Credence

by Penelope Douglas

  Of course, he could be older. He seems to get a lot of sun, and he stays in shape. My father wasn’t overweight, but he didn’t look like this guy.

  I face forward again and take a sip my coffee. “Help with what?”

  “You’ll see,” he tells me. “Get some shoes on.”

  He walks away, calling for Danny and Johnny, and after a moment, the dogs follow him out to the shop. I almost roll my eyes. His dogs are named Danny and Johnny? Another Karate Kid reference.

  I take a couple more gulps of the cooled coffee, dump out the remainder, and spin on my heel, heading back up to my bedroom.

  After I slip on some shoes, I grab my phone to slide it in my back pocket but think better of it.

  I look down at it, hesitating for only a moment before I turn it off and plug it in to charge.

  Closing the door behind me, I leave the room and head for the stairs, briefly training my ear on the son’s door—the one I met, anyway—and wondering if he’s up yet.

  But I don’t hear anything.

  Heading out of the house, I slow as I hit the porch, taking in the full view in the light of day and turning my gaze right to see the tip of the peak through the trees from this low level.

  I breathe deep, my eyes falling closed for a moment and unable to get enough of the smell of wood and pine. The hairs on my arms stand up from the chill in the morning air, but it doesn’t bother me. Trees surround the house, and I take in the fat trunks and peer into the forest in the distance, the floor dark under the canopy. I have a sudden urge to walk. I bet you can walk for hours without seeing or hearing anyone.

  The front deck is huge, just as wide as the inside of the house with an overhang shading half of it and wooden rocking chairs and a swing adorning the space. A couple of trucks sit out front before the land spills downward to a vast forest with the town in the distance.

  At least I think it is. The gravel road into the property comes from that direction. I haven’t seen behind the house yet, but I assume it takes me deeper into the forest.

  Glancing right, I see Jake walking down the driveaway and stop in front of the stairs. He’s put his shirt back on.

  “You know how to ride?” he asks.

  Horses or…?

  I just nod, assuming he means horses.

  “Do you know how to shoot?”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you know how to answer in anything other than nods and one-word sentences?”

  I stare at him. I’m not unused to that question.

  When I don’t answer, he simply chuckles, shakes his head, and gestures for me to follow him.

  I step off the deck and traipse across a small, sparsely green yard with patches of mud and sporadic puddles. The dew from the overgrown grass soaks through the bottoms of my jeans and wets the tops of my feet, exposed in my turquoise Tieks, as I trail behind him toward the barn. The gray wood is cracked and decaying near the foundation, and I look up, seeing the hay door open near the roof of the barn, but the main doors on the bottom are still closed. Before we reach the entrance, he veers left and slides open the door of a lower, attached structure, and I follow him over the threshold and immediately smell the familiar scent of the animals. It’s a stable.

  He heads down to the third stall, and I hang back as he opens it, bringing out a brown mare with some paint markings down her snout and on her legs from the knees to the heels. She’s already saddled, and I look down at my flats, frosted with mud around the sole of the shoes. I have sneakers in my room, but if I stay, I’ll need to get some work boots in town.

  And soon.

  Taking the reins, he leads the horse out of the stable, and I follow, seeing Noah walk up to us and toss a couple of shovels into a pile next to the barn.

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?” he blurts out, looking at me worried. “Was there an animal attack I didn’t know about?”

  What?

  And then I see his bewildered stare drop, and I follow his gaze, seeing the purposeful tears and shreds of my designer skinny jeans that my family’s personal shopper put in my closet a few weeks ago.

  Slices of thigh peer out between shreds of dark-washed material, and Jake laughs under his breath as I look back up to see a lopsided smile on Noah’s cocky face.

  I lock my jaw and look away.

  He’s teasing. I’m just not in the mood.

  Of course, I haven’t been in the mood for years, so I guess this is who I am now.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear, and he eventually passes, his lips tight with the laugh he’s holding in.

