Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  Flynn had never been convinced that the story was true.

  He’d done some asking around when he was a teen, talked to the local barber and a few other people who’d probably gone to school with his father. Most of them remembered him, but none had much to say. He’d been quiet, a little dirty, and had a nasty temper. They’d steered clear, but that hadn’t meant they weren’t impressed when he’d returned to Benevolence with a fortune in the bank and a beautiful wife on his arm.

  If they’d known what had been going on in the huge mansion his father had purchased, they might not have been so easily enthralled, but, of course, that had been a secret the family kept.

  Flynn suspected most people in town had known the truth.

  He doubted teachers had missed the bruises on his arms and legs, the few that had been on his face. He figured the church had noticed how quiet the Bradshaws were when they attended service. There were no restless boys or loudly scribbling pens. There was just stiff, tense attention.

  Sometimes, when Flynn allowed himself to delve deep into his own psyche, he wondered if he’d chosen ranching because he knew his father would disapprove. He wondered if he’d made that fateful trip out to Emmerson’s farm out of spite rather than necessity. The kind of work Emmerson did had no value for a man like Rick, and that might have made Flynn value it more.

  Then again, he had needed a job. He’d also needed to be away from the house and his father, so it was just as possible he’d taken the job because it was available.

  That job had led to his interest in farming and farm equipment. Watching Emmerson take apart tractors and put them back together had sparked curiosity and interest that had never faded.

  Even now, all these years later, Flynn loved taking apart broken equipment and making it right again. He loved the scent of loamy earth and wet leaves, the rumbling thunder of cattle racing across the landscape, the thick dust that hung in the air after they’d gone.

  And yes. He loved riding fast horses, driving fast cars, and pushing ATVs to their limits.

  But today he was going slow, meandering across the farm’s rolling hills. Sunday perched behind him, her muscles stiff. She didn’t lean into him. Not even when he bumped over a fallen log.

  “Sorry about that,” he shouted above the roar of the motor.

  “It’s okay,” she shouted back.

  “I thought we’d head up to the road and take the vehicle bridge across the other side of your property. You’ve got two hundred acres, right?” He’d seen the plat for the farm, but it had only included the east side of the river.

  “On this side of the river. We’ve got another five hundred across it.”

  “Seven hundred acres?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a nice-sized spread for a small farm.”

  “It used to be a dairy farm. That was probably a hundred years ago. Back in the day when milk was delivered in glass jugs. After my great-great-grandfather retired from that, he let the land on that side go fallow. Crops weren’t his thing. His wife maintained a garden, and that was pretty much it until my great-grandfather decided to plant alfalfa and sell it to local farmers.”

  “You know your family history.”

  “I’ve read about it every day since I was released from the hospital,” she replied.

  “Trying to make sure you don’t forget?”

  “Trying to remember why it was so important.”

  “It’s important, because it’s yours. Does there need to be another reason?”

  “No,” she said a little too quickly.

  He wanted to ask a few more questions, dig a little deeper, but he’d reached the road and accelerated to keep from blocking traffic. The wind rushing past his helmet, the rumble of approaching vehicles, made communication impossible.

  For now.

  The bridge was a mile away. Two lanes and narrow. Barely enough room for one car let alone two. Most people didn’t use it. Not because it wasn’t safe. Because the only residence within five miles was Emmerson’s old place, the clapboard farmhouse still visible through heavy summer foliage.

  It had been white once upon a time. Now it looked gray. Either someone had painted it, or time hadn’t been very kind.

  “Do you know where your property marker is?” he asked as the ATV bounced over a few dips in the dirt road.

  “We’re on it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This road is the boundary line.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Our property is to the right. Emmerson Riley’s is to the left. Only, I think his son may own it now.”

  “He does. Or at least he did when I left town.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew the Rileys.”

  “I worked for him a million years ago.”

  “Mr. Riley’s son?”

  “No. Emmerson. His son left town right around the time Emmerson got sick and slowed down. I guess he liked the idea of equestrian work, but didn’t actually enjoy getting his hands dirty.”

  “I don’t think I knew that.”

  “Probably not. You were young when I started working there. Probably too young to hear the gossip. Not that there was much of it. Anytime Emmerson got wind of someone talking about his family, he’d stand up at the end of church service and ask for prayer for the town’s gossips. He always made sure to mention them by name.”

  “No!” she said with a quiet laugh.

  “Yes. A man’s got to fight fire with fire. If that doesn’t work, he’s got to fight it with the word of God. Emmerson said that all the time.” Flynn stopped the ATV and climbed off. The land on Sunday’s side of the road was mostly clear, a few straggly pines jutting up haphazardly and several copses of trees grown where pasture had once been.

  He could still envision it the way it had once been, though. Easy access to the river. Irrigation canals carved into the land by old farmers with weather-beaten faces and gnarled hands. Lush green fields that turned gold in the fall and winter. Plenty of food for a small dairy operation.

