36. Indie
Chapter 36
Indie
W ith our stomachs full and Maria’s blessing over our heads, we finally get back in the truck with the promise to come back and help her load her SUV up with the tamales and help out at the farmer’s market Steele has every Saturday when the weather permits. It used to only be at a certain time of year, but due to popular demand, they all gather as often as they’re able to. The only time they don’t have it is when it’s either snowing or storming. The whole town comes together and sells their goods. It sounds like an amazing little town and I’m excited to see it.
But first, we have to go to the big house.
Driving back to the antebellum home feels like driving to the graveyard to visit a tombstone where nobody is buried. None of us speak as we make our way up the gravel and back onto the concrete. It’s still early, fog hanging in the fields and obscuring most of what’s out there, but I can still see a few bulls lingering along the white fences. Later, I’ll ask about them, but right now, we have a different task.
If only I knew what that task was.
I’m not a fan of confrontation, but I’ve never been one to shy away from it when needed. However, this is someone else’s family, someone else’s drama, and I feel even more like I don’t belong. When Tripp pulls up to the massive house and throws the truck in park, I hesitate in the back seat as they all start to get out.
“I can stay in the truck if?—”
“Come inside,” Tripp says. “There’s no reason to hide out here.”
“But this is family business type stuff. I don’t want to impose.”
Ram opens my door and offers me his hand. “You’re not imposing, periodista . Trust me.” When I still hesitate, his eyes darken. “You wanted to see what shaped the Crimson Three,” he whispers. “Our mold is inside this house.”
I’m curious. Of course, I’m curious. And I still have an interview to get. But this feels like I shouldn’t be here, like I shouldn’t witness this. They should keep their secrets if those secrets are this heavy. Eventually, though, at Ram’s insistence, I slide my hand into his and let him pull me from the truck. At least we’d left Bilbo with Maria. I wouldn’t want to subject him to this heaviness.
I straighten my jacket and pull it tighter around me as if it’ll somehow shield me from whatever’s in this house. I take the few seconds we have to walk up the short stairs and up to the door to study the men around me. Tripp stands ramrod straight, his shoulders as tense as I’ve ever seen them. He’s wearing a lined Carhartt today and a baseball cap, his hands shoved in his pockets as if that’ll help steady him. Ram’s expression is hidden behind a cold mask he slides into place the moment our feet touch the first step, as if he’s practiced this very thing a million times.
Beau, though? Beau’s signature smile is on his face, but it feels fake, like it’s there only to keep from showing his anger. I can see that anger in the way he clenches his hands into fists before he tucks them away into the pockets of his coat. He’s dressed more conservatively today rather than the loud style that I know, but his pink heart-shaped sunglasses are still on his head. He never goes anywhere without them.
We stop in front of the door and Tripp takes a deep breath. He looks over at me, his eyes swirling with emotion. Unlike the other two, he doesn’t hide his anger. It’s there in his eyes for all to see. “Steel yourself,” he tells me. “Don’t let anything he says effect you.” He looks back at the door. “He’s looking for a reaction. Don’t give it to him.”
And then he knocks on the door three times, his knuckles hitting the wood. There’s a doorbell button beside the door, but he purposely chooses not to use it, preferring the grating noise of his hand on the door to what is probably charming bells. Nothing happens for a few long seconds, and I think that maybe no one heard it at first. Tripp doesn’t knock again. He just waits.
I start counting. One. . . two. . . three. . . four. At ten, we finally hear someone’s steps approach, and the door unlocks from the inside before it’s opened. I’d expected a man since Tripp had warned me about one. Instead, I’m faced with a woman.
Her hair is blonde and perfectly styled on top of her head and perfectly bleached. Her make up is as perfect as her hair, done just so, and I realize she’s a carbon copy of many of the women I’d encountered on the rodeo circuit, down to the bedazzled dangly earrings and the shade of lipstick. Hell, she even wears a turquoise necklace around her neck.
Her eyes widen when she sees us standing on the porch, fear flickering in her eyes. “Tripp,” she says. “You’re home.”
Tripp levels his gaze on her and I can feel his animosity despite it not being directed at me. “I am.” He gestures to the house. “Aren’t you goin’ to invite us in?”
She hesitates before opening the door wider. “It’s not a good day today?—”
“It rarely is,” Tripp says, cutting her off. “Still need to talk to him.”
Tripp leads the way inside, the three of us following him. The woman, who I assume is Darla, stares at me openly, clearly confused who I am, but I don’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned, in this house, I’m nothing more than an ornament. I’m trying my best to remain invisible here.
“He’s in the living room having breakfast,” Darla murmurs.
Tripp nods and changes direction, leading us into a large room. The walls are all wood paneled and shined within an inch of their life. It’s a very masculine room, the chandelier overhead even made from deer antlers hanging over the couch. The large stone fireplace goes floor to ceiling, a huge taxidermy bull bust mounted there that looks a little worse for wear when you look closer at it. A TV hanging on the wall is playing the morning weather a little too loudly. The weatherman talks about a coming storm and how preparations are underway in the Green River Basin. Beneath the chandelier is a worn leather couch and a matching leather armchair. In the large armchair sits a man with his back turned to us as he leans forward over a table tray and watches the weather. He uses a plastic spork for his eggs, his breakfast on a paper plate, and his drink of choice in a foam cup. I notice because it seems out of place in the ornate and extravagant room. Even the man himself is dressed up like a ranch tycoon, a ten-gallon cowboy hat on the couch beside him while he wears his best cowboy suit.
