  The wind worsens outside the truck the further into the mountain we drive, shaking with each gust. But Papa’s lost in concentration, or perhaps distraction, as he continues to navigate through the rain, and he doesn’t seem to notice. Sitting in an unfamiliar quietness, I stare out the passenger’s side window again and watch the raindrops continue to race away down the glass. Racing where, I’m not sure, but away sounds nice.

  “Alison warned me—”

  “Of course she did.” I make a choked sound of disbelief and cross my arms over my chest. She’s done nothing but push Papa and I apart since they married.

  “Samantha,” he warns, though his voice is exhausted, or despondent, maybe, and I hate that it’s me who’s making him feel like this. “This is about you.”

  “Maybe, but you can’t tell me she wasn’t smiling from ear to ear when she handed the phone over to you.” Although I know I’m being a brat, I know it’s probably true, too.

  “Enough!” he bellows, and I wince. Papa shakes his head. “You two need to get
past whatever this is between you.” He pauses a moment, steadying his breath. “Can’t you at least try, for me? I can’t take this anymore.”

  Sobs well in my throat, close to erupting, and prevent me from answering him.

  “I thought you and I were truthful with one another. I know I don’t like the guy, Sam, but lying to my face?” I know that’s what upsets him the most. I’d broken something between us we might never be able to come back from.

  Although I hate myself, I grasp tighter to my anger and shame. “I’m eighteen, I’m not your little girl anymore,” I say. Although I notice him straighten at the sound of my tone, I can’t stop myself. “At least I’m not out doing drugs and selling myself on the street corner. I’m—”

  “Living under my roof! If you don’t go to college then we do things my way, remember?” And then he asks the one question I’ve been praying he never would. “Is he why you decided to postpone school?” When Papa shakes his head again, I know he’s putting the pieces together, and I can see how angry he is, how much I’ve hurt him. He lets out a despondent sigh. “How long, Samantha?” It’s as if he’s talking to the dead, his voice is so vacant and detached.

  This time, I look at him because his tone is commanding me to.

  “How long have you been lying to me—saying you were with Mac but really . . . how long?”

  After a few more squeaks of the wiper blades, I finally answer, “Since the beginning of senior year.” Just over a year.

  Papa scratches his graying beard, something he does when he and Alison are having an argument, mostly about me or money, or the ranch. I finally see how distant we’ve grown over the past couple years, how little he knows me. And even though I want to blame Alison for that, I know, deep down, that it’s my fault, too.

  Papa’s quiet for an unbearably long moment until finally, after we’ve accelerated around another bend, he asks, “Do you hate Alison so much?” His eyes never leave the road, though it’s obvious his thoughts are miles away.

  “No,” I say easily, and it’s true, I don’t hate her—but I don’t understand her. I don’t like the way she treats me, the way she scowls at me and watches me, waiting for me to slip up. I know that if it were up to Alison, I’d be kicked out. It would just be the two of them. It already feels that way most of the time.

  “Maybe I’m doing all the wrong things here,” he says, and I can barely hear his voice above the road noise. “I thought having a mother figure would be good for you. That you would have someone else to talk to and confide in.” His voice drifts away with his thoughts. “I should’ve waited for you to leave for school before I remarried.”

  I sniffle, hating how horrid and despicable I feel. “Everything was fine before,” I croak, not understanding why he thought anything needed to change in the first place. We had the ranch, we had our routines and our camping trips, we had fun, but not anymore.

  I’m not sure if it’s because he’s thinking or because he disagrees with me, but Papa doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry,” I breathe, wiping my nose. I just want this terrible night to be over already. I don’t want to think about Papa or Alison, about Mike or Reilly or the downward spiral my life is headed in. It could be worse, I tell myself, though I know I couldn’t possibly feel any worse.

  I stare down at my hands that are trembling in my lap, balling them up to steady them. “I don’t want to hurt you, Papa,” I squeak. “I just didn’t want to argue. I needed Mike,” I admit, shocking myself. “I thought he loved me.” And Mike didn’t even want me—he “outgrew” us. Once more, I battle the urge to scream.

  A gust of wind shakes the truck, forcing Papa to drive slower as we draw closer to home. I don’t want to go there, to see Alison’s self-satisfied expression. I don’t want to face Papa in the daylight.

  “I don’t agree with what you did, Sam. In fact, I’m angry as hell at you for it. But I love you, no matter what, and if you want me to clean and load my 12-gauge, I’ll do it, for you.”

  He’s teasing, but he’s all staunch composure and his voice is dry. I can’t help but let out a choked laugh. “Thanks,” I say, sniffling again and drying my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I might take you up on that.”

  His mouth curves into a small smile, and my heart feels a little lighter.

  “You know all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy, don’t you, Smurf?”

  Trying to soothe the ache in my chest, I let out a deep breath. I nod. “I know. I want you to be happy too,” I say, and I hope he truly understands how much I mean it. I glance over at him.

