His son snaps to attention at the booming of his father’s voice. “What’s up?” He takes in his dad and gives me a chin lift that I return.
I’d never tell them, but Nash and Cody Jennings are the closest people I have in my life. They helped me out when I had nothing, and although it doesn’t seem like much, this little powwow is considered a pretty deep conversation for us.
“I need you to take a guy to the Wilson homestead and get as much of the wood you can fill in your truck.”
Cody pulls off his work gloves and shoves them into his back pocket. “Wilson place? Why?”
“Hippies from the valley. They want as much repurposed woodwork as we can provide. Wilson property is owned by the bank; they said we could take what we want since they’re gonna level it all anyway.” Nash pulls the blueprint and rolls it up.
“Can’t take my truck.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re unloading the siding and have to go back for more.”
“Take Lucas and his truck. See what you can salvage.” His tone implies this is not a suggestion.
“Sure thing.” Cody sets his black eyes on mine, so different from his father’s, which makes me wonder what his mother looks like. From the little I’ve picked up in the two months I’ve lived here, she’s not part of either of their lives anymore. “You ready?”
I pull out my keys and we move to my navy blue pickup. It’s an older model, nothing fancy, but it’s full-sized and built for hauling.
Luckily the Wilson homestead isn’t far, so I won’t be forced to talk much. Between Nash and Cody, the younger seems to be the most talkative of the two. Although he gave up asking me about anything personal after only a few days of knowing him.
It’s better that way.
Too much sharing would lead to stories of the past.
Stories would lead to feelings.
Can’t hold back the blackouts unless I stay numb.
Shyann
Ain’t this a bitch.
Sitting outside the old double-wide portable office with the Jennings Contractors sign slapped on the side, my stomach ties in knots. It’s not facing off with one of Payson’s most respected citizens, which isn’t saying much for a town with a population of 15,000, and it’s not my dad’s disappointment I’m nervous about either. It’s the satisfaction I’ll be giving him once he sees he was right.
“Good luck makin’ it out there on your own, Shy. You don’t belong out there. You belong here in town close to your momma.”
“Pretty sure she doesn’t give a crap where I go, Dad, seein’ as she’s dead. Besides, she left home when she was my age, found you. Don’t be a hypocrite.”
I cringe at the memory of our last conversation the morning I left town, his glare practically shoving me out the door along with the parting words that sliced through my gut.
“You’re nothing like your momma.”
He’s right.
She was strong, resilient, walked away from her childhood home and never looked back.
I came crawling back just as he always said I would.
“Fuck!” I slam my open palms against the steering wheel. “Ouch!” Gasping in pain, I shake out the nerve sting, willing myself to calm down.
Almost two hours in the truck that included a very long lunch break at an old café just outside of town and I still haven’t perfected my speech, which I managed to put together in my head without even a sliver of suck-up to the Great Nash Jennings.
“I’m back, but it’s only temporary. I’d love a place to stay while I get back on my feet. I’ll find a job, save some money, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
He’ll have to torture me to get me to beg or admit I screwed up. He can’t know how close I was to making it big only to make an even bigger ass out of myself on live television.
A tiny part of me whispers that maybe he already knows. He wouldn’t get my old news channel here in Payson, but he’d get the Phoenix feed. Shit, how many people in town saw me make a complete fool out of myself and will know when they see me that I’ve been fired?
I swing out of the truck and go to wait inside. Chances are the old man forgot to lock the door.
The familiar feeling of rocks and dried pine needles crunch beneath my feet as I drag myself up the steps. A gust of crisp, dry mountain air whirls through the tall trees and I can’t deny the comfort I find in it.
Reminds me of when my mom would walk me through the forest and tell me old Navajo stories about the tricky coyote who slayed a giant or the boy who became a god. She always made it easy to believe I was capable of becoming so much more than a small girl in a small town.
