16. Knox
SIXTEEN
KNOX
I wake with a start. My room is awash with daylight, the heat of midday seeping in. I could sleep for hours more, but I’ve already been in bed too long.
Sitting up, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. “Shit.” I climb out of bed faster than my body is ready for and nearly stumble back onto the mattress. It’s nearly one p.m., and I should have fed the animals hours ago.
Yanking on my jeans, I scan my room for Lucy, but she’s not here. No wonder I slept so long without her to pounce on me at dawn for breakfast and a bathroom break.
I tread into the bathroom, registering the distant hum of the backup generator. The fact that it’s on means the power went out, which isn’t comforting. I take care of morning business in a rush, and after I’ve brushed my teeth and splashed cold, sulfuric water on my face, I know I need to do something about the water situation today. As my list of priorities multiplies in the few minutes I’ve been awake, reality quickly sets in, and my shoulders feel heavy again.
Hurrying back to my room, I open the middle drawer of my dresser, pull out a clean, white t-shirt, and tug it over my head. Grabbing a pair of socks in my top drawer, I plop down on the mattress to pull them on. My boots are next, and my mind wanders to Ava. I have no idea what she’s been up to while I’ve been sleeping the day away. The thought of her awake and roving around the house makes me uneasy. Not because I don’t trust her per se, but because it’s Ava and it’s weird that she’s here at all.
Boots laced, I shove off my bed and swing my bedroom door open. Bracing myself for whatever I might find, I make my way down the hallway, and stop. Ava is crouched by the mantel in the living room. I hear the tinkle of broken glass and remember the portrait of my family shattered there from the other night.
My gut reaction is to bark at her to leave it alone, but I hesitate, watching Ava’s thoughtful expression instead. Her dark ponytail falls over her shoulder as she lifts the glassless frame, and she stares at the image of my family for so long my chest starts to ache. What is she thinking? I’m anxious to know, but the moment she brushes the tip of her finger over my mother’s face, I can’t take it anymore, and I step into the living room.
Ava jolts to her feet, her face reddening. “You’re awake.”
I stalk over and take the photo from her hands.
“I was just cleaning up the glass,” she says in a rush.
Setting the frame on the mantel, I glance around the living room. It’s neat and tidy. So is the kitchen. “You cleaned my house?”
Ava shoves her hands in her back pockets with an emphatic exhale. “I wanted to help, somehow. To thank you. And when I let Lucy out, I fed the animals, too.”
My gaze snaps to hers. “You fed the animals?” I ask dubiously. I’m not sure if I should be grateful she took the initiative or upset she had the audacity to assume she should.
I don’t know if it’s my tone, but her uncertainty fades away, and her eyes harden on me in response. “I knew how tired you must’ve been.” Her words are pure acid. “And I wasn’t sure how long you would sleep.” Her gray tank top is smudged on the side with what looks like dried horse or cow slobber, and her jeans have dirt on the thigh. Dark wisps of hair frizz around her bronze skin, and her amber eyes twinkle in the sunlight filling the room. She’s finished my morning chores and then some. And now, I feel like an ass.
“Obviously, I don’t know what you feed them all,” Ava continues. “So, I portioned out the pellets you buy from the store.”
I watch her, feeling somewhat baffled by this woman. Half the time I don’t know if I’m put out by her or if I am intrigued.
“Don’t make it weird, okay?” she says in my silence. Ava rubs her forehead. “I know you would prefer I wasn’t here despite your misguided obligation to take care of me. I was having a hard time finding things to keep me busy that wouldn’t seem overly creepy, or like I was overstepping, like doing your laundry or something.” She shrugs as if she’d really considered it. “You were exhausted, and I wanted to help. It doesn’t have to be a thing. ”
I’ve always known Ava feels bad about what happened to my mother. She’s barely held eye contact with me since her uncle was put away. But I’m starting to get the impression she thinks I dislike her a lot more than I do. First, she thought I would leave her at the farm supply store after being attacked. Then, that I would rather her be God knows where on her own instead of having her safe here with me.. .especially when the truth is, it’s comforting not to be alone.
