Chapter 19 #3
I push through the front door, letting it slam shut behind me. The house is dim, the gray light filtering through the windows doing little to chase away the gloom. It smells stale. It smells like them.
I hear the door open behind me. Heavy footsteps on the floorboards.
I don’t turn around. I walk to the fireplace and stare at the cold ashes, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Saramaria.”
It’s Rhett. His tone is careful, soft. It makes me want to scream.
“I’m fine, Rhett,” I say, keeping my back to him. “Just leave me alone.”
“You’re not fine,” he says. He comes closer, but he stops a few feet away, giving me space. “Something’s off with you. Your scent... it’s changed. I can almost taste the anger coming off you.”
I spin around to face him. “My scent?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking confused. “It’s distracting.”
“Distracting?” I let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry if my emotional state is inconveniencing you.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m just worried. You’ve been through a lot. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“Stop being nice to me,” I say, the words exploding out of me. “Just stop. It won’t change anything.”
Rhett freezes. His brows draw together. “Change what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I say, my voice shaking.
“I know what you’re doing. The coffee. The shower.
The generators. The rescue mission for the dog.
You think if you’re nice enough, if you’re helpful enough, I’ll forget what my grandfather did.
I’ll forget that you’re squatting on my land. I’ll just let you stay.”
“What?”
I take a step toward him, my hands clenched into fists. “Well, it won’t work. I’m not leaving you the ranch, Rhett. I don’t care how many times you boil water for me or how many puppies you save. It’s mine. And I want you out.”
The words hang in the air.
Rhett’s face shuts down. The warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a cool, blank mask. It hurts to see it. It hurts more than I expect it to.
“Right,” he says quietly. He nods once, a short, jerky motion. “I hear you.”
He turns and walks away. He doesn’t slam the door. He just leaves, closing it gently behind him.
I stand alone in the center of the room. My chest heaves. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.
Why did I say that? Why did I have to be so cruel?
I’m scared. I can at least admit to that. I don’t want to lose control, and their being kind to me makes me want things I can’t have.
It makes me want to stay.
Fuck!
I lift my arm and sniff my sleeve. Do I smell bad? Is that what he meant by bitter?
I don’t smell angry. I just smell like me.
I need order. I need control.
I look around the living room. It’s a mess. Blankets are piled on the sofa. Boots are scattered near the door. There are muddy footprints on the rug.
I march to the laundry room. I need to wash everything. I need to scrub the floor. I need to make this house smell like me again.
But as I start gathering the clothes—the shirts, the socks, the jeans—they have scrounged from who knows where—the reality hits me.
The house smells like them.
It smells like Boone’s leather and rosemary. Knox’s whiskey and ginger. Rhett’s cinnamon and espresso.
It’s in the furniture. It’s in the curtains. It’s in the very walls.
I throw a load of darks into the machine and pour in the detergent. I slam the lid shut and turn the dial. Nothing happens. The machine is dead.
Right. No power.
I let out a frustrated scream and kick the washing machine. It hurts my toe, but I don’t care. I sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands.
I’m so out of my depth here.
Three days.
The rain hasn’t stopped. It’s only gotten worse, turning the yard into a bog and the sky into a perpetual twilight. The generators are providing enough power for the lights and the well pump, but not enough to dry out the damp that seeps into everything.
The tension in the house feels almost physical. We’re like ghosts, passing through the same rooms, operating around each other with a careful, practiced avoidance.
Boone and Knox and Rhett keep to a schedule. They wake up before dawn, go out to the barn, and come back only for meals or to grab dry clothes. They speak to me only when necessary.
“Pass the salt.”
“Watch your step, the floor is wet.”
“Generator needs fuel.”
It’s polite. It’s distant. It’s driving me insane.
I try to help. I really do. I cook breakfast one morning—eggs and toast on the wood stove. They eat quickly, murmuring thanks, and then leave. I try to help Knox feed the chickens, but he takes the grain bucket from my hand before I can even reach the coop.
“I got it,” he says. “Go inside. It’s raining.”
I’m not made of glass.
My routines, the things that keep me sane, are crumbling. I can’t do laundry without power. I can’t clean the floors without tracking in more mud. I can’t work without the internet.
The only constant is Wellsy.
He loves the rain. He loves the mud. He loves Blue.
And Blue has developed a new habit.
Every morning, I wake up to find it. A pile of fabric on the end of my mattress.
