He sits in his seat with a plate and a cold beer in front of him, but his sterling-blue eyes are fixed on me. “You’re skinny.” His chin dips to my plate.
I roll my eyes and grab a fork. “You say skinny like it’s a bad thing.”
“Winter’ll eat you alive up here.” He shoves a bite of potato that’s dripping in cheddar cheese and bacon into his mouth.
“Not planning on sticking around till winter.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could suck them back in. I don’t want to fight with my dad, but he always manages to bring out my argumentative side.
His jaw ticks. “Either way, need to put some meat on your bones.” The words filter through a cheekful of food.
It’s pointless to explain that I’m an on-air personality and appearances mean everything. One, because my dad couldn’t give a shit. Two, because I’m no longer anything but a mountain man’s daughter who is currently eating steak that tastes a lot like crow.
We eat in silence and I shovel bites into my mouth, chew, and swallow all while scanning the cramped room in search of some semblance of life. Instead, everywhere I look I see death. Momma hunched over the dinner table in her wheelchair, her spine protruding beneath her thin nightgown while strings of drool soak her chest. My dad sitting exactly where he is now, his head in one hand and a mostly empty bottle of bourbon in the other while my momma sat, staring at nothing, and her mind understood everything.
I force myself to banish those memories in favor of good ones. My brother and I racing around my mom’s legs, hiding in her apron while she made fried bread and the best refried beans I’d ever tasted. Just as the scent of her Native American cooking hung in the air, so did the love she had for her family. She was the thread that held us together, and once she was gone, we all fell apart. My dad retreated into his work, my brother retreated into himself, and I couldn’t get away from it all fast enough.
Couldn’t get out of this house fast enough.
Because as much as I love her, the memories of her last days are all that seem to remain here. Just a few waking hours in this house and my skin is practically crawling for me to escape.
“Wanna tell me what happened?”
“Not really.” I shovel a bite into my mouth, hoping he doesn’t press.
“Saw the newscast, Shy.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. That’s because they cut the feed before I broke Leaf’s eye. “You froze. Happens. Don’t see what it’s worth firing you for.”
Pushing food around my plate, I avoid his eyes. “Yeah, well…personal feelings don’t mix with news reporting. I blew it.”
The room falls silent except for the sounds of our eating. I study the kitchen, trying to avoid seeing what might be disappointment on his face.
The clank of his fork on his plate calls my attention from a row of colorful kachina dolls that line the windowsill above the sink. “You got a plan?”
I nod. “I’ll call some old friends, see if any of them know of someplace that’s hiring.”
He laughs, but it’s far from the ha-ha funny kind. “Never was good enough for you,” he mumbles.
Well that didn’t take long.
I wipe my mouth and take a sip of water, then lean back, clearing my throat. “Suppose I should be impressed that it took you all of five minutes to bring that shit up.”
“Mouth.”
“I’m twenty-three years old. My mouth and how I use it are no longer your business.”
“In my house, you bet your ass it is.”
I cross my arms over my chest, my blood firing with irritation. “Oh, so ass is okay, yeah? Mind passing me along the list of approved curse words so I can keep from offending your delicate sensitivities during my short stay here?”
He growls and drops his chin, Nash Jennings’s universal body language for “this conversation is over.” His chest expands with a deep breath, causing me a twinge of regret.
Hell, all we’ve ever done is fight. Mom used to say it was because we were so much alike, which would just infuriate us both and we’d fight more.
He sits back, breathes deep, and shovels a heaping forkful of baked potato into his mouth, chews, and swallows. “Talk to the girls but know your job at Jennings is always open.”
“Thanks. I…” I’d rather slap myself in the face until I pass out. “We’ll see.”
He nods and tosses his napkin onto the table, then pushes out his seat enough to prop a heavy-booted foot on one knee. “Office could use you back. Shit’s gone to shit since you left.”
My jaw drops at his blatant cussing, but he doesn’t respond to my shock. Typical.
“I’ve sent out close to fifty résumés. Might get a bite here soon.” Probably not, but he doesn’t need to know that. I sent my résumé to every broadcasting station in the country that’s hiring and haven’t heard a word in response yet.
He tilts his head. “Been gone for five years, Shy. How long do we get you before you take off again?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t plan on living here long if that’s what you’re asking.”
His expression is impassive, but his eyes register the blow and reflect pain.
“Dad, it’s nothing personal.” That’s a lie. It’s always been personal. You’re nothing like your momma. “I could crash with Cody.”
“He’s living in a trailer down by Kohls Ranch.”
Damn, that won’t work. I love my brother, but I’m not cramming into a trailer and sleeping on a couch.
That leaves one other option. I hate bringing it up. Dad hasn’t been rational about it since momma died, but I have to try.
My teeth run along my top lip as nerves prick my gut. I shrug and pick at the worn edge of the rustic kitchen table. “What about the river house?”
I expect the air between us to string tight with tension, to feel the power of his glare on the top of my head like a physical touch, but instead there’s nothing.
I peek up to find his expression blank.
