by Sharon Sala
It’s not your journey to understand.
Wes gasped. The voice was so loud it echoed in his head.
“I don’t want to be here,” he said softly.
It’s not about what you want. It’s about what you have to do.
The flesh crawled on the back of Wes’s neck. Either he was having a moment with God, or he was losing his mind.
“I don’t believe in You anymore,” he muttered.
That’s all right, son. I still believe in you.
At that point Wes lay back down and pulled the pillow over his head.
The next thing he knew, it was morning and the alarm was going off.
Twelve
Ally was up early, picking tomatoes from the garden before the day got too hot. Tomorrow was the inevitable supper with Freddie Joe. She could only imagine what Wes’s appearance would do to the mix, but she couldn’t make herself care. She knew she should feel guilty for putting him in such an awkward position, but she also knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself.
Buddy was trailing her up and down the rows, nosing beneath the staked plants and licking her fingers as she reached for the ripe produce. She patted him gently from time to time, but his presence was definitely a hindrance.
“Move, baby,” she said, and gave him an easy push. “I’m not ever going to get finished if you keep getting in my way.”
Buddy looked up at her and then licked her face before she could move back.
“Eew, Buddy…”
Grinning, she pulled up the hem of her T-shirt and wiped dog off her face. This behavior was out of the ordinary for him, and she wondered if he sensed how unsettled she felt. She patted him on the head and was still smiling when she turned around and saw Wes Holden walking down the road on his way to work.
She started to call out a hello when he saw her and waved.
“Don’t forget tomorrow night!” she called.
He nodded and gave her a thumbs-up as he kept on walking.
The brief moment of seeing him gave her heart a lift and put a smile on her face that lasted through the morning.
The week had flown by with continuous rains. Wes’s sleep had been restless. He’d had dreams that brought him to tears, which he hated. Before, he’d never cried. He’d been raised to be tough, and what his father hadn’t taught him about a stiff upper lip, the army had. Most of the time he managed to subdue his emotions, but at night, when he was alone and at his weakest, the despair was there. The smallest things would make him think of Mikey, which in turn would remind him of the huge hole his son’s passing had left behind.
He and Margie had talked more than once about what would happen if one or the other of them ever became a single parent. Usually it was Wes who was counseling Margie, because his life was so often on the line. He’d rarely thought of living on without her, let alone without his son, yet here he was, afoot on a mountain with a man who wanted him gone and a woman who made him remember just how much he had lost. It was in this mind-set that he started off to work.
He’d kissed her, and it had left him wanting more. Tomorrow night he would sit at a table with her and her family and suffer their scrutiny, as well as the antagonism her unwanted suitor would feel. It would be the most human contact he’d had in more than a year and it made him smile. One thing was for sure. He wouldn’t be bored.
The road down to Blue Creek was still muddy and the ruts deep, but he stayed on the shoulder, walking in the grass instead. After yesterday and the hard, driving rain, the world smelled clean and fresh. Birds were everywhere, going from limb to ground to spear the earthworms that had been driven up to the surface, then back again, rejoicing in Mother Nature’s smorgasbord. Wes felt obliged to share their happiness.
As he passed the Monroe property, he’d seen a flash of yellow out in the garden. When he’d realized it was Ally, his steps had slowed. She was down between the tomato rows and laughing at something the dog was doing. The faint sound of her laughter washed over him. Sunlight caught in the honey-colored hair she had tied at the nape of her neck. The ribbon was yellow, like her shirt. When she finally stood up, he saw that her jeans were old, almost white from repeated laundering, but so soft they molded to her long legs and trim figure.
An ache settled deep in his belly. He was supposed to be in mourning, even though it had been more than a year since they’d been gone. Then he’d heard himself call out a greeting. When she smiled and waved back, guilt disappeared. All he wanted was to sit in her presence and let the peace that surrounded her flow into his heart.
About a mile down the road, a pig farmer named Sylvester Smith recognized Wes from the feed store and offered him a ride. Wes took it gladly, which put him at Harold James’s feed store thirty minutes early.
Harold was still across the street at the café drinking coffee when he noticed Wes sitting on the front steps of the feed store. He swallowed the last of his coffee in a gulp, tossed some money on the counter and hurried out the door. It wasn’t good for the boss to be the last to work.
“Hey there,” Harold said as he stepped up on the curb. “You’re early.”
Wes nodded. “Yeah, caught a ride with Mr. Smith.”
“I suppose we might just as well open up. Who knows? Might start a trend,” Harold said, and then grinned.
“I hope not, unless I’m lucky enough to catch a ride every morning.”
Harold laughed, and so the morning began.
Danny and Porter were finally back from Charleston. They were full of themselves as they came into the house, dumping their dirty clothes by the door as they stole warm cookies from the tray Ally had just taken out of the oven.
Danny grinned and winked at her as he stuffed a whole one in his mouth.
Ally grinned back. It was impossible not to. His red hair and impish expression were infectious.
“These are good,” he said, then added, “Did you miss us?”