  “Tiernan,” Jake calls.

  I walk over to where my uncle stands on the other side of the horse and follow his lead as he holds the stirrup toward me. Reaching up, I fist the reins in one hand and grab hold of the saddle in the other, slipping my left foot into the stirrup. Hoisting myself up, I swing my leg over and straddle the horse, fitting my other shoe into the right stirrup. It’s a perfect fit. I don’t need him to adjust anything. I haven’t asked what we’re doing or where we’re going, knowing it doesn’t really matter. I won’t argue.

  I look around for his horse, but then, all of a sudden, he’s pulling himself up and plopping down right behind me.

  What is he doing?

  “I said I know how to ride,” I tell him.

  But he reaches in front of me and takes the reins, forcing me to let them go. I grip the horn of the saddle with both hands, scooching up as far as I can, because he’s right there, and I’m practically in his lap.

  My heart starts beating a little harder as irritation crawls under my skin. “I don’t need help,” I tell him.

  He only clicks his tongue and nudges the horse, setting us off around the barn. We round the wooden fence and gallop into the forest as the horse climbs the steep hill, sending us under the shade of the trees, and I squeeze my fists around the horn to try to keep myself from sliding backward.

  But as much as I try, I still feel his body there.

  The day grows darker as the trees shield us from the sun, and the air cools, but something pleasant stirs at the feel of the animal under me. Her muscles working against my legs to get us up the hill. My pulse starts to race a little, but I don’t hate it. A little refreshing, actually. He’s solid behind me, and I feel secure. For the moment.

  “Are you uncomfortable?” he asks.

  His voice vibrates against my back.

  But I don’t answer.

  “Are you comfortable?” he presses instead.

  Still, I stay silent. What does it matter anyway? He imposed himself despite my protest. Will it matter if I’m comfortable with him on the horse or not?

  He doesn’t care. He just wants a response out of me.

  His sigh hits my ear. “Yeah, your father could piss me off without saying much, too.”

  But I can’t hear him. His legs rest against every inch of mine as I sit nestled between his thighs.

  Snug. Protected.

  Are you uncomfortable?

  I don’t know, but I’m aware that maybe I should be. This is weird. We shouldn’t be sitting like this.

  We continue up the hill, the rock and dirt kicking up under the horse as I look around, seeing the house behind us down below. The terrain evens out, and Jake pushes the horse a little faster as I relax into his hold around me, both of us bouncing up and down in the saddle.

  He blows a couple times, like something in his face, and then his fingers brush my neck. I tense, the touch making me shiver.

  “Do me a favor, okay?” he says as he swipes my hair over my right shoulder. “Keep your hair tied back as much as possible. We have lots of machines that can snag it.”

  I take over, smoothing my hair over my shoulder and out of his face.

  We stop at the top of the hill. “Water tower, barn, shop…” he calls out, pointing as we turn and look over the cliff to his property below. “There’s a greenhouse over that hill, too.”

  I follow his gaze down to where the house sits throug
h the trees in the distance below us, getting a decent view of the entire ranch. The house is happily situated in the center, the back of it facing us, with the attached garage to the left—or shop, I assume he’s referring to—and then a barn on the other side of that. To the right is a water tower. The rocky hill we sit atop of sits behind the house, and I’d imagine there’s a propane tank and a generator somewhere on the property.

  The leaves dance with the morning breeze, and something flaps its wings to my right as a steady, soft noise pounds in the distance. Water, maybe?

  Jake pulls away from the edge, and we keep going, still farther away from the house and deeper into the forest, and I look down, seeing his fingers wrapped around each strap of the reins, nearly resting on my thighs. His arms lock me in, and despite the chill of the morning, I’m not cold.

  “You can’t take the truck up in here, but the horses and ATVs do well,” he tells me. “Have Noah show you the ropes with the four-wheelers before you use one, okay?”

