Chapter 14 #2
The word is like a slap. She doesn’t say it with respect. She says it like an insult. Like it’s a dirty word.
She turns on her heel and marches into the house, slamming the screen door so hard the glass rattles in the frame.
I stand there, staring at the closed door. The fire roars behind me, eating up the history of her family. The wind howls, tearing at my clothes.
Nothing? She burned half the yard, and dismissed me like a servant, and that’s her answer?
I run a hand through my hair, frustration boiling in my gut. I don’t understand her. I don’t understand this game she’s playing.
Just then, the sound of an engine cuts through the wind.
Headlights sweep across the yard as Knox’s truck turns off the main road and swings into the driveway. It’s moving fast, sliding a little on the gravel before it comes to a stop near my cabin.
The tailgate is down.
I squint against the glare of the headlights. Strapped into the bed of the truck is a motorbike. A sleek, black, custom machine that looks like it belongs on a race track, not a ranch in Wyoming.
Knox jumps out of the driver’s side. He looks flushed, his hair wild, his eyes bright with a manic energy I haven’t seen in weeks. Rhett climbs out of the passenger side. He looks more composed, but there’s a set to his shoulders that suggests he’s been holding on for dear life.
They stand there for a second, looking at the house, looking at the massive bonfire, looking at me standing in the middle of the yard like I’ve just been hit by a truck.
Knox grins, throwing his hands up. “Check it out!”
I look at the bike. I look at the fire. I look at the dark, angry sky.
I look at them.
Has everyone on this ranch lost their goddamn mind?
“What the hell is that?” I ask, pointing at the machine strapped down in the truck bed. It looks like a black panther crouching to pounce, all sleek lines and chrome. It is completely out of place among the mud and the horse trailers.
Knox walks over to the bike, running his hand along the handlebar with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. “That’s a custom build. Eight-hundred ccs of pure adrenaline. We took it for a spin out on the highway.”
“It’s a death trap,” I say, staring at the thin tires and the exposed engine. “You ride bulls for a living. Why do you need to risk your neck on two wheels in your spare time?”
“Because it’s different,” Knox says, his grin wide and unhinged. “On a bull, you’re fighting the animal. On this, you’re fighting the road. It’s... cleansing.”
Rhett comes around the back of the truck, carrying two large paper bags. The smell of fried food and spices wafts toward me, cutting through the scent of woodsmoke and exhaust. My stomach gives an involuntary growl.
“We stopped by The Salt Lick on the way back,” Rhett says. “It’s closed, but Baby was there packing up to-go orders. She sold us these.”
He lifts one of the bags. “Burgers. Fries. Onion rings. We figured you might be hungry.”
I am. I haven’t eaten anything since a stale granola bar at dawn. But my appetite wars with my irritation.
“You bought a motorbike and burgers while I’ve been out here working?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“We’ve had a day,” Knox says, losing some of his enthusiasm. He rubs the back of his neck, looking toward the darkening sky. “Gary called. Lane is thinking about postponing the whole circuit.”
“Postponing? Indefinitely?”
“That’s the worry,” Knox says, his voice flat. “So yeah. We needed to blow off some steam.”
A gust of wind tears through the yard, rattling the siding of the house. The bonfire Saramaria built flares up, sparks swirling into the gloom. The temperature is plummeting. The air tastes like ice.
“We should get inside,” Rhett says, looking up at the clouds. “That storm is moving in faster than they predicted. It’s going to be a bad one.”
I look toward my cabin. It’s sturdy, built from thick logs, but the insulation is old. The heater struggles when the temperature drops below zero. And with the wind picking up, the power lines will likely go down. If we lose electricity, we’ll be freezing by morning.
I look at the main house. Stone walls. A massive stone fireplace in the living room. A wood stove in the kitchen. It’s the only structure on the property that will stay warm through a Wyoming blizzard.
“Fine,” I say, though the idea makes me tired. “But you two are clearing the air. I’m not doing it.”
“Clearing the air with who?” Knox asks, grabbing the food bags.
“With her,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the house. “She’s in a mood. I tried to talk to her earlier and she almost took my head off.”
Knox shrugs. “She’s probably just stressed about the paperwork. Or the sale.”
“It’s more than that,” I say, remembering the look in her eyes when she threw that picture frame into the fire. “She’s... intense. She’s burning everything in sight. Just be warned. She’s on a warpath.”
Rhett sighs, adjusting his collar against the wind. “I’ll talk to her.”