I reach for the door handle, but it’s locked. I’m about to drop down on the steps and wait when the roar of a truck engine and spinning of tires in dirt sends my stomach plummeting.
Pulling together every bit of pride I have left, which isn’t much, I square my shoulders and watch my dad’s truck jerk to a halt.
The engine cuts off and my dad studies my truck in confusion. He must see me move from the corner of his eye, because his glare snaps to mine. I hold up one hand, maybe a wave, maybe an alien “I come in peace” greeting, which would make sense judging by the scrutiny of his cold stare.
His eyebrows drop low and he opens the door, swinging out his long, denim-clad legs tipped with massive steel-toe work boots. He leans back against his truck, arms crossed over his chest.
No welcome-home smile, arms open in acceptance? No, in typical mountain-man style, Nash Jennings is not going down without a fight. Shit.
I drop heavy footsteps down the stairs. “Hey, Dad.”
“Shy. Everything okay?” As hard as he is, I detect the edge of worry in his voice.
My dad never has responded well to subtlety, and I agree it’s a waste of time. “Lost my job.”
He remains stoic, not giving away an ounce of what he’s feeling. “This visit, it temporary?” Translation: How long till you take off running again?
I close a few feet of distance between us but stay at arm’s length. I hope he sees it as me being brave, standing on my own, rather than the buffer zone I need to keep from throwing myself at his mercy.
Fact is, I’m desperate. And, hell, I miss having someone to lean on. Trevor was okay, but it’s hard to lean on a man who’s more concerned about me crinkling his New York Times.
“I don’t know. I’m broke, don’t have anywhere else to go.” I shrug one shoulder and dig the toe of my white Ked into the dirt. “Thought maybe you’d give me a place to stay while I get on my feet.” So much for my tough-girl speech. One look from my old man and I’m back to being sixteen years old.
His glare tightens, making his pale blue eyes even more daunting. “Then what?”
“Try to get back into broadcasting, I guess. If I can find someone who’ll hire me.”
He scratches his jaw and the corner of his lip curls into a half-smile. “Who’d you piss off, Shy?”
Only my dad would find my highly sensitive temper funny. “Everyone, basically.”
“Shit, can’t say I’m surprised.” He dips his chin and rubs the back of his neck, but I can see the curl of his lips is still there.
“Gee. Thanks, Dad.” Salt in the wound, the old Jennings way. Man up or shut up.
A small chuckle rumbles in his chest before he pulls it together and pierces me with a glare. “What the hell are you wearin’?”
I peek down at my khaki capris complete with cuffs that hit me midcalf and the mint-green polo shirt that makes me hungry for butter mints. “Only thing I got.”
“Haven’t touched your room since you left. All your clothes are still there.” He motions to my feet. “Don’t wanna get your purdy shoes dirty slummin’ out here with the rednecks.”
Back for all of three minutes and he’s already picking a fight. I hold on to the growl and string of powerful words that itch for release and submit with a nod.
“The house is unlocked. Supper’s at seven.” He pushes off the
truck and moves past me.
That was fairly painless. No dragging me back through the night I left for college, reminding me of all the shitty and unforgiveable things I said, no throwing in my face all the promises I’d made to cut him out of my life completely. Nothing.
“That’s it?”
He stops and peers over his shoulder. “You’re my daughter, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer since I obviously am.
“What kind of man turns away his daughter?”
My eyes flood with heat and if I were the crying type I’d probably shed a tear. But I’m not.
“Besides…knew you’d be back,” he mumbles as he moves to the door.
My spine snaps straight and an uncontrollable, and rather pathetic, growl gargles in my throat. My dad’s answering chuckle works to further infuriate me.
“G’on now. Go unload. We’ll talk more tonight.” The door to his office slams behind him and I stomp my foot so hard pain shoots up my leg.
Arrogant, hardheaded, bossy…ugh!