  “You haven’t been happy for a long time,” Papa says, thoughtful. I must look confused because he smiles in the glow of the dashboard and continues. “You’re just like your mama. Her heart was so big . . .” He shakes his head. “Yours holds too many emotions for its own good. I can see them in your eyes—your anger and misery, or when you’re truly happy—just like I could with your mama.”

  I can remember him telling me something like this before, when I was younger and I’d been angry about something. Something silly. But for some reason, his words seem more important now.

  “You love like it’s air you need to breathe. It’s what makes you special, but it’s also what will give you the most heartache.”

  I’m unsure if Papa is giving me a piece of Mama or if he’s just trying to make me feel better, but either way, I etch his words into memory. I cling to what few recollections I have of her. Her crocheted coverlet, soft against my skin, the lilt of her voice when she sang to me, every word filled with so much love and purity and joy it was like she truly had the power to take away all the bad and replace it with just enough good to make me smile and feel warm and special inside.

  “You really love her, don’t you,” I say. I’m not talking about Mama, though.

  When Papa nods, I promise him, “I’ll try harder with Alison.”

  We drive around the final bend, and exhaustion closes in on me, lets loose as my mind calms and I can finally really breathe again. I close my eyes, lean the side of my face against the window, and let the cool glass soothe the heat from my skin.

  A shiver creeps down my spine, and then I feel it. The truck lurches forward, the tires screech against the wet road, and my eyelids fly open. In a blur, a large, gnarled branch comes into view in the middle of the road.

  And the next thing I know, we’re swerving toward the mountain.

  Three Years Later

  One

  Present Day

  Sam

  Sprawled out beneath my favorite tree, I stare at the oak branches outstretched above me. Lichen, nature’s lace curtains, cast intricately sewn shadows across me, blocking out the harsh rays of the sun. This place, in the shade of the oldest, most unruly tree on the property—“the watchman of the lake,” as I’d pretended when I was younger—has been my sanctuary since I can remember.

  For years I’ve been retreating to this very spot, where the grass grows a little thicker from where I lie up on a slight hill down to the water’s edge, protected by the oak’s expansive shade. So much has changed since I was young—me, my family; even the small country town of Saratoga Falls seems to have found a quicker pace—but here, underneath this tree, it feels as if the past still lingers, coming in and drifting out on the breeze when I least expect it. This place is a mingling of my past, present, and future.

  The oak was my climbing tree when my golden hair was in pigtails, but now my pigtails have given way to a single, thick braid that feels lumpy beneath my back as I lie at its base. My little-girl hands have become calloused from seemingly endless days of horse grooming and stacking firewood. My cowboy hat’s bigger, sun bleached and weathered from years of abuse, and my boots are well worn from mucking out stalls and mending fences. This is my napping and hide-away-from-the-world spot. It’s where Mama and Papa are both buried and it personifies distant memories of first loves and wistful dreams.

  Not a day goes by that I don’t think about those things�
��of Reilly and the day we crossed the line from friends to something more, the promises we made to each other only to break them, the distance, his distance, and the fact that the day I fell in love with him, he chose to leave. All the regrets that followed still linger, too.

  Shasta, my old gray mare, snorts as she grazes beside me, a sound that stirs me back to the present. I hear the muffled sound of her hooves as she takes a lazy step between mouthfuls of the patchy green that grows around us.

  Telling myself I deserve a few more moments of respite, I close my eyes and fall back into a sleepy daze, listening . . .

  . . . red-winged blackbirds chirp as they fly from the fence line into the surrounding scrub oaks that sprawl out behind me . . .

  . . . insect wings flitter between drifts of dry breeze . . .

  . . . lizards scurry in the crisp, fallen oak leaves that litter the ground . . .

  This place, where life is simple and calm and known, is where I want to be. With a deep inhale, I let the fragrance of summertime—of red clay earth and sunbaked hillsides—wrap me in a blanket of sunshine and comfort me until the familiar tempos of nature fade. I exhale, and as I revel in a tension-easing stretch, I feel another familiar sensation as my knuckles brush against Papa’s gravestone, damning and ever-present behind me. A knot forms in my stomach. I don’t have to look at the gravestone to know what it says: Robert Miller, Loving Father and Husband, Beloved Horse Whisperer. May he rest in the valley of horses.

  Eventually, the undertones of country living dissolve and I’m left with the sound of rubber scraping across glass, and the warm breeze brings with it a chill that rakes over my skin . . .

  The road is dark and wet, and the headlights are all that illuminate the bend ahead. The air in the truck is stale and pregnant with a dozen emotions that suffocate me as I try to wade through them. I look at Papa, but his gaze is narrowed, angry. I disappointed him. I ruined everything.

  We see it all too late—the gnarled branch that blocks the road. In fast-forward, Papa slams on the brakes. Screeching rubber echoes in my ears as we swerve toward the mountainside, away from the cliff. Then the truck is rolling, the world is crushing in around me, and my head smacks against the window and then the dash. The sound of groaning metal against the asphalt grates in my ears, and I can hear Papa yelling something. His warm finger brushes against my skin, but I can’t concentrate as my arms flail and my head bangs against the roof of the truck.