Barbed Wire Fences (Whitewood Creek Farm #6)

Chapter 1 - Rhett

“Rhett, get out here right now!” my mother’s voice booms from outside. Her yell rattles the flimsy screen door of our trailer, probably loud enough for my friends Molly and Maverick Patrick across the street to hear.

It’s another scorcher of a summer day, and I’ve spent all morning at the lake behind our trailer park, fishing until my skin reeks of sun and water. Now I’m starving.

I take a bite of my peanut butter and potato chip sandwich, salt and crunch heaven, when she yells again, this time even louder.

“Rhett Daniel Miller!” she shouts, and I know she means business. She’s pulling out the middle name and that tone that says I’m in trouble if I don’t get my ass in gear.

I drop my sandwich onto the paper plate with a groan and stick my head through the screen door into the blinding July sun.

“Yes, Mother?” I say, my tone dripping with that exaggerated sweetness only a teenage boy still mooching off his mom can pull off.

I know I’m pushing it. Especially considering she’s the one stocking the pantry with all the snacks I’ve been tearing through like a human garbage disposal thanks to the five inches I sprouted practically overnight this summer.

She’s standing with another woman, about her age but with a face life hasn’t gone easy on. Her shoulders sag like she’s carrying more than years alone. And tucked half-hidden behind them is a small girl peeking out with wide, watchful eyes. Eyes that look like they see everything.

The way Mom narrows her gaze at my tone tells me I’m already skating on thin ice. And if she’s holding back from snapping, I know what that means. I’m about to get roped into something I’ll hate, and there’s no way out of it.

“All the way out here, Rhett,” she says sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

With an exaggerated sigh, I slam the screen door behind me and stomp over like the petulant kid I kind of am.

She’s by our weathered picnic table, the one so chipped and splintered it’s barely holding together.

Rebuilding it’s been sitting on my mental to-do list for months, but free wood and nails don’t exactly fall from the sky.

“Rhett, this is Mrs. Meredith Braddock and her daughter Jael,” Mom says. “Jael is going to be in the eighth grade at Whitewood Creek Middle School next year and will be in your class. They just moved here from Charlotte and live in one of the trailers off Whispering Pine Lane.”

I glance at the woman, then at the girl half-hiding behind her. She’s tiny, with messy light brown hair and big green eyes that dart everywhere but me. She looks like a scared rabbit, shifting like she’s ready to bolt. There’s no way that she’s my age. She still looks elementary-school small.

“Hi,” I state flatly.

My mind drifts back to the sandwich that I left inside and my mouth waters and grumbles.

This town’s got a serious fly problem due to the farms that surround it, and if my mom doesn’t hurry up, I’m coming back to a sandwich crawling with them.

I’d rather be anywhere else than having this conversation.

The girl squirms, ducking further behind her mom.

“Jael, say hello,” Mrs. Braddock orders firmly, gripping her arm and tugging her forward like she’s presenting her for official inspection. Jael looks as uncomfortable as I do.

“Hello, Rhett,” she mumbles, barely above a whisper.

“Well, great. Then it’s settled,” Mom says, clapping her hands together like she’s closing a deal.

“What’s settled?” I ask, suspicious.

“Mrs. Braddock just got a job at the bank sorting cash after hours,” she explains.

“So, she’ll be working evenings. I’ll be watching Jael during the summer and after school until her bedtime when her mom gets home from work.

” She says it like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, as if she didn’t just sign me up for summer-long babysitting duty with a girl who looks like an actual kid still.

“What?” My voice spikes into panic.

“That means you and Jael will be spending lots of time together,” she says with a pointed look, ignoring my question. She turns to Mrs. Braddock, shaking her hand like they’ve just brokered some life-altering treaty. “We’re happy to help with Jael.”

We’re happy to do none of this.

“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Braddock says before ushering Jael away.

And just like that, my mom is already heading back inside, closing the door behind her like the conversation is over.

“What the heck, Mom?” I demand, storming in after her.

“Watch your tone when you speak to me, Rhett,” she snaps, spinning around to jab a finger in the air.

I might be close to six feet tall and still growing, but my tiny mom is terrifying when she’s mad. That doesn’t stop me from glaring.

