Whether Sam knew my original intention or not, he bursts out laughing. “All right,” he yells, punching the air with his fist. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and intensify my glare as I push past him. Only a guy would think spit is something to cheer, rather than a disgusting act.
I manage to ignore Sam’s cheerful whistling as he casually strolls behind my aggressive stroll. Very noble of me to refrain from shoving him, I’d say. When I arrive on the doorstep, however, I’m checked in my anger. Shane and the others have already entered, the screen door having swung closed behind them. Whatever else I am, I can’t ignore my polite upbringing, which requires me to knock before entering the house of someone I’m not that familiar with. I debate the silliness of knocking, when Sam is quickly coming up behind me, and can open the door to his home himself, versus knocking rather than waiting for him to do so.
His arrival takes the decision out of my hands. He reaches past me to grasp the door handle. I am uncomfortably aware of his nearness, and the faux intimacy of the gesture. When he hesitates, I glance up at him irritably—to see him looking at me, brows raised, infuriating grin still in place. His face is far too close to mine for ease.
“What?” I demand, when he continues to look at me.
“I could pull the door open” he says, winking at me. Winking at me! My face flushes. “But it would likely smack into you, and that would be rather rude, don’t you think?”
My brows furrow in confusion. What? Finally, my brain does its job and processes, but only after I glance back at the screen door and realize I’m standing directly in front of it—and it swings toward me. Embarrassed, I step sideways, out of the half-circle formed by his arm. He chuckles, and pulls the door open, waving me to enter ahead of him with his free hand. I give him my best haughty look and sweep into the house, following the sounds of laughter into the kitchen.
They glance up at my entrance, except for Shane who is squeezing lemons into a pitcher. The remaining three sets of faces change from smiles to looks of horror as they spy me. Assuming they think it’s rude to wear my sunglasses in the house, I push them up on top of my head. Their eyes go wider.
“Uh, Vee, the restroom is just around that corner,” Stacy informs me.
I shake my head at her. “Thanks, Stace, but I don’t need…” I trail off as she begins making circular motions and pointing at her face. My dirty face is suddenly brought to my recollection and I grimace. “Right, gotcha. I’ll be back.” I refuse to glance Sam’s way as I follow her pointing finger.
I walk into a bare bathroom. By bare, I mean there is nothing within besides the toilet, sink, and a towel hanging from the rack. Not a single picture, rug, or anything personal to break up the monotony. I step in front of the mirror, and gasp when I see myself.
My hair is tangled and knotted, hanging all askew. But that’s nothing compared to my face. Muddy streaks cover the entire surface—even my forehead. I look like I’ve been rolling in it, and eating it, my lips and corners of my mouth caked with it. I think of Sam, teasing me, of my haughty defiance, and humiliation floods me. I’m sure he must be having a great laugh at my ill-placed pride.
I turn on the water and lean down, scrubbing my face with my hands. Mud swirls down the drain. When it’s finally clean—albeit a little red from my scrubbing—I dab it dry with the towel. I pull my hair tie out and try to finger comb my hair. It doesn’t help. I wrap it back up and exit the bathroom.
“There you are,” Shane says, affably. He hands me a glass, and indicates I should sit at the table with the others. Sam is seated between Heather and Hillary, whether by his choice or theirs I don’t know. I suspect it was theirs, but he doesn’t exactly look sorry to be there. Shane returns to lean against the edge of the counter, feet crossed, one arm propped behind him, the other holding his own glass. In his pose, he appears much younger than he must be, and I can see why Stacy thinks he’s hot—even if it is still, like, eww.
I plop down next to Heather, with mumbled thanks.
“You’ve gotta try these, Vee,” Stacy says, pushing a plate of cookies across the table to me. I glance at the large, fat cookies stuffed with oatmeal and raisins.
“Joan Ames?” I ask, picking one up and taking a bite.
“Mmm-hmm,” Stacy answers around her own mouthful of cookie.
“How did you know?” Sam asks, wonder in his voice.