  I nod. I did a camp for extreme sports one summer, but he’ll probably want his son to show me the ropes anyway.

  We keep going, and even though I’m a little hungry after not having eaten for so long and craving another coffee, because my eyelids are weighing heavy with the relaxing rocking of the ride, I stay quiet. I’m not thinking about anything out here, and it’s nice.

  I close my eyes.

  But after a few moments, the rush of water grows louder, and the horse stops. I open my eyes, seeing we’re at the edge of a cliff. I look into the distance.

  The peak.

  My heart thumps, and I stop breathing for a moment as I take in the now unobstructed view.

  My God.

  A narrow valley runs below us between two mountains, a long waterfall rushing over one of them and into the river. Between the two mountains, in the distance, stands the peak. Dark gray rock, skirted with greenery. It’s beautiful.

  “Like it?” Jake asks.

  I nod.

  “Do you like it?” he asks again in a stern voice, and I know he wants me to use my words.

  I just keep staring ahead, only able to whisper. “l love it.”

  “You can come back as much as you want, now that you know the way.” I feel him move behind me and the saddle shifts a little. “But you need to carry protection with you when you leave the house, you understand?”

  I nod again, barely listening as I gape at the view.

  But he takes my chin and turns my head to face him.

  “This is very important,” he insists. “Do you understand? This isn’t L.A. It’s not even Denver. We have black bears, mountain lions, coyotes, the occasional rattlesnake… You need to have your eyes open. You’re on their turf now.”

  I pull away from his grasp and face forward again, but then I see him bring something up from behind me, and I tear my gaze away from the peak again to see that he holds a gun.

  Or a rifle.

  Sliding the chamber open, he shows me the long, sharp golden bullets and then yanks the bolt back, chambering a bullet and making sure I’m watching as he does it.

  “Do you see the broken rope bridge hanging over there?”

  I look across the river, seeing the remnants of a wooden rope bridge hanging down the rock wall.

  Jesus. My heart skips a beat, taking in the drop below. Was that bridge actually a thing at one time?

  He puts the rifle in my hands. “Aim for it.”

  I grip the long firearm, the steel barrel tucked into a dark wood casing, and I’m kind of thankful. At least he’s not wanting to talk.

  Did he shoot that deer with this?

  I let out a breath.

  Not likely. The mountain man probably has a whole cabinet of these things.

  Hesitating a moment, I finally lift the rifle, positioning the butt against my shoulder and wrapping my hand around the guard with my finger on the trigger. I close my left eye and peer down the line of sight, toward the muzzle.

  “Okay,” he tells me. “Now calm your breathing. The bullet is already chambered, so just look down the sight, and line up—”

  I pull the trigger, the bullet firing out of the barrel, echoing into the air, and a pop hits the rock wall down the opposite side, kicking up rock dust and cutting the board in half. Both parts fall and dangle by their respective ropes against the cliff.

  A breeze kicks up my hair a little, and I lower the rifle, opening both of my eyes as the thunder of the shot disappears in the distance and the peaceful sound of the waterfall fills the air again.

  Jake sits behind me, still, and I hand the gun back to him and turn my attention back up to the peak, seeing some kind of a large bird breeze past my line of sight.

  He clears his throat. “Well…I was going to suggest the boys empty some beer bottles for you tonight, but…looks like you don’t need the practice. I thought you said you couldn’t shoot.”

  “I can’t shoot animals,” I tell him. “I thought that’s what you were asking.”

  The peak is massive. But so close. Such a strange feeling, something so big, reminding you that you’re small, but also reminding you that you’re part of a world full of magnificent things. What a great thing to be able to see—and relearn—every day.

  Jake dismounts the horse, and I ease back in the seat, which is still warm from his body.

  “I’m going to check some traps, so I’ll walk home,” he says.

  I look down, meeting his eyes as I take the reins now.

  “Start breakfast when you get back to the house,” he tells me. “After you unsaddle the horse, of course.”

