by Emma Sutton
I slide my hand down his warm arm and over his wrist, and without a second thought, I fit my fingers through his, bringing us together like pieces of the same puzzle.
“Your answers,” I whisper as I press my cheek to his shoulder. His shirt smells like it’s fresh from being line-dried. “She’s sitting right next to you. She somehow thinks you’re one of the sweetest people on this earth. And yes, you’re on her mind, too. All the time.”
Sucking in a breath through his clenched teeth, he dips an eyebrow at me and moves his free hand down on top of ours, admiring what we look like mashed together in the firelight.
“Any other questions you have for Handful?” I ask quieter than the crackling of the fire, my own nickname rolling off my tongue like I want him, and only him, to keep calling me that for the rest of my life.
Bringing us closer, he nods and stares at my nose, my smile, my collarbone, causing my heart to hammer against my ribcage. The flames from the fire bounce off his deep brown eyes, shifting them a certain shade of bourbon tonight. “I’d like to ask her two more questions if that’s alright.”
“Alright.”
“One, I’d like to ask if I can take you on another date— a real one this time. Maybe out to a restaurant in town, if you’d like that.”
My eyes flitting down to his shirt in sudden modesty, I agree, giving him his answer.
“And secondly, I’d like to know if it’d be okay if I kiss you, Hattie.”
Glancing back up at his eyes, I see a passionate intensity now soaking through his expression. And it’s true— his eyes tell me he’s been wanting me just as much as I’ve been wanting him. Without a word, I bite the bottom of my lip for a split-second and then nod.
Slow enough to make me think he’s savoring the moment that hasn’t even happened yet, he brings his top hand up to my face and pushes my hot hair away from my ear. Sliding it underneath my loose locks, he caresses my cheek with his thumb. And right as he starts to lean into me, he teases me with his coying scent of sagebrush, thyme, and prairie grass.
Bending closer, he smiles, his eyes hungry for me. He presses his thumb to my lips now, admiring me as if he’s contemplating how to approach our first kiss in the perfect way. But I don’t care about the perfection or the purity of it. I’m just desperate for it to finally happen.
Leaning in, he closes the rest of the difference between us. But half a second before his lips reach mine, I hear Eliza from behind me.
“Hattie!” she calls over the distance. “Hattie, your phone!”
Suddenly pulling away and jerking my hand from Walker’s grip, I turn toward her, nearly embarrassed to be caught mid-smooch by anyone— especially Eliza.
“Yeah? Just let it go,” I call out, trying not to sound defeated. I realize I’d left my cell phone on the table by the kitchen and grow annoyed. When I finally see her figure jogging toward me, my inner alarm bells suddenly sound.
“No, it’s been ringing off the hook. Someone in your phone as M. Lansing keeps calling? It’s the fourth time tonight!” She stops in her tracks, a good fifteen feet from the fire, clearly not wanting to intrude.
“Oh,” I say, realizing it’s Detective Lansing. We’d only spoken on the phone twice over the course of our year-long correspondence, so to realize he’s been calling at all raises a huge red flag.
“Go get it,” Walker suddenly insists. He takes my face in his hands and plants a soft but quick kiss to my forehead which steals my breath. “We’ll make plans for dinner tomorrow,” he whispers to my skin just before rising from his spot on the tree stump and shuffling away.
Eliza meets me with the phone, shoving it in my palm. “Oh my gosh, was that Walker? I’m sorry—”
Sighing at the interruption and also at the urgency of Detective Lansing calling me after nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, I nod. “It’s okay. Thanks for this,” I say as I focus in on his name.
“Okay, fill me in later,” Eliza says, shooing herself away to the house.
A part of my heart suddenly restored at the possibility of Detective Lansing having a different outcome to share, I clench the phone in my fist, readying myself for whatever news he has.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Hattie Locherman?”
“It is, yes.”
“This is Detective Lansing with Real Hope of Missouri.”