“If there’s one thing Niamh knows, it’s baked goods,” offers Hilary, leaning closer to Sam.
“And horses,” Stacy puts in sardonically.
“She can tell you who made just about any kind of cookie, cake or pie, because she’s better than most. Everyone else tries to bake as well as she does,” Hilary ignores Stacy’s comment, not willing to forgo the absolute attention being bestowed on her by Sam, even if the attention is caused by extolling my cooking virtues.
“Chickens, too,” Stacy says, smirking.
“But she still can’t beat Joan’s cookies,” Hilary finishes, as if Stacy hadn’t spoken, nudging Sam’s arm, as if sharing some great secret.
“Sheep, not so much,” Stacy adds, cynically.
“Too bad you don’t have some of Niamh’s pie here,” Heather pipes up, wanting to draw Sam’s attention to herself. I freeze at her words. “Her apple pie is the best in the state, five years running.”
“Is that right?” Shane asks, turning toward Heather.
“Grows the apples herself,” Hilary says, not willing to relinquish the spotlight, blushing as Sam turns her way once again.
“She knows apples,” Stacy’s inane comment is given with humor lacing her voice.
“We had an apple pie brought the day we moved in,” Shane says. “But I didn’t get any of it. Sam ate the whole thing himself, within two days I believe.”
I risk a glance at Sam, only to see that he’s suddenly, intensely interested in tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with one long finger. I throw him a glare, anyway. His cheeks redden over his clenched jaw, as if he can feel the weight of my look.
“Was that one yours, Niamh?” Shane asks. Stacy shoots me a warning look. I narrow my eyes at her, then turn to Shane, the sun glaring in the window directly into my eyes tempting me to replace my sunglasses, rude or not.
“Probably not,” I say. Sam finally looks up at me, unable to ignore the super-sweet tone of my voice. “It was probably store bought.”
Stacy chokes on her lemonade; Sam narrows his eyes at me.
“If so, I’d like to know where it came from,” Sam says. “It was the best pie I’ve ever had.”
Chapter 8
Niahm
Chucking a single cookie at Sam wasn’t too harsh a reaction, I didn’t think. Maybe grabbing five more of them and following suit while he dodged and deflected with both hands was a little overboard. Heather and Hilary were horrified by my actions. Stacy looked horrified, and Shane laughed so hard he was bent in half.
Sam was stunned into silence. At least, that was the last expression I saw before turning and fleeing from their house. I ran to my ATV, jumped on and gunned it toward home.
“What is it with you and Sam, Vee?” Stacy asks me later, when she calls on the phone.
I give an exasperated huff of breath.
“I don’t really know, Stace. Every time I’m around the guy, it’s like my brains just fall out of my head. But, seriously, what he said today—”
“Would have made you laugh if anyone else had said it,” she interrupts.
I sink down to the floor, and Bob immediately has his muzzle in my face, tempted to lick me but knowing better. He settles for nuzzling me with his wet nose.
“Maybe I’m just having some kind of raging, hormonal reaction to red hair,” I groan.
“I believe it’s hormonal, but it’s not just red hair causing it,” Stacy answers.
“What do you mean?” I am immediately defensive.
“I mean,” she explains slowly, as if I’m an imbecile, “that you are attracted to him, and you hate it.”
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“I am so not attracted to him,” I argue, even while visions of his amazing eyes and great smile dance in front of me. I smack the palm of my hand against my forehead, trying to erase said vision. “Why would you even think that? I can hardly stand to be near the guy.”
“Classic story,” she says, “pretending to hate one another, when really you’re madly in love.”
“Give me a break,” I say, pushing Bob off me and standing. “This isn’t some cheesy, dime-store, romance novel. This is my life. If I liked him even a little, don’t you think I would—”
“No, I don’t,” she interrupts yet again, as I wander to my window, looking down, ironically, on my mini apple orchard—which I need to pick. That brings to mind my pie, his comment, the cookies…I swing away from the window, pulling the string to drop the blinds. “I know you better than anyone, Vee,” she continues, “probably better than yourself.”