“About as much as I missed those dirty clothes. Don’t leave them at the door, mister. I didn’t wear them.”
Danny chuckled, but he picked up the bag.
“Don’t get mad. We were going to wash the stuff all along.”
“Uh-huh,” Ally said, and slid the cookies onto a cooling rack.
Porter was Danny’s opposite—tall where his brother was short, dark where Danny was red-headed and fair—and with a contrasting personality to boot. He was the polar opposite of Danny Monroe in every way possible. Danny was quick to anger—quick to fight—while Porter took a slower but more unforgiving approach to his enemies. But he, too, loved his sister’s cookies. He took a couple from the cooling rack and eyed her as he took a bite. He ate until both were gone, then washed them down with a cold pop.
“Good stuff,” he said as his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What’s going on with you?”
Startled by his perceptiveness, she felt herself blushing even as she denied it.
“As always, nothing,” she said, and began filling another cookie sheet with dough yet to be baked.
Porter kept watching her. He’d seen the color flood her face.
“You still mad at Dad about Freddie Joe?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Porter shrugged.
“You don’t have to do it,” he said.
“I know that, and you know that. The only problem is Dad. He still treats us like children.”
“Probably ’cause we’re all still living under his roof,” Porter offered.
Ally was surprised by his honesty.
“We all know why I’m still here,” she said. “But why did you and Danny stay?”
“The path of least resistance?”
Ally shook her head.
Porter grinned wryly. “Yeah, I know…basically, you’ve made it easy for us all to stay, but if you hit it off with Freddie Joe, that could change.”
“Don’t count on that ever happening,” Ally said. “He’s lazy and mean.”
Porter stared at her for a few momen
ts, then grinned.
“Yeah, he is, isn’t he?”
Ally made a face at him. “You and Danny are no help at all. The least you could do is back me up when Dad starts in on me again.”
“’Fraid to,” Porter said. “If he quits on you, he’ll start in on me and Danny.”
“Wretch,” Ally muttered.
“I know.” He took another cookie, bit into it with relish and then winked at her. “But you love us just the same.”
“Not enough to do your laundry, though,” she said.
He laughed, and Ally thought to herself how handsome he was—her eldest brother.
A few minutes later the washing machine was humming and Ally was taking the last tray of cookies from the oven when both brothers came back into the room.
“See you this evening after we get off work,” Danny said.
Ally turned in surprise.
“Work?”
“Yeah, Porter and I start work for Roland Storm today.”
She thought about telling them what Wes had said about Storm, then changed her mind. Nothing had really happened, and they needed the work.
“It’s sort of late to be going to work,” she said.
“We had to wait for good weather. He told us not to come until the rains had passed.”
Ally had already given Danny her opinion of the job. Now there was nothing left for her to do but pray they wouldn’t get into trouble.
“Does Dad know?” she asked.
“Porter told him.”
Ally persisted. “Told him what?”
Danny’s expression darkened. “Damn it, Ally. We’ve already been through this. We’re harvesting herbs. See you at supper.”
“Don’t forget, tomorrow is the night Freddie Joe and his children come to eat.”
“Oh, yeah,” Danny said.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Porter added.
“You both make me sick,” Ally said.
They laughed. The screen door banged behind them, and she remembered Wes’s warning and locked herself in.
There was nothing for Ally to do but watch them go. Once they were gone, the house seemed unusually quiet, even though she could hear the faint thump and hum of the washing machine in the shed outside.
She dropped the cookie sheets into the sink, then turned around. The house was empty again—just like her life. She tried not to feel sorry for herself, but it kept coming to the fore. People came and went in her life, while her life always stayed the same. She wondered what they thought of her—the cripple, the old maid, the woman nobody wanted—except, of course, Freddie Joe, and now Roland Storm.
She thought of the kiss she’d shared with Wes and suddenly felt as if she were going to explode. Even though she’d told her father she would have none of it, tomorrow Freddie Joe and his children would be sitting at this table, watching her every move and picturing her as the new woman in their lives. She couldn’t stop them from coming, but they were all due for a big disappointment.
Roland Storm was up by daybreak to retrieve his stranded truck. By the time he started down the road with the second set of keys that he’d finally found, the sun was up and the sky was clear, but it didn’t change his mood. He believed that everything he had going for him was in danger of being ruined. He needed to find out who was living in Dooley Brown’s house and why he was there. He didn’t think anyone had gotten wind of Triple H, but he couldn’t be sure. If the need warranted, he would get rid of him just like he’d gotten rid of Dooley Brown.
Suddenly a twig snapped in the trees. Roland gasped and turned, certain he was about to come face-to-face with the knife-wielding stranger again. A moment later, a doe bolted from the forest, leapt across the road and disappeared into the trees on the other side.
“Shit,” Roland muttered.
He was still shaking as he began to trot. The sooner he got his truck and drove home, the better he would feel. Being afoot made him feel vulnerable.
