Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
BITTERN
I’m the best I’ve ever been. Ranching isn’t difficult work, not even close to being down in the mines. It’s hard on my body, a lot of physical labor, but I’m out in the sunshine, as free as I’ve ever been earthside. That’s enough for me right now.
I like Starling a lot. She’s the silent type.
We hang out all day, and sometimes, I sit in her stall at night when the house gets too dark.
There’s a nightlight overhead that stays on until the sun comes up.
At first, I just sit with her. Then, I bring a blanket with me and end up falling asleep with my back against the wall.
When I wake up, she’s watching the early sunrise, head hanging out the back window.
I don’t think she minds me crashing in her stall, and I appreciate that.
I head up to the ranch house on my day off to see Freya. It’s afternoon, right when Slate, her newborn son’s, naptime hits. I hesitate, feeling like I need to knock but also not sure because she’s my sister, which makes me family. Finally, I decide to open the door, knock, and yell down the hall.
“Come in! I’m at the kitchen table,” she calls.
I shut the door, head down the hall, and turn left into the kitchen.
Freya sits at the table, her sketchbook and watercolors spread out around her.
She’s in a big sweater—Deacon must run pretty hot, because the house is always cold as fucking ice downstairs—and her hair is piled up on her head, like she used to wear it back home.
I noticed she keeps it down more often, now that she’s with Deacon.
“You want something to drink?” she asks, looking up.
I stand in the doorway, taking in the scene before me—the comfortable house, the kitchen that smells of food, all her things scattered here and there, dried flowers on the windowsill, paintings taped to the fridge.
This is how Freya was meant to be. Relaxed, in her element, not cowering in the shadows, hoping not to be noticed.
“I’ll make a coffee,” I say.
“Let me get it,” she says.
I give her a firm look. “I’m not made of glass, Frey.”
She bites her cheek, frowning. Her eyes follow me as I grab a k-cup and pop it into the machine, hitting the button. The scent of coffee floats up with the steam. I turn, pushing my hands in my pockets, and lean on the counter.
“How’re you feeling?” she asks.
“I’m really fine,” I say.
She nods, still frowning. “I just worry.”
“I’m good. I’m clean. And sticking to it, and the new job.”
She gives me a soft smile. The coffee machine beeps.
I take my cup and sink down at the table, leaning in to look over the open sketchbook.
Freya is incredibly talented at drawing those hyper complex scientific drawings.
Right now, there’s a two page spread of a bunch of different moths, halfway painted, each part labeled.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I’m making a field guide…for the moths I remember from my collection,” she says.
“From Kentucky?”
She nods, staring down at the pages. I look too, a soft hollowness opening in my chest. Her collection, the one she’d started as a little girl, was destroyed by Aiden in a fit of anger.
Deacon’s given her all the tools to start a new one, done a good job trying to fix all that hurt, but that won’t erase it.
It’s going to take time for her to heal, as it has with me.
I want to say I’m sorry again, but after so many emails from rehab, she made me promise to stop apologizing.
I glance up, and she’s giving me a stern look, lips pursed.
“Don’t start,” she says.
“I won’t. But I want to.”
She sniffs then clears her throat. “I got you something.”
“Oh yeah?” I lean back.
She gets up, going to the desk in the back corner of the kitchen. From it, she takes a strip of rolled leather and puts it on the table in front of me. Right away, I know what it is; I had one back in Kentucky, before the mines.
“A wood carving kit,” I say.
All the days we spent as kids, sitting on the porch while I carved animals and birds from wood, sit heavy on our minds.
After the accident, I had trouble focusing, but I was able to do a little bit of carving.
Otherwise, I think I stared into the woods for several years straight because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking when I made a fist. I unwrap the leather, revealing a set of wood and metal tools. Brand new, no memories attached.
“Thanks,” I say, voice hoarse.
I’m saved from showing too much emotion by the sudden presence of Deacon Ryder, blasting through the side door like a cannonball.
Their puppy, Stu, follows at his heels but heads directly for the hallway, where he flops down, panting hard.
Maybe they keep the air conditioning down for the dog, not Deacon.
“You gonna drink that?” he says, looking at my coffee.
“Deacon,” Freya chides, “don’t bully him.”
“I ain’t bullying anybody, sweetheart.”
I look down at my untouched mug. “I was, but—”
He’s not listening. He takes my coffee and leans on the counter, setting his hat aside.
“I got so many damn cows in that side pasture. We got to fix those fences by end of day tomorrow,” he says. “They’re all fucking jammed in there.”
“You want me to help with that today?” I say.