  Prime land, too. With hundreds of riverfront feet.

  Sunday’s ancestors had chosen well.

  “It’s a beautiful piece of property,” he said aloud.

  “It is.” She climbed off the ATV and took off her helmet. Her cheeks were pink again. This time, he thought it was from the heat.

  He handed her a canteen. “Better stay hydrated. Clementine will have my head if you pass out.”

  “How would she find out?” She tried to unscrew the lid.

  Failed.

  Tried again.

  It was painful to watch a grown woman wrestle with something a child could have managed, and he suddenly understood why so many people were so eager and willing to do so much for Sunday. She didn’t ask. She didn’t complain. She sat quietly in that damn easy chair. Probably because it was easier than struggling and failing in front of people she loved.

  She finally managed to open it, and his muscles relaxed, his arms fell to his sides. He hadn’t realized how tense he was, how ready to jump in and rescue her.

  She met his eyes as she took a quick swallow of water. Bluebonnets at sunset and the purplish tracheostomy scar on her neck. She made a pretty picture standing in the middle of the overgrown field.

  He probably shouldn’t be noticing that.

  Or the way she planted her feet deep in the dusty soil. She looked like she belonged there, sunlight streaming on her flyaway hair and skipping across her still-pink cheeks as she took another sip and recapped the canteen.

  “You’re staring,” she said, pulling the canteen strap over her shoulder.

  “Just thinking that you look like you belong here.”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s good to know. Since I’ve been living here my whole life.”

  “And you’ve always felt like you belonged.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she answered. “I have no idea. I can only remember some of my past. Not all of it.”

  “It
seems to me, you’ve never felt like you should be anywhere else. This always seemed to be what you wanted. The land. The house. Your family. Those are my memories, though, so they may be skewed.”

  “By?”

  “How happy you looked outside playing with the kids or feeding that old hog or planting the garden in the backyard.”

  “I’d forgotten about the garden.”

  “Not me. You made a lot of great meals with food from that garden.”

  She smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “It’s sad that you remember more about my life than I do.”

  “I suppose it is,” he replied, not wanting to feed her platitudes or try to talk her out of the sorrow. He had plenty of memories he’d prefer to lose, but he thought her life had been mostly happy. Her family had been loving. Her parents had been good people. Her marriage to Matt . . .

  He hoped it had been good. There’d certainly never been any sign that it wasn’t.

  Except for the neglected farm.

  The overdrawn bank accounts.

  The debt.

  The obvious picture of a family that was struggling financially despite the fact that there was no mortgage to pay and plenty of food produced to feed a bunch of hungry kids.

  He frowned, not much liking the direction of his thoughts.

  Matt had been a good guy. A really good one. Everyone in town said so. He’d yet to meet someone who hadn’t liked and valued his brother.

  “Were you happy with Matt?” he asked, the question sudden and unplanned. He didn’t know why he’d asked, and the surprise on her face told him she didn’t either.

  “Of course I was,” she responded quickly. “Matt was a wonderful person. I loved him. I still love him.”

  “Loving someone doesn’t mean we’re happy. It just means we know the real meaning of the word.”

  “I was happy,” she said, crouching and lifting a clump of earth and letting it fall through her fingers. “Dry. We haven’t had enough rain this year. If I ever planted over here, I’d have to irrigate.”

  She changed the subject, and he let her.

  Because it wasn’t his business.

  Not really.

  “Irrigation wouldn’t be difficult or expensive. You have the manpower, and we can do it the old-fashioned way. Dig trenches from the river to bring the water into the fields. That area”—he pointed to a section of land that stretched nearly flat out from the river—“would be perfect.”

  “I can’t ask your brothers to do another job for me. They’ve already done too much.”

  “My brothers are here to help. They’d be happy to run irrigation ditches. But it would also be a great job for the kids to help with.”

  “It would be more of a job for whoever had to supervise them,” she replied, taking another handful of soil and letting it slide through her fingers.

  “In other words, it would be easier to do without their help?” he asked, knowing he should close his mouth and butt out. He wasn’t going to be raising the kids. He wasn’t going to be the one to cheer them on at sports games or wipe tears off their faces when they’d had bad days.

  He was going to be that uncle. The one who popped in every month or so, gave high fives, asked about school, and then went away again. The one who’d be there on graduation day but probably not for the prom.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be involved.

  It was more that he had a life and a job that required a lot of time and attention. Plus, Porter and Sullivan had stepped in. Both seemed happy to relocate to Benevolence.

  For Flynn, moving back wasn’t an option.

  “Everything is easier to do without kids involved, but that doesn’t mean it’s the best option. I like the idea of having them help with the project. I’m just not sure what we’re planning to do with the land. Aside from the fall festival, that is. Speaking of which, we should probably get back to our survey.” She straightened, and all the blood drained from her face.

  She went from pink-cheeked to ghost white and was falling before Flynn realized what was happening. He managed to grab her before she landed, lowering her onto the ground. He could see her pulse in the hollow of her throat, beating crazily against her skin.

