Page 6 of Trusting Blake
Popeye scoffs and leans back against the lawn chair, but he still appears rigid and uncomfortable. “It’ll be a miracle if he does. You, however,” he says sternly, wagging a finger at me, “have nothing to worry about. He will talk to you, I’m sure. You and your mother need answers more than the rest of us.”
“Mila?” Sheri calls from inside the stables.
I frown, brush my hand over Popeye’s, then follow the sound of Sheri’s voice. She is grooming one of her horses – the same one, I believe, that took off with Tori a few weeks ago – and stops mid-brush to shoot me a funny look.
“Are those my boots?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You’re such a style icon,” she says, and I fold my arms in protest. She returns to brushing, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Now that you’re alive, would you like to help out? Maisy over there needs a good brush-down. And so do you from the looks of it.” She tilts her eyes to where the horse-grooming kit is. “Don’t trap yourself up in that room all day. It’s better to pass the time being productive.”
To my left, a horse lets out an attention-seeking neigh.It’s Fredo, my favorite. He’s the only one I trust not to throw me off the saddle.
“Hey, Fredo,” I say, turning to greet him. He nuzzles my chest, and I rest my head against him, stroking beneath his chin. I wonder if he senses all our sadness. “Aunt Sheri, can I take him for a ride? Fresh air and all.”
Sheri casts me a doubtful look. “But you haven’t been out on your own yet.”
“Yeah, but between you and Savannah, I’ve learned everything I need to know. Look, I can even saddle him up on my own now!” I start toward the block of saddles lined up on the far wall, but Sheri steps out in front of me, blocking me with her arm. She smiles.
“First Maisy needs that brush-down, and then Fredo says to take a shower.”
3
The buzzer for the gate sounds just after six that evening.
Popeye, Sheri, and I sit in silence in the living room, stuffed after polishing off the leftovers from the Thai takeout we ordered earlier for lunch, and the abrupt sound makes us start all at once. I scoot forward on the couch, eyes wide and hands interlocked.
“I’ll get it,” Sheri says, crossing over to the kitchen to check out the live footage from the security camera outside the ranch gate.
The buzzer has gone off several times today – the driver delivering our food, one of the nosy neighbors from farther down the road fishing for gossip, and a few local reporters hoping to be the first to hear Everett Harding’s family’s thoughts on his shocking affair. Through the gate’s speakerphone, Sheri told them politely, precisely, “No comment,” but I’m sure what she really meant was, “Just let me tell you exactly where to shove your notepads.”
“Is it another one?” I call across the living room, exchanging a wary look with Popeye, who is as disgruntled as ever at strangers showing up at his ranch.
“No,” Sheri says, and she turns around to meet my eyes. I see the apprehension in her face. “It’s your mom.”
“Finally!” I gasp, springing to my feet.
“NO, Mila,” Sheri warns, her voice so sharp and unfamiliar that it stops me in my tracks. I stare questioningly at her. “There is some press lingering out there already,” she explains. “It’s better for your sake if you don’t let them see you. Stay here, and I’ll go help your mom.”
And with that, Sheri turns and rushes out the front door.
“Ihatethis freaking life,” I mutter under my breath as I move back to the living room window instead.
I watch, feeling useless, as Sheri grants access and the electronic gate begins to swing open. It’s kind of a blur, how fast it happens.
In the distance, I lay eyes on Mom. As soon as the gate has cracked open wide enough for her to squeeze through, she is inside the safety of the walls, an oversized pair of sunglasses shielding her eyes. She pulls her luggage behind her, and before the gate can even finish opening, Sheri is closing it again. There is still enough time to catch a brief glimpse of the crowd of paparazzi that has already assembled and that annoying flash of camera shutters that I haven’t witnessed in weeks. It will forever amaze me how quickly they travel to chase the news. The LA press will have followed Mom to the airport back home, I bet, and then tipped off their Nashville outlets.
The gate clangs shut, keeping the paps at bay. They won’t leave, though. They’ll camp out there all night. We are used to the chaos that these guys seem able to create at will, but I have a horrible feeling that things are about to get. . . wild.
I can see Mom’s relief by the way her shoulders fall and the hug she gives Sheri. Now that prying eyes can’t spot me, I abandon my post by the window and burst outside, nearly tripping down the porch steps.
“Mom!” I yell, running down the dirt road.
I want to hug her, I want to hugher, I want to hug her.
I need her to tell me everything will be okay. I need to hear it fromher.
“Shhh!” Sheri hisses, pointing over her shoulder. We may be out of sight, but that doesn’t mean those outside the gate can’t hear us.
