4. Dean
Dean
I hear the door shut as I turn the corner, drying my hair with a towel. I typically shower directly before bed, but I didn't think I'd be getting much sleep tonight, so I decided to do it now and get it out of the way.
I enter the living room in my boxer shorts, to find Lennon still frozen in front of the door, his shoulders tense, eyes boring into the wood.
"Who was that?"
He doesn't look over his shoulder, simply exhales and heads to the kitchen where his half-eaten dinner sits on the table, getting cold. "No one. Just the new neighbor."
"New—oh." I remember the woman who sat in the car, with hair like spun gold, and flashing sapphire-blue eyes that seemed to hold a sadness she was trying desperately to cover up with levity. "What did she want?"
"Cleaning products," Lennon says shortly. He scoops up some of his rice and beans with his spoon, shoveling them into his mouth and chewing determinedly as he stares at nothing.
Meanwhile, I cross to the window, contemplating the lodge in the twilight. It seems strange to see it with lights on, after all this time of it lying empty.
"She's really planning on living there?"
"Seems like it," he says after he swallows.
"Why?"
"Why the fuck would I know?"
I send him a look, and he sighs, taking another mouthful of his food. I wait for him to stop chewing before he says, "Sorry. I'm pretty antsy today, and I'm not sure why."
I have an idea. I saw the way he looked at the woman when she got out of her car, the brief flare in his eyes. During her conversation with Reed in the truck, Lennon's eyes flickered to the side mirror more times than I could count and stayed there longer than they should.
Of course, when she mentioned she knew someone who died of cancer—that was the sinker for him.
It’s obvious what all this means—he's attracted to her, but he doesn't want to admit it to himself.
He's sworn off dating since Georgia died, and in all those months, he hasn't so much as looked at another woman.
That doesn't seem to stop him from looking at this one, however, and if I know Lennon, he hates himself for it because he feels like he's betraying Georgia.
A more sensitive person might sit down and help him unpack those feelings of guilt.
They might remind him that Georgia's been dead for several years, that she definitely wouldn't want him to spend the rest of his life mourning her, and that however wonderful a parent he is, his daughter needs a mother.
Unfortunately for him, I'm not a sensitive guy. So instead, I say, "Did we get enough feed from Mrs. James?"
He nods and scoops some more beans into his mouth. "She warned me they're going to be upping the prices starting next month. Supplier issue."
Shit, I think. This is a bad time for her to be raising her prices. Not that the herd is struggling. We're doing well so far, growing our cattle severalfold. The problem is that we need more land. Most of all we need access to drainage in the winter and to water in the summer.
I glance back at the cottage and the small parcel of land surrounding it.
For sure it's not huge, maybe ten percent of our own two hundred or so acres, but size isn't everything.
It's adjacent to our land and more importantly, the Black Bear river runs straight through it.
Not only that but it even has a lake on it, with fish and everything.
It would make a perfect addition to our own site and it would mean we'd be truly independent when it comes to water.
Plus, I am partial to a nice trout or perch for supper.
I've been patiently waiting for the owner to sell for years.
At first, it was hard even tracking them down, until I found the details from the land registry office.
The paperwork trail showed the owners were a suburban couple who lived far away in Aurora, and as far as I could tell, they had no plans for the place.
After getting their number, I called them, and though the lady on the phone was nice enough, she let me know it wasn't for sale.
"It was my sister's," the woman had said. "She and her husband left it in their will for their daughter. I'm only holding it until she's old enough. I don't have the right to sell it."
I accepted that and let it go.
Now, things have come full circle, and the sad-eyed girl in my car must be this ‘daughter’ she had mentioned.
She's here because of death.
I've seen lots of deaths in my lifetime, far more than I should have.
I've witnessed many people who have lost family and loved ones.
Sometimes, I've been the one who had to give them the bad news.
That is never an easy task, nor a pleasant one, but I thought I'd grown immune to it.
But something about the way she said it and smiled bravely right afterwards still chipped at my damn heart.
‘You'll be okay.’ The words wanted to leave my mouth, but thankfully, I held them back. They were stupid words, dishonest words. Words that probably wouldn't help her deal with her grief. I don't have the right words for her. I never do.
I'm not a talker. I might talk more than Lennon does, but most often, my talking leads others to draw the wrong conclusion.
Part of it is being a former SEAL platoon leader and doing that for any length of time means that almost anything I say sounds like an order, even when it's meant as a suggestion.
I simply don't have the gentle touch required for things like comforting the bereaved.
So, I prefer to say as little as possible, so nothing can be misconstrued.
Meeting the legitimate owner of True Heart Lodge makes things easier for me. It also helps that she looks like she doesn't know the first thing about running the place. With a bit of luck, her land will be mine in no time.
Nevertheless, there's something about her, something almost otherworldly, kind of spiritual. I can't put my finger on it, but if I'm being totally honest, as much as I'm interested in her property, I can't deny I'm also interested in her as a woman. A damned fine-looking woman at that.
