by Taylor Hart
The haze in Charlotte’s head grew foggier. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you remember that day?”
Charlotte paused. “Of course, but what has that got to do with—”
“Hold on, just let me finish.” Her mother pulled a spatula out of the drawer. “I remember I was standing right here. Right here at the oven making some absurdly high carb dish I used to make back then. I think it was the homemade macaroni and cheese your father was so fond of. Anyway, I watched Ryan Hardman give you a lift onto Shirley, and I was terrified. I was terrified you would get bucked off and never want to do it again. I was terrified, more than anything that you’d get hurt. I had no idea what real ranch life was like. We were just newbies starting out.”
“Mom.”
Her mother held her spatula in the air. “And you . . . you smiled.” Her mother blinked back emotion.
Charlotte took her sunglasses off. Her mother was almost crying. Her mother never cried. She asked for compliments, she bossed, she laughed or screamed, but crying was not her thing. Even when her father died, Charlotte hadn’t seen a single tear, just her mother staring blankly out the kitchen window.
Her mother’s eyes fluttered and she scooped the cooked eggs easily out of the pan and onto two separate plates. She got two forks and brought it all to the table. She sat next to Charlotte and took a bite. “Hmm. These are good.”
“Why are you selling, Mom?”
Her mother pointed her fork at her. “Do you know why you smiled? Do you know why you got on the horse?”
Charlotte was tired of this conversation. “Mom—”
“Ryan Hardman.”
“Mom.”
“No. Charlotte, you smiled down at that boy like you would follow him to the ends of the universe if that was his desire.” She took another bite and closed her eyes for a second. “I realized, at that moment, that your life would be here. Right here.” She motioned to the ranch. “With him.”
Charlotte dropped the fork. “Stop it.”
Her mother had never been one to back down. “I’m telling you, Charlotte, I could feel it.” She put her hand to her chest. “I could feel the power of the universe, of God, bringing you two together.” She nodded emphatically. “And now he’s here. How do you explain that? He’s here, and you’re ready for the next chapter in your life.”
Charlotte scoffed. “He’s here because you told his partner you would only deal with him.”
“Exactly.”
Hopeless, her mother was hopeless. Charlotte dropped her head into her hands. “Mother, do you even hear yourself?”
Her mother touched Charlotte’s arm. “I listed the ranch ten days ago. Ten days. And a man by the name of Alan Larsen contacted me. He owns a company called Vincere Real Estate."
"Ryan's company."
Her mother hesitated. “Yes."
“Why are you selling?”
“Anyway, we talked about the details of the sale and then—look who showed up. I never thought he would really show up.”
“Mom.” Charlotte was so tired of this runaround.
Her mother pulled in a long breath, held it for a few moments, and then she released it, letting out her yoga hum. “You’re not listening to me.”
“You’re not answering the question.”
Her mother pounded her fist into the table. “He’s not here for the land, he’s here for you.”
Charlotte flinched back. Her mother didn’t have bursts of anger. Not table pounding bursts of anger.
Her mother kept her eyes wide and accusing. “He hasn’t been back in almost seven years.”
“I know, Mom.” She kept her voice controlled.
“He came back for you. What else could it be?” Her mother absently took the dishes from the table and went to the sink. She pulled out the trash and scraped Charlotte’s uneaten eggs into it.
“Would you please stop, Mom?”
She didn’t. “I can’t believe you didn’t see the way he looked at you.” She was mumbling. “The way the two of you looked together.” Her voice went up an octave like she was telling a love story.
Charlotte massaged her temples, even though no amount of massaging could touch the pain that echoed inside her brain.
Her mother rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. “Could you go get the crate of apples from the barn, dear. I think I’ll get them good and scrubbed for the apple bobbing.”
It had been ingrained into Charlotte to obey. So much so that it was physically hard for her to stay at the table. The one thing she knew about her mother was that if she was avoiding the topic so much, it must be very, very important.
