Chapter Ten #2
Duke cleared his throat. “I ain’t never been nowhere outside this valley. Pa says we got no business dreaming bigger than the dirt we stand on. But sometimes I think maybe that’s the only thing worth doing. Dreaming, I mean.”
They reached the base of the windmill, and Weston stopped. He dropped his tool belt beside the foundation and tilted his head back, squinting into the morning light.
“Top bracket’s loose,” he muttered. “Probably slipped in the storm last week.”
Duke shaded his eyes. “I can climb, if you want. Ain’t scared of heights.”
Weston didn’t reply right away. He just studied the boy, his hands, his balance, the way he was itching to prove himself. He saw something familiar in him. Not just the hunger, but the softness behind it. The kind of softness the world beat out of men if they weren’t careful.
“You hold the bolts,” Weston said. “I’ll climb.”
Duke nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
As Weston hauled himself up the frame, metal groaning under his weight, he heard Duke below, still talking about how “Miss Nora” taught him to read seed catalogs, about the time he got kicked by a mule and didn’t cry, about how he once chased off a coyote with a shovel and probably saved the last of the hens.
Weston didn’t say a word. He just worked, hands moving with practiced ease. But something in Duke’s voice, that earnest and warm and unbroken voice, made him feel calm. By the time he climbed down, the windmill was turning slow and steady again. Duke looked up at it like it was a miracle.
“That’s real good work,” the boy said. “Bet Miss Nora will be glad.”
Weston nodded. “It’ll hold another season.”
Duke picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Thank you, sir. For letting me help.”
Weston started walking again, slower this time. “Don’t call me ‘sir,’” he said without looking back. “Name’s Weston.”
When he turned around, West saw Duke grinning behind him. His smile was wide and sincere. “Yes, Weston.”
***
When Weston finally entered the house for the first time that day, the kitchen smelled like cornbread and stewed greens. It was the kind of smell that usually made him think of home…or what home used to be, anyway. He paused in the doorway hesitantly, before stepping inside.
June was ladling soup into bowls. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hair was pinned back tight. Mary Jane sat at the table with her arms folded and her mouth pinched into a scowl. Nora stood behind her, trying to coax her into taking just one bite. It wasn’t going well.
“She hasn’t eaten since morning,” Nora said quietly to June.
“I don’t want soup,” Mary Jane snapped, kicking her heel against the table leg. “It smells like feet.”
Weston slid into the empty seat across from her. No one acknowledged him at first, which suited him just fine. Then Mary Jane narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you like soup?” she demanded.
Weston raised a brow. “Sure do. Especially when it smells like feet.”
Mary Jane blinked. Then she giggled, just a little to make the room bright again.
“Tell you what,” Weston said, keeping his voice cheerful, “you eat that soup, and after lunch I’ll take you to see the horses. You can help me brush them down.”
Mary Jane glanced at her bowl, then back at him. “The brown one too?”
“Even the brown one.”
She thought about it for a second, then picked up her spoon with dramatic reluctance and took a bite. Nora blinked, visibly surprised. Weston caught her glance. He leaned back in his chair and, quiet but not without edge, said, “You look like you weren’t expecting that.”
Nora’s expression shifted. It was more defensive now. “Well,” she said, “after the way things went at the wedding lunch…I wasn’t.”
Weston felt the heat rise in his chest before he could stop it. “I ain’t a savage,” he muttered. “You think just because I don’t like being poked at by strangers that I don’t know how to talk to a child?”
Nora crossed her arms. “I don’t know what you know, Weston….That’s the point. You barely speak to me. You storm off whenever someone asks you a question. And I’m supposed to just…trust you? Around her?”
Something snapped in him at that. His chair scraped hard against the floor as he stood. “You think I’d hurt her?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Nora said sharply and stood up, as well. “That’s the trouble, Weston. I don’t know anything about you.”
Weston’s fists clenched at his sides. “Maybe if you asked a question or two every day instead of standing back and waiting for me to trip, you’d know.”
Nora flinched, just barely, but didn’t back down. “I can’t afford to guess wrong when it comes to Mary Jane.”
He stared at her. His breath was short, his heart was pounding. For a second, the only sound in the room was the soft clink of Mary Jane’s spoon against her bowl and June’s quiet retreat into the pantry, wisely giving them space.
“People always think the worst of me,” Weston said, more to himself than to her. “Every time.”
And then he turned and left, again. This time, he didn’t bother to hide the anger burning under his skin. He didn’t slam the door, even though he wanted to.
Outside, the sun was too bright, the wind too dry, and his thoughts were too loud. Lord, please give me strength to find peace, at least…if that’s even possible these days.