“And?” I ask, wishing I could take the word back as soon as it leaves my mouth.
“And I think you’ve got the hots for this guy.”
I roll my eyes, wishing she could see the gesture. “Okay, first of all, Stace, I’m not you and he’s not his uncle. Second, if I had the hots for him, I’d be nice to him, not…” I hesitate at calling myself mean, “well, you know, angry at him all the time. Your theory makes zero sense.”
“Hear me out, my little chicky. Exhibit A: you have never had a serious boyfriend before.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“You’ve never had a serious boyfriend because you are extremely independent. You’ve practically raised yourself, and so you don’t think you need anyone. Not only does that keep you from hooking up, it intimidates the boys we know.”
“Okay, mom,” I begin, sarcastically. “Thanks for the—”
“Exhibit B: So far, all the boys you’ve known are planning to leave Goshen, a thought you can’t stomach, so you’re waiting to see who comes back, or who’s willing to stay.”
“That’s not—”
“Finally, exhibit C: Sam and Shane are clearly not small town types, which means they probably won’t stick around for long, and while that’s a total turn on to me, you find it… undesirable. You don’t want to fall for someone who doesn’t share your dream of growing old and dying here—along with the town, I might add.”
I’m silent as I desperately try to find my side of the argument. Finally, I settle on, “Exhibit C? What are you, a lawyer now?”
“Look, Vee, I’m just saying that being nice to the guy, hanging out with him and having a little fun isn’t going to hurt you. He isn’t going to hurt you. Just because you admit you like the guy doesn’t mean you’re going to marry him.”
I take a deep breath, suddenly drained by the conversation.
“I’ve gotta go do my chores, Stace. I’ll talk to you at school tomorrow.” I hang up without waiting for her response.
“Come on, Bob,” I say opening the door. “Let’s go feed the chickens.” At the word chicken he immediately perks up, tail wagging, nose pressed to the door in anticipation of being set free to pursue his favorite hobby, impatient while I pull my boots on. When I open the door, he beelines for the chicken coop, but at the last second, detours to the right, taking off at a dead run.
“Bob, come back!” I call, which he completely ignores. I grunt and follow his path, deciding I better discover just what caught his attention so fully. I come around the backside of the stable and stop in my tracks.
Sam is in the center of the enclosure, leading the Irish in wide circles. The stallion is agitated, leaping and bucking, pulling against the lead, glorious in his fury. I spot Bob, sitting outside the gate, watching the scene, as if he, too, is transfixed by the sight. I slowly walk toward him, not wanting to disturb their work.
As I draw near, I can hear Sam, clucking and talking in a low voice, soothing and hypnotic. For long minutes, the horse ignores him, refusing to give in to his call. I don’t know how long he’s been at it, but they are both covered in sweat and dust, his t-shirt clinging to his straining muscles. Sam is patient, slowly circling, giving the horse just enough freedom to keep his rage at bay, but holding on tight enough to make sure the Irish knows just who is in charge. I find myself holding my breath, trying to force my own will on the horse, compel him to trust in the hand that holds him.
The stallion begins to tire, and slows his pace. His breath heaves his sides loudly in the hot air, his eyes rolling still, but giving in to the persistence of his lead. Finally, he slows to a complete stop. He tosses his majestic head twice then drops his nose slightly; with a final huff, he gives himself over—for now.
I glance up at Sam, and his eyes meet mine across the distance. In his victory, he appears more like seven-feet-tall than his true... six-whatever. Suddenly, his face breaks out in a wide smile, victorious, complete joy radiating from his eyes. I can’t help it; I smile back, my face reflecting his elation. He lifts his hand in a low wave, and I mirror the gesture. Suddenly I’m embarrassed at being caught watching him, and I quickly shove both hands in my back pockets. The intimacy of the moment strikes me, and abruptly I turn away, smacking my thigh twice to bring Bob to heel as I head for the chickens.