“Do you need money, Mom?” Charlotte didn’t know where she would get money if her mom needed it. She sure didn’t have money.
Her mother shook her head and crinkled up her face. “Why would you think that?”
Charlotte threw her hands into the air. “Hmm, I don’t know. Let’s see, you’re selling the ranch.”
Her mother poured two cups of coffee and sat back at the table. She slid one over to Charlotte. “The future, sweetie.”
The dull ache intensified inside her head, and, even though she knew it most likely wouldn’t help at all—in fact, it probably would make everything hurt worse—Charlotte pulled the cup to her lips and sipped. “What do you mean by future?”
Her mother leaned back into her chair and inhaled the coffee. “My future in pie making is about to begin.”
Charlotte laughed. Not a happy laugh. No. This laugh was out of sheer, complete, utter desperation. Her mother wasn’t going to give her a direct answer. “What are we going to say to Nathan tonight?”
Her mother blew on the hot coffee and narrowed her eyes. “Oh, yes, I was up quite a long time last night trying to decide what to do about the mayor.”
“And . . .”
She winked. “I’ve got it handled.”
“Mom.”
She swiped her hand into the air like she just remembered something. “And make sure you wear something nice tonight.”
Chapter 12
Ryan parked in front of the old ranch house. The brown house had white shutters and Mom's old flower boxes hung below the windows. They were empty. Ryan had made those for her before the end of his senior year in shop class. She'd been so proud of them, too, telling all the neighbors. She would find fake flowers and keep them stocked even in the winter.
Home.
It felt wrong to even think that word. It felt even more wrong to drive his fancy rental on the unpaved roads that would beat the heck out of this car if used too much out here. There was a reason farmers and ranchers owned trucks. They needed a machine that didn't flinch when rocks were being chucked every which way.
He didn't see many vehicles in front of the house and he wondered if he'd come at a bad time.
Lorna rushed out the front door. Her dark skin, brown hair, and petite frame looked just as it had seven years ago. Her lips widened into a smile.
He cut the engine and laughed at the way Lorna slapped the car windows just like she had his whole life. She was technically his mother's inside helper. A spanish emigrant that came to America with her husband to build a life, her husband had died and his father had hired her on when his mother had first gotten cancer. She had been told that when they beat the cancer she would be unemployed, but Ryan didn’t have a single memory of his growing up that didn’t have her in it. When the cancer kept coming back, everyone quit talking about her leaving the ranch. Then, after his father’s death, his mother needed Lorna even more. They all did.
Ryan opened the car door.
Lorna opened her arms. "Ryan, you’ve come home."
He wanted to pull away, but he let himself get snuggled into her arms and remembered all the other times she’d hugged him. He remembered things and feelings that had come out in his dreams long after he’d been captured. He remembered the way the laundry smell had clung to Lorna, a mixture of fresh cut grass and laven
der, and the way she always made him his favorite coconut cookies. She had been a mother figure to him, one so different from his own and so wonderful in her own way. She slipped her arm around his waist—her height making it impossible for her to hug his shoulders. "You come in and eat with us tonight, no?"
Ryan shrugged out of her grasp. "No. I can't stay long.”
Lorna moved him easily into the house, through the side door, and into the black and white tiled kitchen. Ryan thought of the work he, his brothers, and his father had put into this kitchen. He thought of the weeks of cutting tile and fitting it just perfectly for his mother and the way she’d been so happy. He recalled the feast she and Lorna made for him and his brothers. The center of his chest tightened at the thought.
Lorna sat him on a stool in the kitchen. "Then I get you some cold water and some cheese and apples." That was her fix for all hungry, traveling visitors that made it out as far as the ranch—water and cheese and apples.
She plunked it down in front of him before he could object, and after three bites, he had to admit it was darn good. "Thanks, Lorna." He looked around the house. It looked much the same—maybe a new couch. The main table looked new. He realized that this really was Lorna's kitchen now.