“I don’t want to spend my summer babysitting some weird, quiet, new girl,” I grumble under my breath but still loud enough to be sure she hears it.

“We’re doing a good thing helping them out,” she retorts, crossing her arms. “She needs someone to watch her daughter, and I have the time. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about it.” And with that, she spins back around, effectively ending the conversation.

I sigh and follow inside after her, peeking through the blinds to watch Mrs. Braddock and Jael disappear down Whispering Pines Lane.

Slumping down at the kitchen table, I take a bite of my sandwich. One bite of it tells me it’s not nearly as satisfying as it should be. Guess the looming dread of hanging out with the new girl has killed my appetite.

How the heck am I going to get out of this?

My mom has always been the unofficial mayor of our trailer park, helping anyone and everyone. Sharing meals, watching babies, lending a hand. It’s like her personal mission to save the town, one struggling family at a time. Which usually means I get roped into her charity projects too.

After chugging two Capri Suns and licking my plate, I decide I need to scope out the new neighbor for myself. Maybe if I scare her badly enough, she’ll tell her mom she doesn’t want to come over and they’ll find someone else to bug.

I hop on my bike and ride the short distance to Whispering Pines Lane. Her trailer’s easy to spot. It’s old, with peeling paint and a sagging front step. Right next to my friends Molly and Maverick’s place. Not hard to remember, though I don’t plan on ever coming back.

As I pull up, I hear raised voices inside. Someone’s yelling, and a dish shatters against a wall followed by a loud thump.

Jael is sitting on the front lawn, cross-legged, staring at the grass like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. She doesn’t look up as I approach, her fingers idly brushing through a patch of clovers and weeds like she’s looking for something important.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hello.” Still no eye contact. Her fingers keep moving, raking over the ground gently, eyes sweeping back and forth.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for four-leaf clovers. We used to have a bunch in our yard back in Charlotte.”

I snort. “Doubt you’ll find any here in the trailer park. Not exactly a lucky place to live.”

She sighs, then finally lifts her green eyes to meet mine. Something about the way she looks at me makes me feel small, even though she barely takes up space.

I kick at a loose stone on the pavement, unsure what to say now that I’m here.

The voices inside her home have finally stopped and the quiet of a humid, summer day fills the space around us.

Until that peacefulness is abruptly destroyed when seconds later, the front door flies open, and a tall, burly man exits like a bull from a chute.

Stomping to a beat-up car, he flings open the door and slams it shut behind him as he backs out of the driveway and speeds off, kicking rocks and dust behind him in his wake. He doesn’t notice or acknowledge Jael and I standing on the lawn, seemingly blinded by his own rage.

“That your dad?” I ask.

She nods.

“My dad left a long time ago,” I respond.

“That sucks but I bet it’s better than having one like mine.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I barely remember my dad, but I know he was a bad man. Judging by what I just saw, she’s probably right—I’m better off.

“So, what kind of name is Jael?” I ask, suddenly curious about this strange newcomer with an angry father, a harsh mother, sad green eyes and a small voice. “Your parents mean to name you after a place they send criminals?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s pronounced Jay-Elle, not jail. And no, I was named after a woman in the Bible.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “My mom’s been dragging me to church since I was five. I don’t remember no Jael in the Bible.”

“Well, you must have not been paying attention to the preacher then.”

Ooh. Feisty.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Enlighten me then. What’d Jael do in the Bible?”

She stands and brushes the loose clovers she pulled out of the earth from her body. Most of her five-foot nothing frame is covered in tan legs peeking out of loose, denim shorts. Her wild, brown hair looks like it needs a good brushing. Probably a wash too.

“Jael in the Bible ended a war by driving a tent peg through a general’s head while he was asleep in her tent,” she says casually, shrugging one shoulder.

My jaw drops open at the casualness of the gruesome story she just told and the wild woman that she was named after. “A tent peg?” I’m definitely looking this story up later tonight.

“So, this place is called Whitewood Creek, but there’s a lake back there.” She points with her thumb towards the back of the trailer park. “Want to go check it out?”

“Your mom won’t notice if you leave?”

She gives me a sad little smile and starts walking like that’s the dumbest thing I could’ve asked. And judging by what I’ve seen so far, she’s probably right.

I grab my bike and follow her down the road.