“Hi, Detective. How are you?” I ask, nearly panting from my nerves.
“I’m doing well. Look, Hattie, I know I’ve already sent you your results from the investigation about your mother, but there’s actually been a recent update that I wanted to fill you in on. I don’t usually do this, but the circumstances have shifted drastically, and I wanted to let you know via phone.”
“Okay,” I say, my heart now beating a different rhythm than it had been minutes ago, something sharp and fierce. I almost feel that after all these years, I may finally have a positive outcome that deviates from the sadness.
“I wanted to let you know that there’s been a change. I got a notification this afternoon that your birth mother has passed.”
Unable to move, I stare deeper into the flames of the fire, craving the burn of the smoke in my eyes and rooted to the idea that this is some cruel joke. “You mean— she’s dead?”
“Yes. According to my source, she passed away five days ago.”
“Five days,” I breathe as I try to count that back in my mind. What was I doing five days ago? What was I thinking about when she died?
Inhaling deep, I press my fingertips to my eyelids. “Uh, from what exactly?” I ask, my voice sounding strange, foreign even, with all the emotion drained from me in the matter of a minute.
“My records only cite natural causes. I know it’s not much, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”
“Okay.” I nod as if Detective Lansing is standing right here in front of the fire.
“Just wanted to pass that information along to you, Hattie, as soon as I had it. It came through a few hours ago.”
“Okay,” I say again, this time in something of a vacant shock.
He doesn’t speak for a few seconds.
“Thanks for letting me know, Detective.”
“You’re welcome. Please feel free to reach out if there’s anything else I can do for you, Ms. Locherman.”
“I will, thank you. Goodbye,” I say, my throat feeling raw.
I press the End Call button on my phone, the weight of his news now gathering on my shoulders like blocks of marble.
I should be crying, knowing that my birth mom is dead, knowing that now, no matter what happens, I’ll never have a chance to meet any part of the parents that decided to give me up some twenty-six years ago when I was two. Instead, where I should feel sorrow and grief, I feel nothing but hatred. Hurt. A slice of resentment for a mother I was never allowed to know.
Grabbing my mandolin, I hurry my way back to the house and up the stairs, stopping at my bedroom on the east wing. I toss the mandolin on my bed and grab the envelope with Detective Lansing’s results under my paperback copy of “The Language of Flowers” that sits on my desk.
Making my way back down to the fire pit, I ball the letter in my fist as hard as I can, making sure every single part of the letter crinkles into my grip. Still barefoot on the damp grass and treading quick, I hit the row of tree stumps and chairs within seconds. With a heaving toss, I throw the results as hard as I can right into the belly of the fiery logs.
Standing there with clenched fists and tense shoulders, I watch the no contact from my birth mother letter burn up in a smoldering flash. Angry flames of tender mercy and all.
Chapter Twelve
Walker
Speeding my way across the ranch to check on the stock ponds on the far side of the grassland, I hear Sophie bark from where she races behind me, hot on my trail and gaining speed.
Turning the gas to carry me faster, I can’t scrub my most recent image of Hattie out of my mind. Her hair was down, wavy as if it’d been dry
ing from a nighttime shower. Her silky bare legs shone the flames dancing off of them. The delicate yet vulnerable sound of her mandolin against the humming of the fire.
Whether she meant to or not, she took my breath away last night. Just like she had the day before and the day before that. Just like she’ll probably do for the rest of my life now that I’ve opened that part of my heart to the possibilities of something more with her.
It’s not until I glance up and see Mary Jo waving me in from where she sits on her front porch that I realize how forward that sounds. Had I just imagined spending the rest of my life with Hattie?
Even though it’d only been two weeks since I started seeing her regularly, the answer is a resounding and embarrassing yes. But a yes, nonetheless. And as positive as that might be in my own book, I wouldn’t dare tell that to anyone else. At least not yet.
Mary Jo stands and continues beckoning me as I veer the ATV to the left, slowing considerably.