He runs a hand over his face. “Nah, Andy’s got his daughter home from the city, and I don’t want him feeling like he needs to help today. They’re all good for tonight. They got a place to sleep, but I don’t want them in there more than the weekend.”
“In where?”
“East pasture.”
Freya gets up and starts making me another cup before I can protest. I lean back, trying to get my legs to fit under the table.
It's short. I’m not sure why Deacon switched the old table out for this one—except it fits Freya better, so that would explain it.
He’s made a lot of adjustments in the last few months.
Nothing drastic, but I see it as someone who’s worked on houses before.
They’re all things that make the house her space too, not just his.
“I can help. Let me know,” I say.
“Why don’t you eat at the mess hall?” Deacon asks, emptying the mug and setting it in the sink.
Freya turns on me, worried frown in place again. “Where are you eating?”
“At my house,” I say.
She comes over, crossing her arms and pushing out her hip, a little bit sassy. Deacon has bolstered her confidence a lot.
“You’re working all day outside. You need to eat a real meal,” she says.
“I am and I will,” I promise.
“Bittern—”
“Freya,” I say gently, cutting her off. “I’m good. I’m not sick anymore.”
She hears the serious note in my voice and nods.
I can tell she and Deacon are going to talk about me the second I leave.
That’s fine. I’m used to people doing that since I’ve gotten back.
Everybody’s watching, hoping I don’t crumble at the edges.
Nothing I say can convince anyone I’m never fucking going back to that life.
I don’t care what’s ahead—it has to be so much better than what’s behind.
I’m intimately familiar with rock bottom. It’s not a place I want to go again.
I get up, wrapping the tools and pushing them in my pocket. “I’m gonna head out,” I say. “Got some chores around the house.”
Freya hands me the coffee. “Bring back the mug. And come back Sunday when Slate is awake.”
“I will,” I say, hugging her briefly.
“I’ll let you know about the cattle tomorrow,” Deacon says, jerking his head at me.
I nod, heading down the hall, stopping to pat Stu on the head.
He follows me to the door then watches with his nose against the screen while I leave.
Truthfully, I don’t have any chores at home.
I picked up some ready-made meals in town the other day and stacked them in the fridge.
It’s easy to keep everything clean and organized when you don’t own anything.
Back at the house, I sink down on the porch and unwrap the carving set. There’s some wood stacked around the back. I retrieve a small piece and sit on the steps, taking my carving knife out.
My hands are pretty damn steady. I smile. Every day, they’re getting better. I haven’t told anyone that yet, but I noticed it.
The sun gets hotter, rolling overhead. The piece of wood becomes a little wren sitting on a nest. I work at it until it’s smooth then set aside the tools and roll it in my fingers, thinking.
My mother taught me all about her favorite thing—birds.
She was the first person to give me a field guide, to sit with me, pointing out the different species.
Freya, with her insects and months, reminds me of her, both reaching out for something free.
She gave me my name. Bittern—a little resilient bird that hides away in the reeds. I sometimes think that name is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Setting the wooden bird on the railing, I lean into the rail.
At the edge of the porch, wren carving wobbling beside me, I stare out over the hill for a while. My brain is quiet; it feels good. I’m just about ready to go inside when I notice Ginny standing outside her house, somebody by her side.
I squint. That must be her daughter.
They start walking down the hill, heading towards the main house. For the first time in a long, long time, I’m looking at someone with a strange feeling creeping up on me. I swear, all the air is drying up the closer they get. I can’t get a proper lungful of it.
She’s smaller than Ginny, maybe an inch over Freya’s height.
Her blonde hair is a mix of a lighter and dark shade, and it’s tousled, cut to her shoulders.
Her face is real pleasant, kind of cute, with a sweet smile and light eyes—I can’t tell the shade from where I’m standing, but they’re damn pretty.
I like looking at her more than I got any business to.
I go to the step and sink down again. She stands with Ginny and talks for a while. There’s a lot of confidence in the way she’s got her hands on her hips, one knee popped, digging her toe into the dirt.
I feel something.
A stirring, somewhere in the mine shaft beneath my ribs, down where there’s only darkness.
It reminds me of the moment they rang the bell at the end of the day.
We all loaded into the elevator, and I got to look up into the spark of light above as it got closer and closer. Respite, a few hours out of hell.
I clear my throat, dropping my eyes.
She’s real pretty, real bright, but I’m a hard person to love.
Aiden was clear about that. I’m not sure it’s even worth figuring out if she’s single and interested in talking to anybody right now.
The minute she finds out about Aiden, about me, and everything that happened with Freya, she’ll coil back in disgust. No, I’ve got baggage nobody is willing to handle.
It’s better I just keep to myself.