I march back to my car, but rather than follow Dad’s orders, I drive around for another hour exercising my free will. Yeah, it’s a waste of gas. It’s also irresponsible because I have no money, but I do it all smiling.
Everyone else in this town might bend to the will of Nash Jennings. Not me.
Three
Lucas
I run my fingertips along the grain of the near hundred-year-old wood. The rich, dark patina speaks of seasons upon seasons of life. Snow, rain, and sun have all contributed to the dense color that will soon lend its personality to a modern home.
This old pine was probably harvested from the acres of wooded land surrounding this homestead. On three acres there are five different structures: the main house, which is gone except for the old stone fireplace, stands like a tombstone and four small structures probably housed the Wilson’s adult children.
Cody presses both hands against the exterior wall of one of the smaller cabins and it creaks, then sways. “Shouldn’t be too hard to knock down.”
I nod and slide my gloved hand over the wood and rusted nails. “Shame to take it, though.”
“Banks just gonna sell this land. We’re doin’ them a favor.” He runs the back of his hand across his forehead, pushing his sweat-soaked black hair off his face. “If we don’t take it, it’ll end up in some junkyard. ’Least we take it we reuse it.”
I shrug and wedge the flat end of a crowbar between two pieces of wood. The wood slats have aged dark, but it’s the posts behind them I’m interested in. Leveraging with my weight, the old nails give way easily and I start a pile of salvageable wood. Cody does the same, throwing out pieces that are fragile and cracked. We fall into silence working side by side until our shirts are wet and our forearms and necks are pink and sting from the sun.
Once there’s nothing left to the structure, I motion to a small pile of rocks that is all that’s left of the cabin. “Not much more we can get out of this one.”
“Thank fuck. It’s hot as hell out here.” He tosses his crowbar and I load the first of a healthy pile of salvage wood into the back of the pickup. “Watch your back.” His eyes grow wide in mock fear. “Old Man Wilson might be lurking.”
I strong-arm a large pile of wood into the truck carefully to avoid splinters the size of pencils. “I thought you said the bank owned it?”
He chuckles and fires a few long planks into the truck bed, tossing up dirt. “I’m talking about the dead one.” He wiggles his gloved fingers and makes a haunted Ooooo sound before laughing.
“You mean a ghost?” I attempt to inflect humor into my voice and fail.
“Ahh…that’s right. You’ve only been here for a couple months. You’re not familiar with Payson’s history.” He tosses in an armful of planks and leans against the tailgate, breathing hard. “Wilson family. One of the first homesteaders in town, back in 1880 or some shit.”
I listen, but just barely, preoccupied with separating and loading wood.
“Old man Wilson was hard on the boys, used a horse whip on ’em, or so rumor has it.”
My head buzzes and vision blurs.
“One night they banned together, busted into their parents’ bedroom while they were sleeping.” He motions to the stone chimney of the main house. “Right over there, man. Those boys slit their father’s throat.”
I brace myself against the truck. Cody doesn’t seem to notice, or he just assumes I’m exhausted. Maybe that’s all it is, that combined with the heat.
“In the man’s own bed. Got their payback by watching him bleed out all over their own mother.”
My eyes focus on the wood, studying every intricate curve of its grain to keep in the present and fight off the gray haze edging my vision. I blink and wipe sweat from my eyes, hoping it’s the cause of my blurry view.
Not a blackout. Please, do not black out.
“They buried the man’s body somewhere on their land. When people started to figure things out, family said he’d been attacked by a mountain lion. Their mom carried that to her grave, never would give her sons up.” He chuckles and the sound of his boots crunching against dirt cuts through my near-blackout fog. “Story goes, the sound of their mother’s screams can still be heard in the night.”
I cringe. The tailgate slams shut.
Gunfire.
Blackness flickers before my eyes.
“Whoa, dude, you okay?”
I blink back the darkness to find Cody, his hands on my shoulders and his concerned expression less than a foot from my face.
I blacked out. But only for a second.