The river house was my mom and dad’s dream cottage. They’d started building it together a few years before mom got sick: the plan to move down there once my brother and I were out of the house. Unfortunately, the construction was halted when she lost the ability to use her hands, walk, and eventually became paralyzed. Since then my dad has all but pretended the place doesn’t exist. Last I checked, it wasn’t totally livable yet, but it has walls, running water, and electricity, and it’s not crawling with memories of her death.
“I know all the finishing work needs to be done, and it still needs some exterior work, but I can—”
“No.”
I jerk back and glare. “Why not?”
“It needed work—”
“Right, and I said I’d do the work.” He knows better than to treat me like some fragile flower that can’t handle a little labor. Hell, he taught me how to frame when I was twelve. My face burns with anger.
“It’s not that.”
I push back from the table, the harsh scratch of the chair legs on the floor intensifying the moment. “What is it, then?”
“It’s occupied.”
My stomach drops and I blink slowly. “I’m sorry…what?”
“Got a guy livin’ there now.” The way he says it, so unapologetically, like he didn’t deliver a verbal sucker punch, inflames me.
“How…?” No, he hasn’t set foot in that place for eight years and now he’s got a fucking tenant? “That’s Mom’s place.” The high pitch of outrage tints my words.
“Shy…”
“No.” I shake my head. “Kick the guy out. Evict him. I’m her daughter! If anyone deserves to live there, it’s me.”
“No can do, baby.”
“I can’t believe you’d do this.” I slam my palms on the table. “That was Mom’s dream house and you let a stranger move in? Was Cody okay with this?”
His failure to answer says all I need to know.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe this!” I push up from my chair, not sure wher
e I’m going, only that I need to get the hell away before I say something I can’t take back. A voice in my head whispers that he’s not the only one who’s irrational about that house, but I ignore it. “You had no right. How could you— No, forget it.” I grab my keys off the counter and storm out the back door. “I don’t care.”
If he thinks I’m going to live here with the memory of my mom’s death hanging off the walls like décor, he’s fucking crazy. I’d rather sleep in the dirt.
Four
Lucas
Nothing is as peaceful as a quiet day in the mountains when the only sound is the wind through the pine trees. It’s one of the reasons I settled in Payson.
It’s the absence of that silence, the complete opposite of serenity that has me stuck frozen outside Nash Jennings’s home. I could hear it as I pulled up the dirt drive, and the sound has me nearly paralyzed in fear.
The angry and shrieking voice of a woman.
A woman.
I haven’t known Cody and Nash for that long, but not once have I heard of my boss having a woman. Not that he’d talk about it if he did; he doesn’t strike me as the type to share the details of his personal life.
Cody leans forward in his seat and registers the tan-colored truck parked outside the house. “Oh shit…” He grins wide, humor in his voice. “She’s back.”
I swing my gaze between the house and Cody. “You okay with me droppin’ you off?”
He tilts his head toward me. “You kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” He grabs his tool belt off the floor and pushes out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride.”
Right as he’s about to shut the door, the slamming of a different door echoes from the rustic old house.
“I don’t care!”
A woman, or rather a girl, as she looks to be more my age than Nash’s, stomps across the gravel toward the truck. She trudges down the path, then stops with a yelp and cradles her bare foot. She hops on one leg, cussing like I’ve never heard a woman cuss, then drops to her butt. Her sleek black hair falls over her face as she inspects her wounded heel.
“You’re clumsy as hell, you know that, right?” Cody yells at the girl, and her eyes dart to him. Illuminated by my headlights, I watch her hateful expression instantly soften.
I suck in a breath when I catch the full force of her face. Maybe it’s the dimming light of sunset, but her black hair and olive skin are an intense contrast to the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I turn to Cody to avoid the intensity of her. The yelling, anger, and the fact that she’s female send sirens of retreat through my central nervous system. She’s overpowering.
“Oh, thanks a lot for the help, you piece of shit!” Although her words are harsh, they’re laced with affection, which is confusing.
Cody must pick up on it, too, because he barks out in laughter. “I’m coming, you big wuss.” He finally shuts the door to my truck and leans into the open window. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the delicate angel over there.”
“No, I better—”
“Take your time! My bloodstream’s flooding with tetanus, but you go ahead and have a chat.” She throws up one hand. “I’ll wait…fucker.” She mumbles the last word and yet manages to still make it sound like a powerful curse.
He shakes his head but thankfully lets me off the hook. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He makes his way toward the girl and says something I can’t hear but it makes her smile. Who is she to him? Cousin, girlfriend, sister?
Not my business.
I throw the truck into reverse and back out of the drive, but not before looking up one more time to see those pale eyes staring right through me.
* * *
Five minutes down the road from the Jennings’s house is my refuge. Hidden deep within the trees at the end of a single-lane dirt road is the little A-frame house I’ve managed to secure as home for the last seven weeks.
Its front porch pushes right up to a creek that turns into a river during the rainy season, or so I’ve heard. It’s functional; the only exceptional thing about the place is the location, but it’s better than the campsite I was at with nothing but a sleeping bag to keep me warm, a tarp to keep me dry, and a lake to bathe in. But even camping was a luxury compared to some of the places I lived before. At least the outdoors doesn’t come with bars, locks, or psychopathic roommates.