Sophie keeps on spinning by, her attention now stolen by the wandering flock of chickens that strut just on the other side of the Paisley Barn.
“Aye, aye,” I say, throwing the four-wheeler into park right in front of the widespread flower beds that wrap her entire house. “How’s it going, Mary Jo?” I remove my hat and wipe the sweat from my hairline using the collar of my T-shirt.
“Hey, honey. It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Doesn’t help that we haven’t had a good rain in a few weeks.”
“The dark clouds’ll be rolling in soon enough,” she says with a shake of her fist. And I can’t help but think she’s talking about a whole different type of storm system with this one.
“What’s happening your way?” I ask, climbing the wooden stairs, happy to be under the momentary cover of shade.
“Have a seat, Walker, won’t you? Just for a minute.” She sits in the white rocking chair closest to the front door. “That Sophie sure does have her own kind of play with those cluckers.”
“Yes, ma’am, she does. She’s a wild one but loves it here on the farm.” I take the seat next to her and start rocking, though the lack of breeze today makes me even hotter than I was cruising around out on the four-wheeler in the midday sun.
“She’s allowed to be wild. We like her that way,” MJ grins, patting her lap with open hands. “Besides that, she’s not anymore a wildling than the rest of ‘em.”
“That’s right. So what’s on your mind, MJ? Any update on the finances?”
She doesn’t answer me right off, she’s too busy smiling at our view of Sophie who’s hopping around and chasing chickens to and fro a good quarter-mile across the land. It’s not until she turns her head to me that she reluctantly frowns. “My accountant was here this morning.”
“Henry?”
She nods. “I was optimistic last time. But not anymore. The confidence is gone.”
“Confidence,” I say, breathing the word like I’m fireside again, whispering it to Hattie’s forehead.
“Confidence might be too heavy a word, Walker. Hopeful. That’s more of what I was. Hopeful that we could see this thing through,” she says, shutting her eyes. She fans her face, shooing a fly. “I know I said it last time, but we’re desperate now. The ranch is on the fritz. And if we don’t start something new, I’m afraid we won’t last.”
I take in the news, digesting it as best I can. For some reason, it didn’t hit me as hard last week as it does today. I nod once. “What’s the plan?”
Folding her hands in her lap, she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I don’t have one. Charles was always the one good at coming up with this stuff. I don’t know what to concoct. I don’t know what’s possible,” she says, her voice fizzling out into the late afternoon heat.
“Okay. Well, what can I do to help? I’ll come up with a plan then. We can do it together.”
She peers over at me.
“That’s right. You heard me.” I take a deep breath and exhale, racking my brain for any course of reputable action that doesn’t involve the cattle that’ll be sold come the first part of August. “Have we done anything to market this place? I’m talking the lodges, all the lessons, the trails, the restaurant, the fishing, all of it.”
Mary Jo flicks a flimsy finger at me. “I know we should. But I don’t like all that new-fangled stuff. Social what and all that. I don’t get it. It’s not becoming on the ranch. That’s not how they lived in the olden days. At least not when I was a young pup.”
“It may not be ideal, MJ, but it could certainly help us in this time of need. It could allow us to reach a certain demographic that we’re just not able to connect with by word of mouth, don’t you think?” I throw the question in at the end to help lead her to a nicer conclusion.
“Maybe. Will you look into it? I don’t know any of the details.”
Running a hand through my matted hair, I nod. Truth is, I don’t like spending time on the internet myself. But surely I can do as much of a search to figure out our options when it comes to marketing the place.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.” I rise from the rocker and stretch, the afternoon heat now overtaking me.
“You’re effective at your job, Walker. I hope you know that.” The look on Mary Jo’s face speaks volumes, her expression genuine.
“Oh, I’m not too effective in many areas of my life right now, so I’m glad work is one of ‘em. But I try where I can,” I say, shooting her a smile as I linger at the top of the porch stairs. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
MJ nods. “You doing well otherwise?”
