by Lexi Whitlow
“I dunno. It was eleven this morning and he said he was halfway there. I’d expect him any time.”
Shit.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I say. “At least I’m not completely blindsided.”
Maybe I can get rid of him before Camden gets home this afternoon. That’s a good plan.
That idea looks more doable by the minute when I see an unfamiliar car hurdling down Mollman Pass Trail, lifting a cloud of dust in its wake.
This has to be Mark, driving a Mini Cooper too fast down a dirt road. No one else would be that boldly stupid. He could hit a rut and break an axle, flipping that little thing six times before it stopped moving.
The Mini turns in and sure enough, I recognize Mark’s face peering at me, grinning, through the windshield.
The soul patch is gone, replaced by a full beard. I’m not sure which I like least.
He parks the tiny car and steps out, a wide grin stretched across his face.
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” he says. “Kara must have called you.”
I nod. “She did. Lucky for you. I’ve had a few minutes to prepare. Mark, you shouldn’t be here.”
He dismisses my concern, stepping forward, stretching from the long drive. He’s dressed in slacks and little brown wingtips, a fitted dress shirt and a vest, like he’s getting ready for a GQ fashion week spread. I can tell he’s making good money by the clothes and the car. Otherwise, he’s unchanged in every other essential.
“You told me not to come,” he says, stepping closer, looking around. “That’s when I knew I had to come. When Kara told me not to come, that sealed the deal.”
“So, what I want doesn’t matter?” I ask him. “Mark, are you really this arrogant, or are you just stupid?”
He looks hurt.
“This isn’t Disneyland,” I say. “This is where I work. This is someone’s home. You can’t just show up unannounced. Not only is it rude as shit, you also put my job at risk.”
Mark laughs. “Good!” he says. “Maybe you’ll get fired and then come back to civilization.”
Behind me I hear the screen door squeak open. Emma comes up from behind, sliding her arm around my leg, regarding Mark with cautious curiosity.
“Hey there little girl,” Mark says, “What’s your name?”
She looks up at me for permission before answering. “Emma.”
“That’s a pretty name,” Mark says. “I’m and old friend of Grace’s. I came to see her.”
I drop down, getting face to face with Grace. “Go inside baby. I’ll be inside in a minute.”
When I return my attention to Mark, it’s with intent. “You can’t be here,” I say. “Find a place to stay in town and I’ll come have lunch with you tomorrow. I’m on the clock now. You have to go.”
Mark laughs at me. “You’re on the clock with a six-year-old, and I don’t see anybody else around except for horses.” He steps forward. “Grace. Baby. It’s been months. Let’s talk.”
My plan for getting rid of Mark evaporates when I see a familiar, black 4WD pick-up bounding down the trail. I can hear the big engine powering toward us, and I know there’s no way to avoid the inevitable.
Mark’s timing could not be worse.
“Find a place to stay in town. Text me.” I say, as Cam turns his truck down the lane toward the house. “And don’t be a dick. Cam’s probably had a rough day.”
“Who’s Cam?” Mark asks.
He hears the truck rumbling up, turning his head toward it, momentarily confused.
When Camden steps out of the truck, I see his wary expression. He takes in the little lime green and black striped car before settling his assessing gaze upon Mark, sizing him up.
“Hey,” I say, trying my best to hide my agitation. “Camden, this is Mark, from Mountain View. Mark, this is my boss, Camden Davis.”
The way the two of them look at one another, you’d think it was a cock-fight about to commence.
Cam’s brows lift. He looks at me, then at Mark, then back at me. “Mark?” he asks. “Middle school Mark?” He takes a stride forward. “Mark who left you in Raleigh for fame and fortune in software?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly like that,” Mark says, smiling nervously. “She was supposed to come with me—or follow me out.”
Camden smiles coldly. “Is that right?”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t know he was coming. He thought it would be fun to surprise me.”
“Fun?” Cam says, taking another step closer to Mark. “Really?”
Camden is at least a head taller than Mark, and easily fifty or sixty pounds heavier.
“It’s been months since we talked,” Mark attempts to explain, his voice quaking. “I had some vacation.” He looks at Cam, and I can see that he’s rattled.
“Cam, he’s okay. He’s going.”
Camden smiles, stepping up to Mark. “Is he going?” he asks without looking at me. “He looks like he’s too scared to move.”
“Cam, leave him alone. He’s a friend. Please.”
“A friend?” Camden observes, sizing Mark up, finding him lacking.
He presses forward another step, getting right up in Mark’s space.
“Son, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’ve come a long way to get your ass stomped in the dirt. I’ve had a bad few days in a row and I’m in no mood for some pissant little shit like you to come to my house, sniffing around to see what he can turn over.”
Cam glances to me, then fixes his steely gaze back on Mark, who is now almost shaking in his dusty wingtips.
“That girl there on the porch, I get the impression she didn’t invite you here, so you need to take your ass back where you came from. You sure as shit are not welcome here.”
It’s then that Mark does something I never expected from him. Maybe it’s the delirium from driving all night. Maybe it’s the sheer arrogance of a guy who lives in a world where power is measured in bank accounts and job titles. Maybe he’s just naïve enough to think that Camden is pretending.