I look at him. “You think you can fix it?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I gave her the papers this morning. Maybe she has questions. Maybe she just needs to vent.”
“Or maybe she just hates us,” Knox mutters, starting toward the porch.
“That too,” I say.
We climb the steps. The wood creaks under our boots. I can feel the heat radiating from the fire pit even from here. The screen door is closed, but I can see movement inside. She’s pacing.
I open the door, holding it for the others. We step into the entryway.
The house smells like smoke. It clings to the curtains, the rug, the very plaster of the walls. It’s not a pleasant woodsmoke smell. It’s acrid, tinged with the chemicals of burning plastic and treated wood.
Saramaria is in the living room. She has another box in her hands, this one filled with old vinyl records. She’s pulling them out one by one and throwing them into the wicker basket near the sofa, presumably to take out to the fire next.
She stops when she sees us. Her eyes sweep over Knox, then Rhett, finally landing on me. Her expression hardens.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her tone is flat.
“We brought food,” Rhett says, holding up the bags. He steps forward, his demeanor calm. He has a way of doing that, of making himself seem non-threatening despite his size. “And the storm is coming in. The cabins won’t hold the heat. We need to shelter here tonight.”
She looks at the bags, then at the window where the wind is whipping the trees. She knows he’s right. Even she has to feel the drop in pressure, the heaviness in the air.
“The fireplace works,” I say. “And the stove. We’ll be warm here.”
She stands there for a long moment, clutching a Crosby, Stills & Nash record to her chest like a shield. She looks tired. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, loose strands escaping to frame her face. There’s a smudge of soot on her cheek.
“Fine,” she says finally, dropping the record into the basket. “But stay out of my way. I’m not done cleaning.”
Cleaning?
“I’ll get plates,” I say. I need something to do. I need to move.
I walk into the kitchen. The cupboards are bare, mostly. Anthony never cooked much, and Saramaria hasn’t been here long enough to stock up. I find a stack of paper plates left over from a previous summer barbecue. They’re yellowed around the edges, but they’ll do.
I grab a handful of plastic forks and head back to the living room.
Knox has already made himself at home on the sofa. He has his boots up on the coffee table—Anthony’s mahogany coffee table—and is unboxing the burgers. Rhett is standing near the fireplace, looking at the empty grate.
“No fire?” he asks.
“I didn’t build it,” I say. “She did. Outside.”
Rhett frowns. He looks at Saramaria, who is marching back and forth between the living room and the front door, carrying more items to burn.
“Saramaria,” Rhett calls out.
She stops in the doorway, her arms full of old taxidermy magazines. She looks at him, waiting.
“It’s freezing in here,” he says. “And the wind is picking up. We’re going to need a fire inside if we want to sleep tonight. Can I help you bring in some wood? Or should I just grab the axe?”
She stares at him. For a second, I think she’s going to refuse. To tell him to freeze. But then she looks at the window, where a branch scrapes against the glass.
“There’s wood on the porch,” she says. “Don’t track mud on my floor.”
Rhett nods. “Understood.”
He walks out the door. Knox bites into a burger, moaning dramatically. “Man, I needed this. You want one, Boone?”
I take the plate he offers me. The burger is wrapped in foil, still hot. “Thanks.”
I sit in the armchair opposite the sofa. Saramaria is still standing there, watching us. She looks at the food, then at the empty spot on the sofa next to Knox.
She doesn’t sit. She doesn’t eat. She just stands there, vibrating with energy.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask, unwrapping my burger.
“I’m not hungry,” she says.
“You’re burning a lot of calories,” I point out, taking a bite. The taste of beef and bacon explodes in my mouth. It’s good.
She ignores me. She turns and heads back to the kitchen.
I look at Knox. He shrugs, chewing. “She’ll come around.”
Rhett comes back in, his arms laden with logs. He kneels by the fireplace and starts stacking the wood. He knows what he’s doing. He builds a teepee structure, leaving space for air. He lights a match, the flame flaring bright before catching on the kindling.
Soon, a fire is crackling in the hearth. The heat begins to spread, pushing back the chill that had settled in the room.
Saramaria comes back in. She watches the fire. Her face betrays nothing, but her shoulders drop an inch. She’s cold. She’s been pretending not to be, but she is.
She walks over to the dining table and pulls out a chair. She sits down, finally. She rests her elbows on the table and puts her head in her hands.
Rhett stands up, dusting off his knees. He walks over to the table, pulling a chair out opposite her. He sits down.
“The papers,” he says gently.