“All right,” I say, and her brow lifts with surprise. I hate that my gaze shifts to her mouth before I look away.
“All right?”
I nod. “Is there anything else I should know about?” I turn for the front door to make my rounds. There are sick livestock to check on, supplies to inventory, and decisions to be made about what happens next.
Pushing the screen door open, I stop on the porch and inhale the sulfur in the air, more potent than yesterday. The day is hazy but the heat is already cloying as I step into the sun. As it beats down on me, I realize I forgot my hat, but that’s the least of my worries.
Lucy scurries out from the shade of the tractor by the garden shed and lopes over, her body trembling with excitement. “Hey, pup.” I give her head a good rub as she follows me toward the stables.
“The power went out sometime in the night,” Ava offers, her strides nearly as wide as mine to keep up.
I pause and look at her. She worries her bottom lip in thought, her hands still in her back pockets. I try not to notice the way her shirt hugs her curves but fail miserably and look away again. “I noticed the backup generator was on.”
“Do we have to worry about it running out of fuel?” She falls into step behind me again.
“No, it’s piped into the natural gas,” I explain, grateful that’s one less thing I have to worry about today.
“About the water—” Ava starts again as we step into the horse stable. Poppy, Rooster, and Loca all poke their heads out of their stalls in greeting, eyes wide and ears forward.
“What about it?” Our footsteps echo against the cement walkway.
“With the sulfur issue, I didn’t know what you’d want to do, so I didn’t refill any of the troughs.”
“Okay, I’ll get it sorted.” I’ve never had to bleach the animals’ drinking water, but I’m not sure I have another option at this point.
“And the sick steers,” Ava adds more hesitantly. Reluctantly, I meet her gaze. “One of them looks pretty bad.”
I glare in no particular direction, my hope of sidestepping death today extinguishing. “I’ll take care of it.”
Ava looks as regretful as I feel, and her amber eyes shift over me. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I’m about to tell her no, there isn’t anything she can do unless she wants to shoot a steer between the eyes, but then another thought strikes me instead. “Inventory. Whether we stay here for a while, or get on the road to Sweetwater, we need to know what we have.”
She nods. “I can do that.”
“Unload what you can from my truck, mark down our supplies and anything glaring we may still need. When I’m finished, we’ll see what I have stocked in the pantry and shed.”
Ava doesn’t need more direction than that. With a renewed sense of purpose, she marches back the way we came.
“Hey, Ava?”
Hands in her back pockets again, she spins around to look at me.
“Thank you.”
She visibly swallows, and if I’m not mistaken, relief fills her eyes. “Of course.” Her voice is soft, and with an absent stroke of her hand over Poppy’s brown muzzle, she strides into the sunlight.
* * *
By late afternoon, the air is thick with the scent of smoke, and I’ve checked the ham radio four times for news and gleaned enough to know the sinkhole mayhem continues to spread. Martial law has been enacted in bigger cities like New York and Washington DC as more and more people panic. And with everyone fleeing the southern part of the state, northern counties all over Texas are in chaos. Some of the families in locations that are inundated by travelers try to stay hunkered down, while some of them have fled perfectly good homes to head farther north, not wanting to see what will happen next in the Lone Star State. Most disconcerting are the wildfires spreading from New Mexico toward Balmorhea and Mentone, though chatter says firefighters may have them under control. The more I dwell on it, though, the more uneasy it makes me, so I focus on ranch tasks instead.
By six p.m., most of what I wanted to accomplish is done, and Rooster and I head back to the stable. Dirty and exhausted, he clomps faster, anxious to get back to his paddock. I’ve filled five steel drums with water, cleaned and chlorinated for the animals to drink over the next few days, and led the sick steer over the ridge to put it out of its misery. I still haven’t burned the bodies, though. Not only do I want to avoid drawing unwanted attention to us out here, I have more immediate concerns. Especially if we’re not going to stay at the ranch.
I pull Rooster to a stop at the hitching post, and Lucy, panting and exhausted from traipsing around the property, runs over to the water trough for a drink. I glance around for Ava. From what I can tell, she’s unloaded most of the supplies and arranged them neatly inside the stable, safe from the sun. But I don’t see her.