“Fred,” Darla says, and I frown at her use of his first name and not “Dad.” Tripp seems to notice her intentional decision as well, but doesn’t say anything. “Tripp is home.”
The man turns in his armchair, blue eyes I recognize glancing over at the four of us standing at the end of the couch. I try my best to hide behind Ram, hoping that he doesn’t see me, because there’s one huge difference between Tripp’s eyes and this man’s.
Tripp’s eyes have never looked so cruel.
He harumphs as he looks at Tripp. “Typical,” he says, his lips curling up. “Always returning home without a win under your belt. Didn’t I tell you last time not to come back unless you’re making headlines?”
I frown, confused. Tripp has more titles than most bull riders. Hell, he’d already been inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame last year. What the hell does this man mean he doesn’t have any wins?
“Yeah, you told me,” Tripp says. “But I had to come back to handle some business.”
His eyes grow colder. “The legacy of this ranch doesn’t belong in this house. You belong on tour.” His eyes move from Tripp over to Beau and Ram who stand behind him. “And you dare bring that fuckin’ clown and spic in my house? I done told you they ain’t allowed in my house!”
Ram doesn’t tense at the derogatory word, but I do. I can’t help it. The word is spit out with so much venom that it shocks me. Most people I’ve been around keep their racism subtle, something they don’t necessarily announce to the world. But I should have known better just from the style of the house.
Those antebellum pillars scream “a bigot lives here.”
“They’ll be wherever I want them to be,” Tripp replies coldly, harshly. “I own the house now. Not you.” But his dad doesn’t even seem to hear his words, his eyes flicking as I tense and take a step back.
I realize the mistake I make in tensing when those cruel blue eyes focus on me instead, and absolute hatred fills them.
“And now you come bringin’ one of those Nese in here?” He shoves the table tray over. “You’re twenty years old and still a fucking disappointment, Tripp.”
Despite the absolute racist vitriol he spits, I freeze in confusion. Tripp Savage is thirty-two years old. He hasn’t been twenty in a long time. That’s too many years to make a simple mistake. I glance at Tripp where he stands off to the side to find him already looking at me, watching for the pieces to click into place. When they do, my eyes widen.
Oh, god.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Savage,” I say, my hands starting to shake. Normally, I wouldn’t respond to someone like him with any sort of kindness but?—
“Did I ask you to speak, girl?” the old man snarls. “Unless you’re here to wipe my ass or fry up some rice, you have no business in my house.”
Okay. Never mind. No matter what ailments he has, he doesn’t deserve kindness.
I bare my teeth at him in a fake smile. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, too,” I grit out. “Asshole,” I grunt under my breath.
Beau laughs when he hears me, and Tripp’s dad whips his eyes to him.
“What the fuck you laughin’ at, stray?” he spits. “I expected better from you after the bringin’ up I gifted you.”
Beau grins at him. “Well, that’s your fault,” he laughs. “I got nothin’ to do with that.”
“Get out,” Tripp’s dad snarls. “Out! Out! Out! And take that stupid bitch babysitter with you!” he yells while gesturing to Darla. She doesn’t react to the anger. She doesn’t react at all as he shoves over the table tray and sends his breakfast spilling across the hardwood floor. The need for paper and plasticware suddenly makes a lot of sense. I wonder how many plates were broken on these floors.
I wonder how many holes have been patched up in the walls.
Because men like this? Their anger stains everything they touch.
“Darla,” Tripp says while his dad rages behind him. “I need to talk to you. Outside.”
She twists her hands together and nods. She gestures to their dad. “He’ll wear himself out in a minute.”
We follow her back outside to the sounds of a former legacy screaming obscenities and racial slurs behind us. I keep my back ramrod straight, if only to keep myself from turning around and burning the image into my memory. So much makes sense now. Tripp’s hesitation to come back here. Their somber expressions. The way this house seems to haunt them.
Why they don’t stay in this house anymore.
Once the door shuts behind us, the sounds are cut off, and I realize how truly soundproof it is. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. Houses like these, the facades are just as much a mask of cruelty as the rose bushes planted along the stairs are.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Tripp murmurs to me. “For what he said?—”
I shake my head. “Don’t apologize for him. His actions aren’t your responsibility.”
He shrugs. “They are now.”
Now. Now that he’s declining.
“How long has he had it?” I ask gently as Darla moves over to the stiff chair and sits down, her chest rising and falling as she takes deep breaths.
“The first signs of dementia started about eight years ago,” he admits. “It’s gotten worse every year. Sometimes he remembers who I am. Sometimes he doesn’t.”
“And sometimes he remembers you at younger stages,” I say, understanding.
He nods, his shoulders so tense, I worry he’s gonna throw his back out. He touches my cheek gently, a small thing, but it seems to bring him some sense of comfort despite the place he’s in. The air shifts right after, and I know the feeling won’t last while we stand on this porch.
Tripp looks at Darla and his expression shifts from shame for his father, to animosity for his sister. I take a step back, preparing for the confrontation that’s been brewing since we turned the nose of the truck from Nebraska to Steele, Wyoming.
I tuck my hands into my pockets and prepare myself.