He bows up. He stands up to him. Then he starts laughing at Camden.
“That girl on the porch is my best friend in the world, and the love of my life, and it’ll take more than your backward redneck threats to make me go. You’re not even good at the stereotype tough-dude act. Your bad-ass skills are as old and tired as Clint Eastwood.”
Yeah. Not the correct approach in this situation.
Cam levels Mark with one, clean right-hook to the jaw, rocking his head so hard I think I hear tendons pop. Mark drops onto the dirt like a sack of potatoes.
“Goddammit Cam!” I shout, coming off the porch. “Are you that fucking insecure that you needed to hit him to prove something?”
Cam looks at me like I’ve just punched him in the gut. He offers no response. Instead he just turns on heel and walks into the house, leaving me with Mark in the dirt.
Two hours later I’m handing Mark an icepack in his room at the Ninepipes Lodge in Charlo.
He’s stunned from his encounter with Cam, but at least he’s conscious.
I call Cam, hoping that he’ll come pick me up. Otherwise it’s going to be a long walk home.
“Will you come get me?” I ask when he picks up, “Or do I need to call Amanda? Or your mother?”
“I’ll come,” he says. “I can’t believe you left Emma alone.”
“And I can’t believe you punched my oldest friend in the world. I didn’t leave Emma. She was with you.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Fine.”
Chapter 22. Camden.
That twerp with his little green car showing up unannounced at my place got everything that was coming his way. You don’t turn up out of the blue like that. You don’t stand down the guy who owns the place—laughing at him—without expecting to get your bell rung.
I don’t care who he is. He’s an arrogant little prick without a clue how the world works.
Grace is standin
g outside on the walkway in front of the motel, her arms crossed tight over her chest against the spring chill in the air.
She climbs into the truck without a word, seeing Emma snuggled against me. We drive home in silence.
She’s mad. So am I.
Once home, she hauls Emma onto her shoulder, walking her upstairs to bed. I wait downstairs, expecting her to come down and finally talk to me, but I’m disappointed, again. When I go up her door is closed, and her light is out. She never goes to bed this early.
“Grace, can we talk?” I call through the door.
No response.
Who is this little shit I punched in the driveway, and what is he to her? When we talked about him before, she acted like he was no one who mattered. Now she’s closing me down over him. She’s shutting me out.
Chapter 22
Grace
Mark’s text reads, “Branding Iron Bar & Grill. 1:00 p.m. No promises. Looks suspicious. But it’s the only thing in town. Amazing there are no Taco Bell’s in Montana. BTW, my jaw still hurts like a bitch.”
It’s Friday. My free weekend starts at noon.
I dial Beck’s number. She picks up chirping. “Hey, I’m the hair salon. I’ll be out in twenty minutes; can I call you then?”
“Just seeing of you can pick up Emma at pre-school. She has her weekend bag with her.”
“Sure, sweetie,” Beck says. “I’ll get her. We’ll catch up later.”
Perfect.
My puttering little Honda hasn’t seen many miles since I got to Montana, but with the weather dry and warm, I put her on the road toward Charlo without pausing. Cam is in Missoula for the final day of his custody hearing. Tyler is busy with ranch duty. Emma’s at pre-school until Beck picks her up, and I have the rest of the weekend free.
The Branding Iron Bar & Grill looks suspicious, just as Mark warned. It’s a dive bar, with more emphasis on dive than bar.
I find him inside at a booth by the window, nursing a cold drink and a basket of loaded cheese fries.
“I was starving,” he says apologetically. “And I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
I slip into the bench seat across from him.
The lid around his right is eye is purple and his jaw is swollen. He looks like he was on the wrong side of a street fight.
“That boss of yours has a helluva right hook. I never saw it coming.”
“He lives in a different world,” I say. “You wouldn’t see coming half the things he sees.”
Mark smiles sadly at me. “So, is that what it’s come to? You’re making excuses for the Neanderthal in tight jeans? Is that really you? Or just Stockholm Syndrome taking hold?
I could punch Mark in the face myself right about now.
“You showed up unannounced,” I say. “Without a clue as to what else is going on—which is a lot. And yeah, I like his tight jeans. And his muscles and bravado. I’m not going to pretend like I don’t. Cam is important to me. I care about him.”
“Damn Grace, I gave you more credit than this. Maybe I misjudged you all these years.”
He looks down at his cheese fries then back up at me.
“That guy is toxic masculinity on steroids. He punched my lights out. You need to think hard and fast about what you’re willing to give yourself over to.”
The waitress comes. I give her my drink order.
“He says he loves me,” I hear myself say, realizing how ridiculous that sounds.
Mark laughs.
“Do you even hear yourself?” he asks.
I stay quiet.
“He punches me and you take me to a safe place then sulk back to him. Did you even talk or did he give you the strong-man silent treatment, punishing you for caring? Baby, you and I go back to playground days. I know you better than you know yourself. What you’re looking for is a daddy-replacement. The strong man. But that guy is bad news.”
He flips a cheese-fry into his mouth.
