She wouldn’t have left…
The lights are off, but the dim morning light pours through her balcony doors, and I see the room is just as neat as when she arrived, although a few things have been moved. Her personal items sit on the top of her desk and her dresser, and I see a pair of flip flops by the bed stand.
Okay, she didn’t leave, then. Not sure how she could anyway—remote as we are—but I wouldn’t put it past her to try.
Leaving the room, I close the door behind me and give Noah’s door two hard pounds as I pass by and head down the stairs. He needs to get his ass up, too, and the fact that I still need to be my twenty-year-old kid’s alarm clock is ridiculous.
As soon as I hit the living room, though, I smell coffee and know I’m not the only one up. Tiernan works at something on the table, and I glance over, trying to see what she’s doing as I walk to the coffee pot.
Her hair is piled into a messy bun on the top of her head as she appears to glue pieces of something together.
I pour a cup of coffee, swallowing hard. “Thank you for fixing the fridge,” I say, not looking at her.
I felt like an ass yesterday when Noah told me that everything in the fridge was out of its usual order because she had to empty it to fix it.
A huge ass.
And after the surprise wore off, I was impressed. So much of the world simply replaces broken things or hires out to have it fixed, not wanting to trouble themselves to learn things on their own. Even with the plethora of help there is on the Internet.
She’s self-sufficient.
When she still hasn’t responded, I turn around, taking a drink from my mug as I slowly approach.
She pieces together a plate that appears to have broken, gluing each piece carefully together.
It’s one of our green ones. The corner of my mouth turns up in a small smile.
She really didn’t have to bother. It’s a cheap plate, and they’re easy to break.
I shoot my eyes up to her face again—her gaze focused, lips closed, and her breathing even and controlled like I’m not standing right here.
“Tiernan?” I say again.
But she still doesn’t respond. Jesus, it’s like talking to my kids. Are all teenagers like this?
Putting the last piece in place, she holds it for a few moments and then takes a paper towel to clean up any bubbled glue.
“Is there anything I can help with today?” she suddenly asks, finally glancing up at me.
Huh?
She looks up at me, stray strands of hair falling around her face and in her eyes, and again, I’m taken off guard. I’d braced myself for a confrontation after the way I’d acted yesterday, but… she’s ready to move on. Should I push a conversation or let it alone?
I run my hand over my scalp. Whatever. If she’s going to make this easy for me, I won’t complain.
“Yeah,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief.
She rises from her chair, standing up right in front of me, but her eyes immediately land on my chest, and she quickly looks away.
I tighten my lips and pull my T-shirt out of my back pocket to slip it on. Hannes—who was born wearing a suit—and Brynmor—an education that’s comprised of same-sex classmates, I guess she’s not used to this. She’ll get her feet wet here, though.
“Where do you need me?” she asks, looking ready to be anywhere but the kitchen.
I hide my smile. “I have to…um, milk Bernadette,” I tell her as I turn around to grab a cup of coffee.
Her gaze falters.
“The cow,” I explain. “The horses need to be fed, and the stalls need to be cleared. Noah will show you how it’s done.”
“And then?”
And then?
I grip my mug, leaning against the counter. “We have work in the shop to get to, so if you want to do breakfast…that’d be a big help.”
I should’ve asked nicer yesterday.
She simply nods.
I start to walk past her but stop and look down at her. “The bacon exactly like you did it yesterday,” I say. “Got it?”
She keeps her eyes planted on the floor for another moment, but then she looks up and meets my eyes. “Got it.”
I stare down at her.
I wish she’d smile. I don’t expect it, given what’s happened to her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t smile a lot regardless.
She is pretty, though. I’d give her parents that much. Flawless skin that looks almost porcelain. High cheek bones, the hollows rosy. Eyebrows a little darker than her hair, framing long lashes and Amelia’s stormy gray eyes, more piercing that her mother’s because she has the same dark ring around the iris that her father had.
She’s more her mother, though. The slender neck, the curve of the waist, the spine and shoulders that made her seem statuesque sometimes. On Amelia, it looked cold. On Tiernan, it… makes you wonder how she’d bend and move in someone’s arms.
Someone’s.
My body warms, and I hold her gaze for a moment. Amelia and Hannes. Amusement tugs at the corners of my mouth, but I don’t let it show.
I don’t need her to stay. It’s no skin off my nose if she leaves.
But I can forbid her from leaving if I want to.
If for no other reason than to burn off my exceeding supply of frustration with her father. To make her work off his debt to me.
To fuck up her life just a little bit.
To make her…
She wets her pink lips, and my breath catches for a moment.
If I were a worse man...
Setting down my mug, I head to the closet and pull my Rockies cap off the coat rack, fitting it on my head. I need to get out of here. I’m not sure where the hell my mind is going, but it’s not right. She’s my responsibility. Not my opportunity for payback. Not to mention, she’s quiet, boring, and a little pathetic. I can’t torture someone who won’t fight back.
A moment later, I hear Noah’s footfalls on the stairs and watch him head for the coffee pot with his T-shirt slung over his shoulder and no shoes or socks on.