"I wonder how long she plans on staying," I say aloud.
"Hopefully long enough," Reed's voice rings out, his footsteps echoing on the floor. He appears at the end of the hallway with a suggestive leer on his face. "She's gorgeous."
"Stay away from her," I tell him, an inexplicable annoyance ringing in my head.
"Why? This one doesn't have a murderous boyfriend." He frowns. "I should ask first though, right?" He winks at me.
"I'm serious." I look him in the eyes to show how serious I am.
I should have known better. Should have realized that was entirely the wrong line to take. Reed's smile drops, and a challenge appears in his eyes. "Why? Want her for yourself?"
"No," I automatically say the word, even though I can hear how defensive it sounds, and anyway, something in the back of my mind is mocking me, sniggering at my piss-poor attempt at self-deception.
"Then why not?"
"Because she looks like she's been through a lot. She doesn't need the likes of you making things worse for her."
"Since when has being with me ever made things worse for a woman? On the contrary, most of them can't stop talking about how great I was after it's over, and how much they miss me."
I roll my eyes. Reed is an incorrigible ladies' man, and most of the time, that's not a problem, but I don't want him hooking up with our neighbor. At best, it will lead to some very awkward meet-ups. At worst, he'll break her heart and things will become even more awkward.
There's also Lennon to think about. He's not saying anything, but I know he's paying attention to this conversation as much as he pretends he isn't.
He takes a sip of his water and continues to stare straight ahead, pretending to ignore us.
Yeah, this could get messy real fast.
"Stay away from her," I tell Reed once more, and he raises an eyebrow.
"No can do, chief," he says. "My fun for the night was already ruined, but at least I got another source of fun for the next few days. I'm not letting you ruin that too."
I feel a headache coming on. I don't feel like arguing with him, but he's pushing me into it. Before I can respond, a bedroom door opens. A soft voice calls out, "Daddy?"
Lennon is instantly injected with vigor.
He rises, striding quickly to the tiny four-year-old who emerges behind Reed, rubbing her eyes, clearly having just woken up.
Even though Marsha—her babysitter—would have made sure she was in bed at the right time, Grace has had problems with sleeping of late.
"I'm here, baby," Lennon's voice, usually so cold and empty, is now overflowing with affection as he brushes his lips against his daughter's cheeks. "Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"
She nods. "Uh-huh."
Torture pinches Lennon's features. We don't know why, but poor little Grace has been plagued by bad dreams for the past few months.
It came out of the blue late one night, when she woke everyone up with a blood-curdling scream.
She didn't remember what it was about when she woke up, and at age four it's difficult sometimes for her to communicate how she feels, because she doesn't always have the vocabulary.
She eventually went back to sleep, but that was just the start.
Now, perhaps once a week, she has a nightmare.
Lennon takes her to a child psychologist in Silverton once a month, but there's been no improvement. I know it's killing him to watch her suffer.
"Let's go back to bed," Lennon tells her gently. "I'll stay with you." He scoops her up in his arms and, without another word to us, he carries his daughter away. I'm not offended. Grace is and remains his number one priority.
Reed and I share another look in his absence.
"Stay away from her," I say.
"Not happening," he responds.
We'll see, I think.
I'm right about one thing that night, at least. I don't get much sleep. I go to bed around three a.m., and I'm up at daybreak, ready to get started. I'm about to head out to the stables when something off in the distance catches my eye. A figure breaks out of the forest, and I freeze.
Is that our neighbor? Did she go into the forest at daybreak? Alone?
God, how stupid. I start toward her, irritation crawling up my spine. There hasn't been a coyote attack in years, but that doesn't mean the forest is completely safe. What the hell is she doing out there? And where's she going?
Without thinking, I follow her. As I step around a small group of juniper trees, I freeze, my heart dropping into my stomach. In the line of trees flanking the lake, I spot a large, black shape. I hear a familiar sound—a sort of huffing, like someone panting from exertion. But this isn't a person.
It's a bear. A full-grown female by the size of it.
Not a grizzly, thankfully—we don't have those around here—but still, a bear is a bear, and even black bears can be dangerous if they feel threatened or spooked.
It's summer now and so it's bear season.
In truth, black bears don't truly hibernate like most people think, so even in winter you can still encounter one when it comes out of its den to feed.
This time of year though, they are fully active, stocking up for the winter ahead.
Meanwhile, our neighbor hasn't noticed the danger. Her hands are gripping the hem of her shirt, and she looks like she's about to take it off.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shout, the words bursting out of me. Both she and the bear jump. Startled, the bear thankfully decides to bolt, scrambling back into the forest with a hasty, noisy retreat, leaving the two of us standing there.
I stand by the junipers, and she stands by the lake, her hands still frozen to her shirt, her eyes wide in shock.