  He’d pushed her too hard, asked her to do things she probably shouldn’t have.

  Like leave the house. Ride on an ATV in ninety-degree weather.

  Open her own canteen.

  “You’re an idiot, Flynn,” he growled as he pulled out his cell phone.

  “That’s not a very nice thing to call yourself,” Sunday replied sluggishly, her eyes still closed, her lips as pale as her skin. “And, if you’re planning to call for an ambulance. Don’t. I’m not going to the hospital.”

  “You need a doctor.”

  “I need to lie here for a while. That’s it.”

  “You’re in the middle of a field. Under the blazing sun. You lay there for more than a couple of minutes, and you’ll roast.”

  “Bake.” She opened her eyes. “It’s a dry heat, Flynn.”

  That was enough to make him chuckle, but not enough for him to put the phone away. “We can discuss how many ways the sun can cook a person on our way to the hospital.”

  “I already said that I’m not going. There’s no need.”

  “How about we let a professional decide.”

  “My blood pressure is low. If I stand too quickly, I get dizzy. That’s it. No terrible disease. Nothing to do with the head injury. Just me trying to move more quickly than I should. Trust me. I know. Your brothers have shipped me off to the hospital a half dozen times for the issue.” She was getting to her feet, and he took her arm, slowing her progress.

  Really slowing it.

  By the time she was fully upright, she was laughing, her cheeks pink again.

  “Slowing down doesn’t mean never getting there, Flynn,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes.

  And, of course, he smiled too, because she did make a pretty picture, standing there with the sun on her skin and a smile on her face.

  “You’re here. Upright and smiling. Mission accomplished. Slow or not,” he replied, his hand still on her arm because he worried that she’d faint again. “A half dozen times is about five too many for my liking, by the way. I’m going to make you an appointment and have you get a thorough workup. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “I want to make certain there’s no underlying condition.”

  “Do you know how many blood tests, CAT scans, MRIs, and X-rays I’ve had?” she demanded, walking to the ATV and climbing on.

  “A lot, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get another test.”

  “In my book, it does. So how about we finish surveying the land? I haven’t been out here in a while, and . . . it’s nice to be outside.”

  That last part was enough to convince him.

  Not the words. The way she said them.

  It’s nice to be outside.

  As if she’d been locked up for too long, far away from the clean, sweet smell of summer and the neat, crisp feel of grass underfoot. “All right, but if you feel faint again—”

  “I won’t,” she replied.

  He didn’t think she had any control over it. She sure couldn’t promise the heat or the ride wouldn’t make her woozy, but she was perched on the ATV, face turned up to the sun, hands held out as if she could touch the beauty of the day.

  And no matter how much he told himself he should, he couldn’t tell her they were going back to the house.

  Chapter Six

  Unless it was raining, Sunday went outside every day.

  It was part of her therapy. Physical and psychological.

  Go outside. Get fresh air. Stretch your muscles. Take a walk. Feel the sun on your skin. Watch your children play. Imagine yourself stepping into your future free of fear and anxiety.

  And on and on and on. So many great reasons to be outdoors.

  But when she was, someone was always there. Hovering n
earby. Issuing warnings. Telling her where the rocks and roots and hazards were.

  She understood they were worried.

  But she was worried too.

  Terrified, really. Of another accident. Of getting hurt again. Of leaving her children the way Matt had.

  But today . . .

  Today she felt free.

  Long blades of grass brushed her calves as Flynn maneuvered through what had once been pasture. He was being careful, taking his time, not gunning the motor like he might have if he’d been alone, but he wasn’t going back to the house, and he wasn’t insisting she go to the hospital.

  He was letting her decide, and that was something she’d almost forgotten how to do. For months, people had been making decisions for her and for the kids. She’d been letting them because it was easier than trying to make her sluggish brain think through options and decide what was best.

  Allowing others to do what she should was the path of least resistance.

  But she knew it wasn’t the best path or even a good one.

  They bumped through a small ditch, and she lost her grip on the handholds. Somehow, she found Flynn’s waist, clutched it as they descended to the riverbank. He was solid. Muscular. Strong. A guy who worked outside, who worked with his hands, who knew how to get things done. She tried to remember what that was like. How it had felt to wake up in the morning knowing how to tackle the day.

  All she could remember was being tired. In those last few months before the accident, every day had seemed a chore. She didn’t remember that. She’d read it in the journals, but the feeling was there, lodged in her heart. A feeling of inevitability, of lack of control, of pending and unwanted change.

  Flynn stopped near a dry rainwater basin, the front tires of the SUV sitting on cracked red clay. In the rainy season, the shallow ditch formed a small pond that had once been used to water the dairy’s cows. She remembered the pictures that had once hung on the walls of the barn: black-and-white photos of the farm the way it used to be. Matt had taken them down when he’d begun renovating. He’d never finished the job, and she had no idea what he’d done with the photos.