“We’ve got a lot to do today,” I warn him, knowing it takes him at least twenty minutes to get out the door after he wakes up.
I have two sons and neither one of them is entirely present. Kaleb was easier. When he was here. And Noah was always here but never easy.
“Show Tiernan how to do the stalls and feed the horses.”
He nods without looking at me as a yawn stretches across his face.
I pull on my boots and head back into the kitchen, transferring my coffee into a travel mug to take outside with me.
I hear Noah’s voice. “Do you have an undershirt on?”
I look over at him and Tiernan, seeing her nod. She wears jeans and a peasant blouse, not really dressy, but it’s white.
“Take off your shirt then,” he says, taking a drink.
She pinches her eyebrows at him.
“I’m giving you a new one,” he explains, tossing the flannel over his shoulder onto the back of a chair. “And kick off your shoes.”
He heads across the kitchen, opening the shop door and reaching inside. He pulls in a pair of his old muddy, rain boots from when he was thirteen or so and tosses them across the floor at her.
It’s a good idea. She won’t want her expensive clothes ruined.
I dart my eyes to her, expecting her to look uncertain, but she only hesitates a moment before slowly starting to unbutton her blouse.
I clear my throat again and look away. She should be doing that in the privacy of the bathroom.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her pull off the shirt and fold it over the back of a chair. She has something else white on underneath, and I see Noah approach her, but I keep my eyes averted as I grab an apple to take outside with me.
An invisible hook keeps tugging at my chin—pulling at me to look at her—but I just blink a few times and charge out of the room, biting hard into the apple.
This is bullshit.
/> An hour later, I’m pulling up to the stables in an ATV loaded with a few bales of hay when my phone rings.
Pulling it out, I look at the number and see it’s the same area code as Tiernan’s.
“Hello?” I answer. I don’t want any crap, but it could be her parents’ lawyer calling, so…
“Hi, Mr. Van der Berg?” a woman with a slight accent says. “I’m Mirai Patel. Mrs. de Haas’s assistant.”
I hold the phone to my ear, pulling on my work gloves. “How does a dead woman still have an assistant?”
But she doesn’t respond, and I almost smile, because I’ve succeeded at being insensitive.
“What do you want?” I ask, hauling a bale into my hands and stacking it next to the stable. “Tiernan has a phone if you want to talk to her.”
“I wanted to talk to you, actually.”
For Christ’s sake, why?
Ms. Patel is silent for a moment and then inquires, “How is she?”
How is she? That’s why you’re calling me?
“She’s fine,” I grunt, pulling another brick of hay up off the ATV.
She’s quiet again, and after a few more moments, I take the phone in my hand, about ready to hang up. I don’t have time for this.
“Look, I don’t know how to say this in a way that isn’t completely awkward,” she finally tells me, “so I’m just going to say it.”
Good. I glance through the doorway of the stable, seeing Noah and Tiernan’s heads over the top of a stall as they churn the hay.
“I’d like her to come home,” Patel says.
Tiernan can leave whenever she wants. I didn’t make her come here.
But at the same time, who is this woman to tell me what to do with my niece?
Mirai Patel goes on, “I can’t make her, and she’ll probably be angry I’m talking to you, but…”
“But?”
“I’m worried about her,” she finally states. “Tiernan doesn’t talk about things, and her parents passing away like they did won’t allow her the opportunity to resolve any of her issues with them. I want to be there for her. I’m worried everything building up inside of her will eventually spill over.”
“Spill over?”
Who is this woman? What arrogance to think I can’t handle this? I mean, I can’t, but she doesn’t know that.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that she’s quiet,” Patel tells me.
And? If a quiet kid is all I’m dealing with, then maybe I do have all the experience necessary to handle this.
“And you think you can raise her better?” I ask.
“I think you don’t know her. I do.”
I squeeze my fist around the phone.
A stranger I’ve never met or heard of until today lays claim to my brother’s child and she thought this conversation was going to go well?
“And I think if I turn over guardianship of Tiernan to you,” I say, “that puts you in charge of not only her emotional support, but her finances, as well. Am I right, Ms. Patel?”
She falls silent, and I smile to myself. Why else would someone who has no obligation to an underage orphan want that responsibility unless that underage orphan is loaded?
But then she speaks up, her tone firm. “I’ve had access to her finances since I started working for her parents ten years ago,” she says. “I can be trusted. Can you?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Just think of what all those millions will do for your business, Mr. Van der Berg,” she says.
And I clench my teeth so goddamn hard an ache flashes through my jaw like lightning. Is that what she thinks? I would sooner flush that money down the fucking toilet.
“Her place…” I finally grit out, “is with her family.”
“Her place is with someone who loves her.”
“This conversation is over.”
And I start to pull the phone away from my ear.
But then I hear her voice again and stop. “She used to wake up every night around one in the morning,” Patel says. “Like clockwork and without an alarm. Did you know that, Mr. Van der Berg?”
I remain silent, unsure if she’s telling the truth and hating that she knows something I don’t, if it is.
“Do you know why?” she taunts further.