Boone’s sweatshirt is a gray thing, worn thin at the cuffs, with a small tear near the collar. It smells exactly like him. Like pine trees and cool air and that distinct note of rosemary.
The first time I found it, I told him to put his clothes in one space instead of littered around the common space we all share.
Boone had just looked at me, then at the sweatshirt, then back at me. “Got it.”
He didn’t. The dog kept dragging the sweatshirt to me. And I stopped fighting it.
On the fourth morning, I wake up and there it is again. I reach out, my fingers brushing the soft fabric. I know I should throw it away. I know I should march out there and demand they leash the dog.
But I don’t.
I pull it to my face and inhale.
The scent knocks the breath sideways in my chest. It makes my head swim and my heart race. It’s not just a smell. It’s a memory. It’s the feeling of strong arms around me in the rain. It’s the sound of a voice telling me I’m safe.
I bury my face in the collar, breathing it in. I hate that I love it. I hate that it makes me feel safe when I should feel angry.
I’m losing my mind.
The phone on the nightstand rings, jarring me out of my spiral. I fumble for it, nearly knocking the sweatshirt onto the floor in my haste.
It’s Pearl.
“Hello?” I say, my voice hoarse.
“Saramaria!” Pearl’s voice is a burst of sequins and sunshine through the phone line. “Dot told me she saw your truck headed out of town the other day in that monsoon. I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay? Is the roof still on?”
I smile despite myself and sink back onto the pillows, clutching the phone. “The roof is fine, Pearl. We’re... we’re okay. Just a lot of mud.”
“And the boys?” she asks. “How are they holding up?”
“They’re fine,” I say. “They’re... keeping busy.”
“Mmhmm,” she says, and I can hear the skepticism in her tone. “Josie told me about the little incident at the feed store with Rhett. And the rescue mission for the dog. And the generators.”
I close my eyes. Is there no privacy in this town?
“It sounds like they’re taking good care of you,” Pearl says gently.
“They’re just doing what they have to do,” I say, my defenses rising automatically. “They want to stay on my good side so I don’t evict them.”
“Is that what you think?” Pearl asks.
“I know it,” I say.
“Honey,” Pearl sighs.
I look at the gray sweatshirt lying next to my pillow.
“I don’t care,” I whisper. “I want them to leave.”
“Do you?” Pearl asks. “Or do you just want to be right?”
The question hangs there, heavy and uncomfortable.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I complain.
“Because it’s obvious to everyone but you,” Pearl says. “Now, Winona found a first edition of a very spicy romance novel at The Dust Up yesterday. It involves a highwayman and a feisty heiress. I think you should come by and pick it up. Get out of that house for an hour. Let the air clear.”
I look out the window. The rain is coming down in sheets, turning the world into a gray blur.
“I can’t,” I say. “The roads are terrible.”
“Pish,” Pearl says. “Take the big truck. The one with the good tires. And bring that sweet puppy of yours. Dot made dog treats.”
“I...”
“Go,” she commands. “Now. Before I drive over there and drag you out myself.”
I let out a breath. “Okay. Okay, I’ll come.”
“Good girl,” she says. “See you soon.”
She hangs up.
I sit there for a long time, looking at the phone. Then I look at the sweatshirt.
I pick it up. I hesitate, then I shove it under my pillow, hiding it from sight.
I need to get out of this house. I need to get away from the scent of them, away from the tension, away from the confusing mess of feelings that are knotting my stomach.
I stand up. I pull on my boots.
“Wellsy!” I call out.
He comes trotting from the living room, Blue at his heels. I clip the leash onto his collar.
“Come on,” I tell him. “We’re going on an adventure.”
I walk out of the bedroom. The house is quiet. The men are out in the barn, I assume.
I grab the keys to Boone’s truck from the hook by the door. I’ll borrow it. He won’t mind. He’s the one who told me I shouldn’t drive my rental in the mud.
I step out onto the porch. The air is cold and wet.
I look toward the barn. I can see the light on in the loft. Shadows move across the window. I run back inside and scribble “gone to town, be back later” on a sticky note. I stick it to the fridge.
Then I load Wellsy into the truck and back out of the driveway.
As I drive away, watching the house disappear in the rearview mirror, I feel a strange mix of guilt and relief.
Guilt because I’m running away again.
Relief because for a few hours, I don’t have to decide if I want to stay or go. I don’t have to decide if I hate them or if I... something else.
I just have to drive. And breathe.