I park my pickup under the juniper tree by the back door and hop out, feeling the tightness in my muscles that always accompany a hard day’s labor. I grab a box of scrap that was left over from the last house we built. A few pieces of random, mismatched electrical plates, hardware, and doorknobs, all given to me by our foreman.
The trickle of the creek and wheezing of a soft wind through the trees calms my nerves and I’m reminded that I’m alone. Safe.
Halfway up the stairs, I sense movement from beneath the porch. I set down the box and lean around the railing but it’s too dark to see anything. Chances are it’s a raccoon or a possum. A high-pitched whine filters through the dark. Whatever is down there needs help.
I jog back to the truck and grab a flashlight and shine it under the porch to see a set of sad brown eyes staring back at me. It’s a dog. All the way out here? His fur is dark, but it looks like there are some spots that might’ve been white once upon a time.
“Hey, puppy. It’s okay.” I reach out, but the animal recoils as if my hand is a weapon. “I won’t hurt you.” I put down the flashlight but keep the beam shining in his general direction, and rest my elbows on my knees. “Come here, you’re okay.”
He whimpers and readjusts to lying down, claiming his spot and not budging.
“You hungry?”
Another sad whine, as if he can actually understand what I’m saying. I take all four porch steps in one stride and let myself into the house, turning on the single bulb that hangs in the kitchen, and pop open the fridge. Mayo, mustard, peanut butter…no. I grab a package of hot dogs and head back down to peer beneath the deck.
Ripping off an end, I squat and hold out the meat. He stares at my hand but doesn’t move. I toss the piece back and he sniffs it a couple times before swallowing it in one bite. “Yeah, you’re hungry.”
I rip off another piece and strings of slobber drip from his jowls. It’s as if tasting food ignited his hunger even more, a feeling I can relate to. One after another, I toss pieces and he inhales each until he’s consumed five hot dogs, all of what was left in the package.
“Full, Buddy? Come here.” I pat my thighs and he retreats deeper into the shadows.
The weather is nice enough. He should be fine for the night as well as be protected from larger animals under the porch. I’ve got too much work to do tonight to try to coax him out.
If there’s one thing I know about being scared, it’s that trust isn’t given out freely, and the dark is your best friend.
I head back inside and take a quick shower, bringing my clothes in with me to wash them and hang them to dry. The room I sleep in is mostly empty except for a bare mattress one of the guys at work gave me. With some sheets and a pillow I got from a garage sale, and my sleeping bag as a blanket, it’s one of the most comfortable places I’ve ever slept, and that has little to do with the bed.
Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, I drag my feet against the cold hardwood floor into the kitchen where I’ve laid out a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of bread.
Expiration on the jar is two years from now.
Bread is fresh, free of mold.
I check the food one more time. Again. And once more before I make myself two peanut butter sandwiches.
“It’s good. It’s safe.” I say the words aloud to myself and it helps.
Tentatively I take the first bite, rolling it around in my mouth to test the flavor before swallowing. It’s been ten years since I was forced to eat the food given to me, and even still the hazy memories of violent food poisoning coupled with laughter haunt my every meal. I shove down the sandwi
ches with no enjoyment, meeting the base need quickly before I can talk myself out of it, then clean up and move to the single piece of furniture in the house.
A small table and chair I made from scrap wood after the first build I worked on with Jennings. It’s pieced together by two-by-fours in random lengths but sanded smooth and stained to the color of maple syrup. The chair is much of the same, and although the wood is unforgiving and aches my back, the pride in what I’ve created makes it seem like goose down.
I crank open the casement windows and note the scent of pine and fresh dirt. So much better than the sterile, recycled air I was breathing for most of my life. At least, the most I remember.
I grab my sketchbook and flip open to a blank page. Pencil in hand, I toy with ideas for the mantelpiece but find focus difficult, as my thoughts are on today. That episode with Cody was too close. Since the morning I woke up here, I’ve only had a few minor blackouts that lasted just hours, but thankfully I’ve come back to consciousness here in the cabin every time. Safe.
But the story of the Wilson family homestead triggered the blackness. I felt the veil tickling the edges of my mind, threatening to fall. I can’t get so comfortable that I forget to protect myself. If I blacked out in front of Cody, he’d probably tell his dad and I could lose my job. Or worse, Cody would see a side of me that even I know very little about.
If I go black, I can’t be responsible for what happens and I’ll be back to living my life on the run.
Five
Shyann
“Miss Shyann Blue Jennings, I cannot believe my eyes!” Dorothy from the 87 Café, aptly named for its placement right on I-87 that runs through Payson, presses her palm against her robust stained-apron-covered chest, feigning shock. Chances are she knew I was back in town the second my front tires crossed Main Street.
She’s been living in Payson since she was a little girl and I’d swear her roots run so deep under this town she feels the earth shift when someone new steps into it. And once they do, she’s the bullhorn that spreads the good news and she doesn’t gossip the modern way with text messages and social media. No, she’s old school. She’s all about the face-to-face gab session, which I swear is the only reason she even works in the town’s busiest restaurant that doubles as Payson’s social hub.
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