I glance into the stable at Tiernan, watching her hop out of one of the stalls with her arm covering her nose and mouth as she dry heaves at the smell. Noah pats her on the back, silently laughing behind her, but then she swats at him, and he just laughs harder.
“You would think ‘her family’ would know that about her,” Patel mocks me. “Goodbye, Mr. Van der Berg.”
And then the line is dead.
I stare at my screen for a moment and then back at Tiernan. She and Noah are bantering back and forth, a big ass grin on his face and keeping the rake from her as she tries to take it back. Finally, she grabs hold of it and marches back into the stall.
I smile to myself. She’s stronger than that woman gives her credit for. Mirai Patel may care about Tiernan, but she’s had her for ten years. What good did it do the kid? That woman had her chance.
Pulling a cloth out of my back pocket, I head into the stable, shaking out the square and matching two corners to make a triangle. Finding Tiernan in a stall, I see her bent over, shuffling the hay with her ponytail sticking out the back of one of Noah’s caps.
“Hey.” I touch her back.
She jerks up and spins around, bumping into my chest.
I hold up the cloth, gesturing toward her face.
“It’s clean,” I tell her. “It’ll help with the smell.”
I move to tie it around her nose and mouth, but she shakes her head. “I’m okay.”
I laugh under my breath, expecting as much. “Why are you so stubborn?”
And I move around her, tying it at the back of her head before she has a chance to fight me more.
Coming around the front, I only see her eyes peering out from under the cap and the rest covered with the handkerchief.
She looks like a bank robber, and I almost snort, but she doesn’t look happy right now, so I keep the joke to myself.
“You don’t have to be so tough,” I tease, knocking the bill of her cap. “It fuckin’ stinks in here. You’ll get used to it, though.”
But instead of saying ‘thank you’, she simply turns back around and continues working.
I stand there a moment, my muscles tight with slight frustration. I’m sure you’ve noticed that she’s quiet.
Yeah, lady, she’s quiet. Slowly, I turn to leave, but I glance over my shoulder at her once again.
But when I do, she’s staring at me. She’s stopped raking.
Her eyes, dark under the shadow of the cap, make my heart skip a beat, and I pause.
But quickly, as if it was nothing, she puts her head back down and starts working again. I stand there, watching her.
Everything building up inside of her will eventually spill over, Mirai had said.
I turn my lips up in a slight smile. Maybe that’s exactly what the kid needs.
“Finished already?” I ask when Noah and Tiernan head over to me.
I stand in the truck bed, pushing the broom and the last remnants of hay, dirt, and shit I’ve had to haul this week.
“Don’t worry,” Noah chides. “We did it right. She’s on a mission, though.”
“Do you have more?” Tiernan looks up at me expectantly with my handkerchief around her neck.
More?
She breathes hard, and I pull out my phone, checking the time. They got done with that a lot sooner than when it’s just Noah and Kaleb.
I stick my phone back in my pocket. “Take the clothes off the line,” I tell her. “And I need fresh, soapy water. Hot.” And then I look at her. “And then breakfast.”
She nods and spins around, hurrying back to the house.
Noah looks after her. “I remember when I was new to chores,” he says wistfully. “It was kind of fun. For a few minutes.
”
I shake my head. I don’t think Tiernan finds this fun.
“If we train her up, it’ll be like I’m not even gone,” he tells me.
I shoot him a look, but I don’t stop as I shove another pile of debris out of the back of the truck. “Don’t piss me off today,” I warn him.
He’s not leaving, and Tiernan isn’t here to take his workload.
I can see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye, wanting this conversation, but I won’t do it. We’ve had this talk, and I’m done. He’s not going away. He’s twenty-fucking-years old. He doesn’t know what he wants. Or what he needs.
Making a mistake takes seconds. Living with them takes a lifetime, and I don’t want my sons to suffer like that.
Before he can try to fight me again, I hop down from the truck and head for the house to get my own soapy water.
Tiernan
“Is it okay if take a truck to town and do some food shopping?” I sit at the breakfast table, toying with the burnt bacon in my hand and feeling it crumble onto the plate like a potato chip. “I can pick up anything you might need, too, while I’m out.”
Jake looks up at me, chewing his food, and I zone in right between his eyes—focusing—to get my mind off the fact that his stupid shirt is off again. I mean, seriously. Do these men ever get completely dressed? Women survive with the heat and sweat all the time without discarding our clothing.
“What do you need to eat other than bacon?” he questions.
But I keep my expression even, not indulging his joke.
He finally laughs. “Of course, you can take the truck.”
Reaching into his back pocket, he opens his wallet and pulls out some cash, tossing it into the middle of the table while Noah downs the rest of his milk.
“I have money,” I insist. I can contribute to my own expenses.
But he just argues back. “So do I,” he says. “We don’t need de Haas money in this house.”
de Haas money.
He slips his wallet back into his pocket, and I glance down at the hundred bucks he dropped on the table—far more than I actually need.
But I think he knows that. He just wants me to see that he can accommodate my lofty standards as much as his brother could.
Credence Page 8