"So how long are you staying?" Lorna quickly filled his water.
Ryan stood just as quickly as she had filled the water. "I’m not."
"But this is your home."
"No, it’s not." He'd gotten a letter from some attorney. He'd written a note that his brothers could have everything and signed. He didn't want the complication. He didn't need the complication.
Lorna tucked her knit shawl tighter around her shoulders and gave him a wary look. “You’re brothers need you.” She scoffed. “You know that Kent’s already gone,” she said with clear annoyance in her voice. “Gone half-way around the world to practice medicine because …” Her eyes looked sad. “He couldn’t save Addy and he couldn’t save his mama.”
Pain shot into Ryan’s chest and he thought about his doctor brother, Kent. The kind of guy who’d always tried to take it upon himself to save everyone else; the exact opposite of Ryan.
Kent had wrote him to come, but … he couldn’t.
Lorna sighed, a tear moving down her cheek. “Now you’re here and Kent’s gone.” She threw up a hand. “Nothing makes sense.”
Ryan nodded and moved to the side door. "I just came back . . .” His throat went dry. “I just came back to pay my respects.”
His heart rate went on overdrive and he didn't know why his palms got sweaty. It wasn't like he hadn't visited a grave before.
He felt his knees weaken as he saw the double headstone. It was new. When he'd left, there'd only been one head stone—his father’s. His father’s was gone and “their” gravestone stood erect—his father’s and his mother’s.
He stood above the gravestone. He wished he could have seen her one more time.
Lorna moved next to him and patted his shoulder. "I'm going back in. I'll leave you to your time."
Ryan looked around the ranch. The cemetery was in a nice, shady spot. A beautiful tree hung low over the graves. The leaves were turning orange and lightly dropping down in shades of red and brown, green and yellow. He went to the stone chair next to the grave and sat.
It was engraved with his parent's names—Hannah and Stan Hardman—honorable mother and father.
He stared at it for what felt like eternity. Then he wished for something he’d never wished for. Well, if truth be told, he simply hadn’t been able to do it. He wished he could cry. For the child that had watched his father turn into an alcoholic. For the child that had watched his mother battle cancer. For the child that hadn’t been able to stop the accident that night. He wished he could cry and run into his mother’s arms. Everything inside of him felt loose, free, and unstable. He fell to his knees in front of the gravestones. He sucked in a breath and wished for the relief of tears. But he’d accepted he would never get that wish again. He was different. He’d been different since that stupid cave.
"Hmph."
Ryan flinched back and stood. He hadn't expected an interruption.
His younger brother, Beau, stood next to the bench, his face a mask of revulsion, pain, and anger. He still had that blond hair. The tow-headed kind Mom said he would grow out of, but he never had. Even after all these years, Ryan recognized the way his lip twitched in that “I am so going to whoop you” kind of way. All the brothers were only two years apart—and they’d had their fair share of fights. “Well, I guess the proud, military son has returned.” He laughed. “Kent couldn’t handle staying, so he leaves to save the world. You can’t handle staying, so you left to hurt the world. Isn’t it all so cozy.”
Ryan looked him over. They were the same height. Same lean build. Although, Ryan knew Beau wouldn’t last against his military training. But Beau looked solid, tough—it’s what farm and ranch work did to boys—made them men. He didn’t respond to the taunt.
Beau clenched and unclenched his fists. He laughed, the kind of absurd laugh that was meant to get the other person to see the absurdity in any kind of niceties between them. "Heard you were in town, Ry."
Ryan only lifted his eyebrows. “So Kent’s really gone? After all that schooling to be a doctor?” It’d been the only thing Kent had ever spoken about; becoming a doctor.
Beau grunted. “World does that to you … breaks you.” He sized him up. “When Addy passed, he decided staying wasn’t worth it.” Beau scowled, then wagged a finger at him. “But he was here at the end. He was here for mama.”