“I’m fine, yeah.” I step back and dip my chin to wipe my sweaty face on my shoulder. “Hot. That’s all.”
“Freaky-ass shit, man.” His gaze moves over my face. “Your eyes, they…” He motions to my eyes. “Your face got all serious and your eyes…” He grins and starts laughing. “Oh, I get it!” He shoves me and shakes his head. “Real funny, asshole.”
“Ha, yeah. I was just messin’ around.” I reach into the cab of the truck to grab my water. My pulse pounds in my neck and I slow my breathing.
That was close. Way too close. Luckily this one was short enough to explain away. If I had a real blackout in front of Cody, he’d know my secret. I can’t afford to get too close and let my guard down. I slipped up. That can’t happen again. If I screw this up and they find out who I am, what I’ve done, I’ll never be able to stay here.
He comes around to the passenger side and hops in, still chuckling. “Remind me to never play ghost stories with you, freaky bastard.”
Freaky bastard. If he only knew how true that is.
Shyann
God, this house is oppressive.
My feet are planted in the doorway of my old room. Everything seems so small. I’d think the most successful homebuilder in town would build himself a bigger house. I step inside to sit on my bed as guilt rushes to the surface and threatens to suffocate me worse than the tiny bedroom I grew up in.
My dad would never leave this place. It’s the first and only home he lived in with my mom. They built it after they got married, raised my brother and me in it, and my mom breathed her last breath just two doors down from where I’m sitting.
I drop back on the twin bed, bashing my head against the log wall. “Ow, son of a…” I rub my pounding skull and take in the white eyelet curtains and pink wicker furniture. “And suddenly I’m ten again.”
Boxes line one side of the room, mostly knock-off designer clothes that’ll do me no good up here. Just as the dust in this room clouds my vision, so, too, does exhaustion fog my mind as the reality of my situation presses down on me.
I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman living with her dad because I couldn’t do my job. No matter how many times I’ve checked my phone for the we-made-a-mistake-firing-you e-mail from the network, it never comes.
Shit, that reminds me. I should message Trevor and let him know I’m here. I dig into my back pocket and pull
out my phone, hit the text icon, and groan.
“No service. Shocker.” I could call him from my dad’s landline, but I was hoping to avoid a lengthy conversation that would only serve to remind me how far I’d fallen.
I toss the high-tech, now-useless piece of crap to my bedside table, scrunch my pillow under my head, and pray for sleep to take me. Maybe when I wake I’ll realize this is all just some bad dream and I didn’t fuck up my entire future and land right back where I started.
With nothing.
* * *
“Shy.”
The booming voice pierces the thick solitude of sleep.
“Hmm.” I nuzzle deeper into my pillow.
“Hungry?” There’s a concern in his voice that I instantly recognize. “Food’s ready.”
My eyes snap open.
Ahh, yes. I’m home. Crap.
As my mind comes to, so does my belly. I roll to my back and stretch. “I’m up.”
“Come on, it’s getting cold.” The thump of his boots against the hardwood floor retreats down the hallway.
“So much for waking from this nightmare.” I yawn and stretch again, noticing the sun that was outside the window when I nodded off is now dipped below the tree line, turning the sky vibrant shades of pinks and purples.
I shuffle to the kitchen, where I’m hit with the mouthwatering scent of my dad grilling. If there’s one thing my dad does well, outside of building beautiful homes, it’s cooking meat over fire.
He plates a steak the size of my head next to a loaded baked potato with all the grace of a Neanderthal.
“Smells good.” I grab a glass and fill it with water from the sink, then sit at the table in the spot I’d occupied as a little girl. The seat at the end where my mother used to sit has a light coating of dust, whereas my seat along with my brother’s across from me seems to be used from time to time.
He drops the plate in front of me. “Eat up.”
I stare wide-eyed at the meal that’s big enough to feed a family and my stomach rumbles. “I’ll do my best.”
Split Page 3
