Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DELLA
I don’t cry.
I’m too devastated for tears.
The handcuffs cut into my wrist. An owl screeches over the fields. Jensen is still outside. I haven’t heard the door slam or his boots on the floor again. The austere clock on the wall ticks the minutes away.
How long is he going to leave me here?
Rolling my head to the side, I watch clouds scud across the sky through the window.
This house is beautiful, simple. It would be a good place to raise a family.
Landis would love it out here, all the space to run.
He’s such an active little boy, always begging to go to the park or play ball in the yard.
My eyes sting.
Brothers said he and Jensen were on the outs.
I just didn’t expect such a visceral reaction.
He recoiled like he’d put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a snake.
Brothers Boyd is no saint, so whatever happened could range from drugs to murder to something worse.
But he’d talked so highly of Jensen, I thought there had to be some positive emotion there.
Turns out, I was wrong.
The door slams. I push up, pulling the sheet over my breasts.
He’s coming quick, boots loud. The door swings open, and he’s there in the flesh.
Quite a bit of it, actually, given that he hasn’t put his shirt back on yet.
He shuts the door, takes the chair, and flips it backwards.
Pale eyes on me, he sinks down and puts his gun in his belt at the small of his back.
We stare at each other.
He clears his throat.
“The kid…your kid,” he says. He swallows like he’s having trouble speaking. “What’s he like?”
I stammer; that’s a pivot.
“He’s a really good kid, very sweet, very outgoing,” I say.
He winces.
“He’s kind, I tried to make sure he’s always kind,” I continue. “But I look at Leland, and I know what he’s going to turn him into. But I’m…I won’t let that happen. He won’t be raised by Leland.”
His jaw works. “Custody battles are ugly.”
“This isn’t a custody battle,” I say firmly. “Either I die getting him back, or I get what I want. There’s no afterwards that involves me leaving him with Leland.”
Silence.
He leans back. “I could have used a mother with your backbone when I was his age,” he says finally.
There’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
“Your mother is still alive?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Died when I was a teenager. Yours?”
That’s a sore spot, but I can tell he’s not in the mood to be lied to.
“We had a difference of opinion,” I say.
“I didn’t want to marry Leland, and she wanted me to, real bad.
She ended up remarrying one of Matthew Caudill’s friends, and they moved to New York a few summers ago.
I…I tried to get a hold of her when I left Leland, and she told me I was being stupid, giving up Caudill wealth. ”
“Money is the root of all evil, huh?”
“I think she was just desperate,” I say. “But she did pick it over me and her grandson.”
“Your father?”
“My daddy died when I was young. He’s buried in my family cemetery, in a holler in Harlan.”
His eyes flick up. “You say Harlan?”
I nod. “Why? What’s it mean to you?”
He shrugs. “I’m from Harlan originally.”
“Brothers say you were from Byway.”
He lifts his head, and I should have guessed from those mountain eyes what county his people hailed from.
They’re pale as the lakes in spring, clear as the streams when the ice melts.
He’s got them in his veins, the hills I grew up with.
That’s why he feels like home, like life courses through his body.
Homesickness kicks the door down. I’m only twenty-three years old, but Lord, I’m so tired, I could lay down in the grave by my daddy and sleep. I’d rest, just watch the grass wave overhead, the trees flip their leaves, and the birds rustle at the edge of the clearing.
But I can’t. I’ve still got so much living to do, even if it hurts. It’s not my responsibility to bury this body—that’s for Landis to do when the time is right.
“You miss it?” I ask.
He blinks, focusing on me. “What?”
“You miss the mountains?” I whisper. “The creeks, the hollers?”
His throat bobs. “Yeah, but I don’t want to go back.”
“I’d go in a second,” I say. “I’d give it all up to just go home to my trailer in Harlan and raise Landis there. I’m fine with having nothing but my freedom.”
The corner of his mouth turns up, and his eyes are so sad.
“Tell me about it,” he says hoarsely.
Pushing myself up further, I let myself indulge in homesickness.
“There was a long dirt road that turned into my drive. My trailer sat to the right, up on cinder blocks. It was old, but my mama kept it spotless. We cleaned every day at three, no exceptions. Up on the opposite side of the hill was a path that led to the clearing. Our family cemetery was on the left, and there was a grove of pawpaws that ran right up to it.”