I think about Stacy’s words, and realize how very wrong she is. I think, if I gave myself over to Sam as the stallion did, it would give him the power to hurt me… to hurt me very much.
I let myself into the noisy, squawking hens and try to ignore my pounding pulse, my thoughts that want to succumb to a certain hypnotic voice, my heart that squeezes painfully.
Chapter 9
Sam
I watch as Niahm hurries away from the paddock. For just a minute, as she shared in my victory, I saw something in her, something that she seems to try to keep hidden. I think about her parents leaving her home while they travel the world. It didn’t take much asking to find out that they’re gone more than they’re home. Anger rises in my chest again, and I quickly push it back as the horse catches the scent of it and throws his head.
I would like to hold Niahm’s hands, find out what is really going on in that head of hers—but I can see well enough how welcome that gesture would be. I can easily recognize the bond that is being formed between us. I think she feels it also, but she’s fighting it with all her might.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt a bond with a mortal… but it’s definitely the strongest and fastest forming I’ve experienced. I should have run as soon as I first recognized it, the first day I saw her. After experiencing the wrenching loss that comes with bonding, I’ve learned to avoid it as much as possible. It’s been decades. Maybe that’s why this bond has felt so different.
As soon as I return home, I question Shane about it.
“Do you think you’re feeling a genuine bond with this girl, or do you think you’re feeling a bond to her name?” is Shane’s first question after I explain my dilemma.
I give his question serious consideration. It’s a valid question. Finally, I shake my head.
“No, it’s her. I felt it before I even knew her name.”
“Hum,” Shane responds. “I don’t know of anyone else who’s had such a hard time getting a mortal to bond with them in return.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter, sarcastically.
“Can you leave?” Shane questions.
I huff out a frustrated breath. I know what he’s asking—one word and he would either drop everything and leave with me, if I asked it of him, or stay and let me go, covering for my disappearance.
“No,” I finally answer, misery in the word. “Not unless she asks it of me.”
“Well, then,” Shane responds, standing up. “I guess you better get to work charming that girl,” he chuckles. But even though he’s trying to lighten the mood, make me feel better, he pats my shoulder sympathetically, and in the weight of his hand I divine the burden of the task.
Chapter 10
Niahm
It’s not an entire shock to me when it’s
decided that we will stay after school each day to begin planning our production of Grease—that’s been happening since time immemorial around here. What does shock me is my own reluctance to be involved in the planning. The Senior Class production is almost hallowed, and I’ve looked forward to it since I saw my first production at age three. I try to think of excuses to get me out of the meetings, but can’t come up with anything that would sound true. Everyone knows everything about me, and they all know that not only are my parents back in town—relieving me of some of my chores—but that I have time to donate to the cause. So instead I just refuse to participate in the planning, doodling in my notebook as the others plan.
Now, I sit across from Sam, placed near one another as we are the two leads. For the first time in my life that I can recall, I wish I attended a large high school, where one would have to try out for a part, rather than having it assumed upon them.
My feelings regarding my forced-upon-me costar are a muddled mess. I’ll admit, between Stacy’s words and what I witnessed in the paddock yesterday, I’m having a hard time retaining my anger. I’m having a hard time really remembering why I was that mad to begin with. But, in my typical stubbornness, I refuse to admit to her—or myself—that she might have been just a little bit right.
I steadfastly refuse to look at Sam, except when he’s not looking, of course. Then I can’t help but look, as I try to puzzle out my confusion. There’s definitely something different about Sam from any other boy I’ve ever known. Not just that he’s, you know, totally gorgeous. Not that his amazing shade-of-red hair sweeps across his brow and curls lightly over his ears and collar. Not his lips, full and wide. I think I actually sigh looking at them. Not his perfectly masculine jaw or his eyes that have… crap!... just lifted to look at me, auburn brows drawn down in confusion at my intense perusal… and probably at his hearing my sigh.
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