  I narrow my eyes without thinking. Cook?

  I have no problem helping out, but why that?

  I look away. “I’ll pitch in, but I’m not staying in the kitchen.” I’m not sure if I have a problem with cooking or because that’s where he wants me.

  Put the girl at the stove, because of course she doesn’t know how to ride a horse or shoot, right?

  “Do you know how to tend crops instead?” he asks.

  I straighten my spine, already knowing what he’s getting at.

  “Weed, water, fertilize?” he goes on. “Aerate the land? Plant? Do you know how to prepare to store some of those crops to feed the horses and livestock over the winter months?”

  I still don’t look at him.

  “Milk cows?” he continues, enjoying himself. “Train horses? Operate a chainsaw? Skin a deer?”

  Yeah, okay.

  “Can fruits and vegetables? Drive a tractor? Build a motorcycle from scratch?”

  I lock my jaw, but I don’t answer.

  “So cooking breakfast, it is,” he chirps. “We all do our part, Tiernan. If you want to eat.”

  I’ll do my part and then some, but he could ask instead of give orders.

  I turn my head toward him again. “You’re not my father, you know? I came here of my own free will, and I can leave whenever I want.”

  But instead of walking away or ignoring me, a hint of mischief hits his eyes, and he smiles.

  “Maybe,” he taunts. “Or maybe I’ll decide that you’d benefit from some time here and that you can’t leave, after all.”

  My heart quickens.

  “At least until I see you laugh,” he adds. “Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.”

  I stare at him, and I feel my eyes burn with anger.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll decide to honor your parents’ wishes and keep you until you’re of age.”

  “I’ll be ‘of age’ in ten weeks.”

  “We’ll be snowed in in eight.” And he laughs, backing away from me.

  I feel the ghost of a snarl on my lips.

  “Burn the bacon, Tiernan,” he instructs as he walks away. “We like it that way.”

  Tiernan

  I sling the saddle over the bench in the barn, not caring if that’s where I’m supposed to put it or not.

  He won’t keep me h
ere if I don’t want to stay, will he?

  Whether or not he intends to, actually scares me less than knowing he can. I came here thinking I was a guest and him having power it wouldn’t even occur to him to use.

  Well, it did, I guess. Maybe he thinks he can get rent out of me.

  Or maybe he thinks me being a woman makes me a good cook? I’m not.

  I exit the stable and head for the house, taking a shortcut through the attached shop and walking toward the door that will take me right into the kitchen.

  I shake my head at myself. I can’t go home.

  And I don’t want to go back to Brynmor. God, the idea of seeing anyone I know… I close my eyes. Or smelling that house.

  I can’t face it. The stark white walls. Sitting in classrooms crowded with people I don’t know how to talk to.

  My stomach turns, and I stop, leaning my forehead into something hanging from the ceiling in the shop. I wrap my arm around a punching bag and close my eyes.

  I can’t go home.

  I grip the leather, clenching it in my fist, and everything—my new reality—starts sinking in.

  It doesn’t matter where I go—how I change my surroundings or run from all the places and people I don’t want to see. I’m still me. Running, leaving, hiding…

  There’s no escape.

  As liquid heat spreads down my arm I fist my palm and hit the bag, my hand barely denting the leather. I do it again and again, my pathetic little punches growing harder, because I’m fucked up and tired and confused… I don’t know how to feel better.

  I suck in air through my teeth, finally rearing back and swinging my fist into the bag. The chains creak as it tries to swing, but I still have my other arm wrapped around it.

  Maybe I’ll decide to honor your parents’ wishes and keep you until you’re of age.

  I grit my teeth, a sudden burst of energy flooding me, and I release the bag, step back, and swing again, planting my right fist into the bag.

  At least until I see you laugh. The anger warms my body, and I throw another punch. Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.

  I slam my fist again.

  And again.

  I growl. “We’ll be snowed in in eight,” I mock his words to me in a whisper.