A short while later, he reached the truck and started to get in, then realized that the doors were locked. Almost certain that it hadn’t been locked last night when he’d discovered his keys were missing, he frowned as he used the other key to unlock it.
The hinges on the door squeaked as it swung open. He started to slide into the seat when he suddenly stopped and leapt back. His eyes widened, then his heart skipped a beat. His keys—the keys he’d lost—were lying on the seat.
Roland’s mind began to race. The keys hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t overlooked them in the dark, of that he was certain. That meant that someone had found them, followed him up the mountain without his knowledge, dropped them in the truck, then locked it as a taunt.
Roland’s hand was shaking as he reached for the keys, then dropped them into his pocket. He slid into the seat and quickly locked the doors, then sat for a moment, gazing intently into the trees, then down the road, wondering if he was being watched at this very moment.
“You bastard,” he muttered, then thrust the key into the ignition. “I will not be humiliated in this manner.”
But his threat was empty, and he knew it. As soon as the engine fired, he put it in gear and stomped the accelerator. The tires spun on mud and leaves, then the truck suddenly shot out into the road and promptly slid sideways. There were a few nervous moments when he feared he would be in the ditch before he had the vehicle under control. He made himself calm down, the truck righted itself, and he drove home, keeping watch on the road ahead, as well as the road behind.
It wasn’t until a couple of hours later that the Monroe brothers showed up. By that time, he’d worked himself into a state.
Danny and Porter were just getting out of their truck when Roland dashed out of the house.
“Who’s the man who’s living in that little toadstool house down the road? I won’t be spied on! You hear me?”
In that moment, Danny felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck as his sister’s warning echoed in his mind. Storm’s eyes were bloodshot, and there was a speck of spittle at the corner of his lips.
Porter, however, took the greeting as an insult and pointed at Danny.
“Get back in the truck,” Porter said. “We’re going home.”
Roland groaned. He needed these two men badly. They couldn’t leave him in the lurch.
“Wait!” he cried.
Porter kept on walking, but Danny stopped.
Roland could tell he was going to have to do some fast talking to get himself out of this.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, and I wasn’t accusing you boys of anything. It’s just that he’s been giving me problems.”
Danny frowned. “Who’s been giving you problems?”
“The man who lives in that odd little house up the road from your place.”
“No one lives in that house anymore,” Porter said.
“Oh, yes they do,” Roland said. “There’s a man living there. I’ve seen him twice.”
Porter stared at Danny. “You know anything about this?”
Danny shook his head. “No, but Ally might.”
At the mention of their sister’s name, Roland’s anger scattered.
“Who’s Ally?” he asked, although he knew very well who she was.
“Our sister,” Porter said. “The house is hers now. It belonged to our mother’s only brother. Ally inherited it when he died.”
Roland felt his lips going numb. Uncle? He hadn’t known they were related, but it didn’t matter who Dooley Brown had been related to. Triple H was Roland’s main concern.
“Regardless of who the house belongs to, there’s a man living there who I believe is trying to steal my crop.”
Danny frowned. “The herbs?”
“Yes, the herbs,” Roland said.
Porter’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He’d been doubtful of Storm’s honesty from the moment Danny had mentioned what they were going to be paid.
“Are they worth all that?” Porter asked.
Ro
land turned on him in fury. It made Porter think of a rabid dog.
“They are to me,” Roland said. “And they’re ready for harvest.”
Danny looked at Porter. Porter stared long and hard at Roland, then arched an eyebrow at Danny and gave his shoulders a shrug.
“What do we do first?” Danny asked.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” Roland said.
They followed Storm to the barn, and began checking over the old tractor and equipment he intended them to use.
“Needs grease,” Porter said as he kicked one of the tractor’s front tires.
“In there,” Roland said, pointing to a dusty cabinet. “Once the crop is down, you’ll need to gather it by hand. You can use that flat-bed trailer to load the bundles. We’ll be drying them in the old tobacco sheds.”
Danny nodded and pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket.
Roland watched their expressions, fearing that they would betray him, yet unable to do this without them. Maybe if he gave them the impression that the stuff was poison, they wouldn’t be inclined to steal some of it for themselves.
“Look, in its raw form, the stuff could be toxic, but if you’re wearing long-sleeved shirts and gloves, which you both are, you should be all right.”
Porter held up his hands and started backing up.
“Whoa…now, wait a minute,” he said. “No one said anything about toxicity.”
Roland cursed himself. That had backfired nicely. The crop was ready to harvest, he couldn’t do it by himself, and he didn’t dare let these two men walk out of here and start spreading it around that he was growing something poisonous.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Roland said. “I’m a specialist in these things. There are plenty of things we use that start out toxic, only we know how to process them to remove the dangers. These herbs are no exception.”
“Name one thing,” Porter stated.
Roland threw up his hands. “Hell, off the top of my head, the first thing I can think of is foxglove—it’s the plant from which we derive digitalis, which is one of the medicines that keeps people with bad hearts from dying. But in its native state, it’s a poison.”