Guilt filled Ryan.
Slowly, Beau padded forward, kicking his boots against the ground, boots that got a lot more use than Ryan’s dress shoes. "How long ya here for?"
This was his way of making semi-peace.
Ryan shrugged. "I was just leaving."
Beau gestured to the headstone. He snorted. "Would have been nice to tell Mom when you were coming home. She tried to wait on you to die."
Ryan didn't respond. For so long, everything had been completely classified. He stared at the grave.
Beau's eyes glistened. "She said you'd come back. She thought you'd come back before she died. We called the head office fifty billion times. They kept telling us they could not disclose your location, but they would try to send you word.” He stopped and then heaved in a ragged breath. “So I’m askin’, did they send word?"
Ryan remembered. He remembered the way his captors had shoved a ball of newspaper in his mouth and then tried to asphyxiate him by dumping the vodka through the paper. His hands were bound, and he couldn't move at all. One wrong move and he would have inhaled it into his lungs and been gone. Then they told him the news they’d received that his mother had passed away. Ryan shrugged. "I got word."
Beau fist pumped the air. "Do you know what she went through? Oh, no. You don't. ’Cause you weren't here." He practically roared the words.
Ryan took a step closer to the grave and focused on his mother's name. Hannah. Mother of Samuel. He'd never read the bible and really understood her name until after he’d joined the military. It had been standard issue and small enough to fit in his front pocket. He didn't know why, but it had comforted him to believe in something greater than himself. She’d always told him that he reminded her of Samuel, that God had told her he was meant to do something great. Boy, he’d failed in that department.
Pain shot through his backside.
Ryan rocked forward. His head jerked back. Within seconds, his body shifted into military mode.
Beau tried to get off another kick, but this time Ryan caught his foot and twisted it.
He could have snapped it. Instead, he shoved Beau back. “Back off, little brother.”
Beau wasn’t deterred easily. He scrambled toward Ryan, jumping at him with his whole body.
Ryan moved subtly. It wasn't a hard deflection; it was more like a spin move on a basketball court.
Beau fell to the ground. "You—“
>
“I know what I am.”
“What?” Beau stared up at him.
Ryan sighed. “I don’t want to fight you, Beau.”
Beau jumped to his feet and put his fists in front of his face. He looked like a high school kid that wanted to take down the school bully. There was a tinge of self-righteousness that hung in the air. “I didn’t want to do it either, but this is what you left us for, right? To fight. To go fight something that was far more important than fighting for us."
That stung—more than Ryan wanted to admit.
"She waited for you.” Beau spit out the words. He dropped his fists and scrubbed at his face. "She waited for your sorry butt to get back here so she could say her peace, but you never came."
The part of Ryan that took a hit, watched a man die, and kept walking took over. He pushed the pain away and moved toward the house. “I can’t do this."
Beau matched his pace. “Do what? Oh, you mean face the truth—that you’re a lousy son who never cared a bit for his family.”
Ryan stopped, his fist clenched. He hadn’t allowed himself to fight after Afghanistan. Not a real fight. Not anything outside of the rink at the gym. He knew what he was capable of doing and he’d sworn to himself that he wasn’t that man anymore.
Beau pushed him. Hard. “What’s wrong, big bro? What—you forget how to use those ‘special ops’ hands to fight?”
Ryan stepped out of the way. “Stop.”
He went for the face.
Ryan took his fist and shoved it back. “You’re not made for this fight.”
Beau glared at him. “Hey, you’re right, I’m far more equipped to do what I always do—watch you walk away.”
Ryan’s heart pounded to an extreme level and he felt himself yearn for the feel of his fist against his brother’s cheek. He shook his head and turned for the house.
Pain ricocheted through his head.
“You shouldn’t turn your back on your enemies, brother. Didn’t you learn that in the military?”
Ryan clutched his head and flung himself back.