“The problem with that type is they’re rarely strong and often volatile. It’s just an act. Call them on their act and you get this.” He points to his face.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “And honestly Mark, I don’t have the energy to explain it to you. You need to get in your car and go back to Mountain View, or go anywhere but here.”
His expression shifts.
“Are you serious?” he asks me. “After everything? You’re just done with me?”
I draw in a deep breath, then sigh dramatically. He wants it spelled out, so I’ll spell it out.
“Mark, we were done before you ever left Raleigh. I just didn’t have the guts to put a stake in it. It was just so much easier to let you fly away without the big dramatic ending. If you want the big dramatic ending, here it is; go home. I don’t love you. I have no intention of following you to Mountain View or anywhere else. We. Are. Done.”
He blinks, then sits back hard on his bench. He regards me silently for a second. Then, without warning, he picks up his basket of cheese fries and hurls them toward me in an outburst of unchecked rage.
“You’re a fucking cunt!” he screams at me. “A god-damned cunt with no fucking soul. You’re the coldest bitch I’ve ever known!”
Every patron in the place stops what they’re doing and turns toward the show.
“Go fuck yourself, you ungrateful little slut,” Mark adds, sliding out of the booth. He stalks across the room, then roughly shoves the door open, slamming its steel frame against the brick wall as he exists the place.
I take a moment to still my thoughts, breathing, counting to ten before I look up or move.
When I open my eyes, a waitress is approaching. She looks down on me with some sympathy.
“You okay?”
I nod, picking greasy cheese fries out of my hair and clothes.
“Good,” the waitress says. “He didn’t pay for those fries and drink. I can call the sheriff on him if you don’t want to cover his tab.”
I hand her a twenty and tell her to keep the change, leaving the mess behind me.
Is this what love is? A thing that turns on us, clawing and gnashing its teeth? Calling names and wishing us dead—or worse—when it doesn’t get its way?
Apparently, it is.
I closed my door to Camden last night because I was so angry with him, I was afraid of the terrible things I would say. I had a rolling, vicious dialogue going in my head for hours. I knew it was all too close to the surface, too raw, to give vent to. So, I hid.
Mark was probably right about more than I want to admit. I am attracted to Camden because he’s the strong man, the unshakable pillar. Now that I’ve seen him shaken, I wonder what the hell I’ve been thinking all these months. He’s handsome and kind most days, and always a great father. But he’s got a dark side too.
His dark side resorts to violence and outrage when it’s pushed into a corner.
Everyone has their coping mechanisms. In the heat of battle, Cam’s solution is to strike out with his words and his fists. Mine is to strike camp and march, leaving the fight on the field.
I hear Portland is nice in the springtime.
Chapter 23
Camden
I won. The judge ruled in our favor. Emma won’t be going to visit her grandparents in Arizona. And they won’t be getting any unsupervised visits with her here either. The judge said they could see her for a few hours every other weekend, but only with me or my mother present.
Since the Beaufort’s live in Arizona, I doubt we’ll be seeing much of them.
Good.
On the long drive home from Missoula through the valley, the air is veiled with haze from wildfires. Off to the east the sky is heavy with smoke. It looks like the whole Mission Range is wrapped in a curtain of gray fog.
Those mountains look like I feel; lost in a shadow.
I should be happy over the judge’s decision, but it’s not enough to lift the cloud that’s hung over me for days. I shouldn’t have punched Grace’s friend. I was be
ing a possessive dick. I was jealous and caught off guard by his appearance in the midst of all this other chaos swirling around.
I’ll apologize to Grace, and to him too, if he’s still around. I’ll do what I need to do to make things right. I just need to talk to her.
When I get back to the ranch, the house is empty. There’s a note taped to the refrigerator door.
Cam,
It’s my weekend off and your Mom is picking up Emma after pre-school, keeping her through Sunday afternoon. I know you and Tyler are leaving early tomorrow to go to Idaho to get the Hux’ mares, and won’t be back until Sunday night.
I need to think some things through. I’m going to take tonight to do that. I’ll be safe.
Mark has gone back to California. He’s not what this is about. He never was.
I hope things went well in court today.
Talk soon,
-- Grace
Jesus. Where has she gone?
I call her, but she doesn’t pick up. I text, but she doesn’t acknowledge me.
Tyler is in the ring working with one of our yearlings on a long lead. He releases the horse when I approach, letting him run.
“How’d it turn out?” he asks.
I give him the good news, then ask if he’s seen Grace.
“She went out somewhere before noon, then came back pretty quickly. She left again about an hour ago. I didn’t talk to her.”
I nod.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “Everything’s pretty fucked up.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon driving around, looking for her, all to no avail. Wherever she’s gone, she’s tucked in and she doesn’t want to be found.
When I get home, I check her room. Her computer is missing. So is her camera.
I resort to my last option; email. If she’s holed up in a motel room somewhere, I know she’s online, probably writing or working on her blog. If she won’t talk to me on the phone, maybe she’ll listen to me this way.
My fingers are slow on a keyboard. Typing isn’t a skill I ever mastered.
Dear Grace,
Please come home. We need to talk.
