34. Indie
Chapter 34
Indie
T here’s a heaviness in the air of the truck that I don’t understand. Even Bilbo doesn’t seem excited to be here, his eyes watching through the windshield. He doesn’t wag his tail like he’s coming home. He doesn’t do that happy little butt wiggle he does when he first sees me. He just. . . watches.
Tripp had stopped at the ornate gate, his eyes staring at those twin bulls with what I could only describe as terror, but it’s a fear that’s old, like being reminded of how you were once afraid of the dark as a kid. When Ram and Beau had touched his shoulders to offer comfort, I understood that this place isn’t exactly one they want to come back to. Something had made me reach out and offer my own comfort, if only because I can understand that coming home is sometimes sort of like visiting a gravesite.
I understand this sentiment far too well.
The winding driveway is paved concrete, large groups of monkey grass planted along the sides of it. There are fences beyond the tall grass, but it’s too dark to see if there is anything in the fields right now. If the sun was shining, I’d be looking around excitedly, eager to see where they come from, what it’s like. After all, I don’t know what ranch life is like.
In the distance, I can make out yellow-tinted lights. As we get closer, I realize the lights are porch lanterns shining from a beautiful and massive house. It looks like a plantation house, the large white pillars standing tall and proud and. . . monstrous. The place is fucking huge and imposing. I can tell that even from here. As we draw closer, it only seems to grow more menacing, haunted even. Unease settles in my chest. What the fuck am I walking into here?
Just when I think Tripp is going to pull into the circle drive for the large Antebellum-style house, the road curves and he follows it, turning to the right and pulling away from the place.
“We’re not going to the house?” I ask, looking through the side window as we pass it, confused.
Beau doesn’t look at me. The usually smiling man is somber as he says, “we don’t stay in there anymore.”
I wanna ask, but I don’t because everyone is so tense. Clearly, something in that house happened that made them decide not to stay in it. The evidence hangs in the air with the tension. But what?
The road turns from concrete to gravel. The small dip from the change shakes the truck and then we bump along for a few minutes more, leaving the imposing house behind. The smaller house rises up out of the darkness so suddenly, it surprises me. No porch lights are lit up on this one. It’s significantly smaller, done up in a more Victorian style with a wraparound porch rather than the antebellum style of the bigger one. Instead of white, this house is painted blue. There are rocking chairs and a swing on the porch, making it look inviting even in the dark.
“Normally we’d have lights on,” Tripp offers as explanation. “But we’re not expected.”
He means that he wouldn’t normally be here this time of year. We’d come unannounced because of some issue with his sister. Not because he wanted to.
“Is this a guest house?” I ask as everyone opens their doors and gets out.
The mountain air is chilly here and I immediately wrap my arms around myself to keep warm. Even with my denim jacket on, it’s not enough to stop the wind. There’s no snow on the ground right now, the last evidence of the prior storm clearly melting in a short burst of warmer weather, but it feels like it’s coming soon. There’s a charge in the air that speaks of it.
Unless that’s just the tension between the three men I stand with.
Bilbo doesn’t make a sound as he sniffs at the ground and runs around to do his business. He does wag his tail a little when Tripp walks by and pats his head, but that’s the extent of it.
“It’s our house,” Ram offers as explanation. “We built it once we started bringing in money from the rodeos.”
“You built it, or you had it built?” I ask curiously.
Ram meets my eyes. “We built it.” He raps his knuckles on the railing. “Every piece of this place was built by our hands.”
“That’s. . . really cool,” I muse. I can’t imagine building a house from scratch. Construction isn’t in my repertoire, but it’s something I’ve always been curious about.
Tripp unlocks the door and reaches in to flick on a porch light before flipping on more lights inside the house. I’m finally able to see the details of the house and realize that despite it being smaller than the main house, it’s still bigger than anything I’ve lived in before. I suppose if three grown men are going to live in it, it needs to be big enough to house them.
We walk inside, and though we weren’t expected, the place has clearly been cleaned recently. There’s not even any dust on anything. A large stone fireplace serves as the focal point for the living room. A large set of bull horns is mounted above the mantle, serving as a statement piece. Right beneath it hangs a painting of a rodeo bull bucking, no rider on its back. The brown leather couches look broken in but not worn out, a plush fur rug in front of them. To the left, I can see into the open kitchen where everything looks newer than anything else. The stove looks like something you’d see in a restaurant kitchen rather than in a house. The fridge is the same. Hardwood floors span the entire house, but instead of the glossy look I’m used to, the wood looks more natural, polished but not shiny. I find I like it better than the normal design I’ve seen.
“This is cozy,” I say as I hold my stuffed bear against my chest and look around. On the walls, photos hang in pretty frames. When I peer closer at them, I find photos of each of the guys in their element, in the arena. Then there are the older photos, the ones where they’re all together, where they’re teenagers and then children. Even the photos of them as kids hold the tension they carry in their shoulders now. Tension they hadn’t carried before we came here.
What kind of weight falls on their shoulders when they come home?
“Sorry it’s small,” Tripp murmurs as I look around. “But there’s an extra room for you, so you’ll have privacy.”
I touch my finger to the photo of the three men in front of me, their smiles tight, their eyes haunted. Somehow, that’s captured perfectly in the photo.
“I grew up in a two-bedroom apartment that was smaller than most,” I reply as I stare at the photo. I smile over at Tripp gently to ease my next words. “This feels like a mansion in comparison. So, it’s fine. Really.”
He studies me, and when he sees I’m telling the truth, he nods and immediately goes over to the freezer. “One of them will show you to your room,” he says. He pulls open the door and looks inside. He sighs and reaches in. His hand comes back out with a full bottle of what looks like whiskey. He closes the door and turns, tipping the bottle neck toward us. “If you need me, I’ll be on the back porch blacking out.”
He disappears out the back door, Bilbo on his heels. The screen door slams behind him as we all stare after his exit silently.
“Is he gonna be okay?” I ask softly, glancing at Ram and Beau.
Beau shrugs, but Ram answers. “Yeah, he’ll be fine eventually. He just has to go have a drink with his demons.” He reaches down and grabs my bag. “Come on. While Beau adjusts the thermostat so we don’t freeze tonight, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleepin’.”
“What about Tripp?” I ask, worried he’ll pass out by himself. “Aren’t there wild animals here to worry about?”
Ram tips his head toward me. “We won’t leave him out there. Don’t worry, periodista .” He opens the door to a room. “Try and get some rest. This place has a way of stealing your sleep once you see behind the curtain.”
I frown at him as he sets my bag on the bed. I don’t ask, but for fuck’s sake, I tuck it away to ask about later. Because the way they speak of this place. . .
It might as well be Hell. . .