Rooster lets out a heavy sigh, and I climb down from the saddle. I go through the motions, removing his tack, and all the while, my thoughts drift to Sweetwater.
If Sweetwater is where Ava wants to go, I will take her. But my gut tells me staying here is best, and I can’t help but wonder how that would work—the two of us holed up here for the foreseeable future. Or if Ava would even be willing to stay.
Surely, she would see sense in the idea that we are safer here than facing whatever the unknown might have in store for us? We have plenty of food, and access to water, even if it will eventually need to be treated. I can protect us here better than on the road, and maybe—just maybe—my father and brother, even Tony, might surprise me and return to the ranch at some point. It’s obvious how uncomfortable Ava is here, so convincing her to stay won’t be easy, but I know I have to; it’s the smartest thing to do for now, even if it’s...awkward.
It’s been years since a woman lived in the house—ten years to be exact—and that Ava, of all people, might become a permanent resident is the most ironic turn of events yet. The image of her standing at the island last night, freshly showered in her pajamas, flashes to mind, and my body heats instantaneously. It’s a mindfuck is what it is, and I push all those thoughts away.
When Rooster’s sorrel coat is brushed down, and he’s watered, I lead him back to his stall. With a final pat on his rump, I nudge him inside to rest and close him in. My stomach rumbles with hunger. Craving a ham sandwich with extra mustard and a side of kettle chips, I head for the house to make us something to eat, scouring the outbuildings for Ava along the way.
The truck bed is completely empty. And those feed sacks were anything but easy to move, especially in the blaze of the Texas sun. I shake my head, imagining Ava straining as she unloaded everything on her own, and know I have to give her props for that. If nothing else, she’s got grit and gumption, which she’ll need on the ranch.
Wiping my sweaty brow with my shoulder, I notice the garden shed is open.
“Ava, take a break.” I stride over. “I’m making foo—” I stop at the tractor. “Ava?” A bone-chilling dread rushes through my veins. She’s crumpled on the ground against the shed. “Ava!” I fall to my knees beside her. “Ava, can you hear me?” Her eyes are open and glazed over, her lips slightly parted, and her face is pale. “Ava, say something,” I demand, but I don’t touch her, uncertain what to do. Finally, she blinks, but it’s lethargic, and her breathing is ragged. “What do I do?” I plead. “What’s wrong?” Heat stroke? Side effects from her concussion?
I don’t wait for Ava to answer as I scoop her into my arms. “I’ll get you inside where it’s cool.” Her body is limp, her skin sticky with sweat. “Ava,” I breathe as I march toward the porch, “say something. Please.”
Lethargically, she lifts her arm and splays her palm across my chest. “Sleep,” she murmurs so quietly I barely hear her over the creak of the screen door as I fling it open. “Water and sleep.”
I take her to the couch and lay her down. “I’ll get you water,” I promise, brushing the sweaty strands of hair from her face. Rushing to the fridge and back, I tell myself she is fine—everything will be fine—and kneel beside her.
Ava blinks a few more times and licks her lips as the color slowly returns to her skin.
“You already look better,” I say, more for myself than for her benefit. Twisting the top off the water, I put it to her mouth, offering her a drink.
Ava’s hand comes up, but she doesn’t take the bottle. Instead, her arm drops to her chest, like it’s too heavy to hold up and she lifts her head as much as she can to sip from the bottle.
“Ava, what the hell is happening?”
Closing her eyes, she takes a few small drinks. “I’ll be okay,” she rasps as she drops her head. Her cheeks flush, but it can’t possibly be with embarrassment, and she averts her gaze. “I just need rest.”
All I can do is stare at her as she turns over to face the couch cushions.
That’s it? That’s all she’s going to give me? I nearly had a heart attack, thinking she might be dying, and now she’s going to sleep? What if sleeping is the last thing she should be doing? What if she’s dehydrated and needs more water? What if she fell out there and hit her head again?
I rise to my feet, heart racing, fear and confusion tangling like bramble bushes as I peer down at her. What the actual fuck just happened?