Biting my cheek on the inside, I realize she’s wanting to end this on more of a personal note. “I am. I uh—” I hesitate telling her but I realize that, regardless of the outcome of all of this, she’s cheering for me. “Mary Jo, the strangest thing has been happening lately. I’ve kind of been bitten by a bug of sorts.”
“Are you feeling ill?” she asks, her eyebrows dropping.
“No, ma’am. Quite the opposite. A love bug. I’ve grown to have certain feelings for someone on the grounds.”
Mary Jo blushes and presses her lips together as an obvious attempt at hiding a smile. “Honey, when it hits, you have to let it.”
I nod. “I was actually wondering if you might know of a good spot for a date. I’m taking her to Laramie later in the week.”
“Who’s the her?”
Chuckling, I tilt my head. “I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?”
Mary Jo winks and runs both hands down her lap. “I think maybe it is, Walker.”
Scratching a my jaw, I exhale all the nervousness that fills me just from thinking Hattie’s name. “Do you prefer any of the restaurants in Laramie? I’m taking suggestions,” I grin.
MJ rubs her hands together and prepares herself, romance on the ranch her true and obvious delight. “Oh, good grief. There’s a perfect place called The Sundry. It’s on—” She stops short of the street name as she tries to remember it.
“The Sundry,” I repeat. “I’ll look it up.”
“Do. You can’t go wrong there. There’s a bison empanada and a baked danish brie starter that are both to die for. Charles and I used to spend our date nights there when we could get away.”
“Oh,” I chuckle. “Well, those both sound tasty.”
“They are,” she nods. “You won’t want anything else once you dine there. Not even The Cottonwood can compare,” she says, nodding toward the on-ranch diner.
“Ah, now don’t get me carried away, MJ,” I laugh.
“I won’t.” She throws me a sly grin. “I happen to know they also cater weddings,” she lilts with a wink. “But we do that here, too, so just keep that at the back of your mind.”
“Hey, what’s going on up here? Y’all partying without me?” Mason suddenly asks, coming around from the back of the house.
“Geez,” I say, startled at his surprise appearance. “Where’d you come from?”
“Called you on the t
wo-way,” he says, jiggling his walkie talkie in his hand. “You never answered. I guess because there’s a party I, apparently, wasn’t invited to.”
Mary Jo laughs. “Oh, hush. There’s no party going on,” she says, batting her hand at him as he ascends the stairs and rests against the porch frame.
“Alright, well I’m gonna get moving on that,” I say, walking to my four-wheeler. “I’ve got work to do,” I say, drifting a knowing expression at Mary Jo. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
MJ nods and eyes me, her lips forming a line of earnest appreciation. “Let me know about the other thing, too,” she finally calls with a wave. “I hope it goes well.”
“Thank you, MJ. I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” I say, leaving her with a wink.
A few hours after I finish checking the stock ponds across the immediate ranch, I make my way back to my office in the cattle barns and shut the door behind me. There’s a tiny air conditioner that livens the place by a bit, but it’s not much.
Opening my laptop, I spend the rest of my afternoon and long into the evening researching about how to perform effective marketing for ranches. I even pick up the phone and make a few calls, one to a digital agency in the surrounding Wyoming area, to get a feel for what’s out there and available to us.
It’s not until I hear my office door creak open from around the other side of the wall that I realize it’s after five o’clock.
Mason appears, seating himself in the folded chair a few feet from my desk. He swipes his hat from his head and fans himself with it. “What are you still doing here?”
“Research,” I tell him, knowing he’s about to press me for details, no matter what I say.
“Wow,” he says sarcastically, his eyes growing wide. “Who’d a thunk it. What are you searching for?”
“It’s private,” I say, fighting a laugh. Because he always does this— presses for way more information than he’s allowed.
“About this mysterious MJ situation?”
I nod. “That’s right. And that’s all I’m saying about it.”