His lids flicker. “You eat them?”
“Grew up on them,” I say, letting myself smile. “Pawpaw bread, pie, raw from the tree. I’d eat them until I was sick when they were in season.”
He’s quiet.
“What happened to your land?” he asks finally.
Anger seeps through the homesickness. “My mama let Leland sell it and give her the money. I think he didn’t want there to be anything for me to go back to.”
He’s thinking. I see his eyes moving under lowered lids.
“You didn’t want to marry him?” he says finally.
A wave of panic moves through me, and I breathe, letting it flow. The path that led me to being Leland’s wife is confusing. There are parts of it I’m still trying to understand, but I know some of it for certain.
“He met me at a diner one day while he was passing through,” I say, voice steady. “He came down the next day, just kept coming back. My mama wanted me to stay with him. She’d had a real hard time raising me alone, and I felt selfish not sacrificing.”
His jaw works.
“Plus, he knocked me up,” I say. “That sealed the deal.”
“How’d he do it?” he says.
God, he’s bold.
“With his dick. How do you think?” I snap. “After last night, surely, you don’t need me explaining how babies get made.”
His eyes narrow, studying me. He’s sharp, and it’s making me squirm. Finally, he stands and pushes the chair to the side. I cringe as he crosses the room and leans across the bed, reaching for the cuffs. They clink, then release. Frowning, I rub the red line on my wrist.
“That was overkill,” I say.
“Get up,” he says.
Shakily, I rise, wrapping my arms around my breasts. He jerks his head toward the door. “Put my shirt on and go downstairs and make me a cup of coffee. I got some phone calls to make.”
“So…are you going to help me?” I whisper.
He checks his gun and puts it in the bedside table, locking it. When he turns, there’s a frown creasing his forehead.
“Against my better judgement, I am,” he says.
“Why?”
“That ain’t none of your fucking business, ma’am.” The whole Harlan accent comes out in that sentence. “You take what you get.”
He picks a linen button down off the dresser and tosses it at me. I catch it, stunned.
“But—”
“Della,” he says firmly, “make me a fucking cup of coffee.”
Cowed, I button on the shirt and go downstairs. He’s towering over me as we enter the kitchen, taking up so much space, my heart starts pounding. The chair is still pulled out from what we did earlier. I stare at it, heat bubbling on low in my stomach.
“Go on,” he says, sinking down in it.
Obediently, I take down the percolator and measure out the coffee. It takes a second for the gas stove to get it bubbling. Then, we wait in silence while it gurgles until the coffee is rich and dark. I take it off, fill his cup, and bring it to him.
Pale eyes on me, he has some.
“Good,” he says.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’m trying to see if you can follow a basic order. Because if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question me. No back talk, no suggesting we do something else. You let me work and do this my way, or I send you back alone.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. “I can follow an order,” I bristle.
He tilts his head, studying me. “So far, the only orders you seem to be able to follow are the ones I give you when your legs are open.”
My brows shoot to my hairline. “How dare you?”
“Oh, I dare pretty often,” he says. “I mean this, Della. I got business with Brothers Boyd, and you don’t understand it.
It means something that he sent you to bring me back.
We’re going to Kentucky so I can handle some shit.
I’ll get your kid from the Caudill house, and I get to put some bodies in the ground. ”
“Bodies?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
I study him, not so sure. Ever since I mentioned Brothers, a thick cloud sits over Jensen.
The brightness of his eyes is cold like steel.
His jaw is tight, grim. I have a feeling this version of him, the one I unwittingly resurrected, has a lot less to joke about than the version I spent the last few days with.
“My way or the highway,” he says quietly.
Having to listen to a man again kills me, but there’s only one way out of Montana and back to Kentucky. If I don’t accept his help, it’ll be just me against Leland, and I already know how that ends.
“Fine,” I say.
He spits in his hand and holds it out. Our eyes lock. Unintimidated, I spit in my palm too, and we shake on it.
“It’s a deal,” I say.
“Good. Go to bed. I’ve some things to do before we leave in the morning.”