53. Ava
FIFTY-THREE
AVA
TWO WEEKS LATER
I’ve grown so used to the windstorms and the distant peal of tornado sirens that I struggle to sleep without the howl of the wind or the creak of the roof above my head. Tonight, the cricket songs, beautiful as they are, drift through the upstairs window like an echo in a steel drum. It’s warm, and I inhale long and deep before my eyes flutter open. It’s nearing dawn, anyway. I can get coffee going and feed the animals before everyone wakes.
Resigned, I roll onto my side. Instead of Knox beside me, the bed is empty, and the covers are hastily drawn. I lift onto my elbow and scan the shadows of our room. He’s not standing by the window like he sometimes does on sleepless nights, and our door is cracked open.
Flinging the covers back, I lower my feet to the cool floor, forgoing slippers in the late-summer morning. I reach for one of Knox’s flannel shirts draped over the chair by the window and pad out the door.
Harper’s room across the hall is quiet, and her door is closed. So is Beth’s at the end, and the faint scent of coffee wafting up the stairs makes me smile.
Knox is most definitely awake.
I tiptoe down the steps and through the living room, past Beth’s art room and into the kitchen to pour myself a mug of coffee. It’s not hot, which means Knox has been up for a while, but it’s warm, and we’ve just gotten our rations from the swap meet yesterday, so it’s a morning treat I’ll revel in all the same.
My senses spark to life as I take a sip, and I have to cover my mouth so a snort doesn’t ricochet through the house. I swallow thickly. Yep, Knox’s specialty—strong-ass coffee.
As I pass the wall of pictures, I nod a silent thank you to Mason for providing this safe place for us. Beth’s parents thought of nearly everything when they updated the place, and she and Mason did all they could to keep it up since their passing. Because of that, Harper, Knox, and I have a chance as this world around us continues to shift. So do Tony and his mother, Kate.
Supplies and food stores might be hard to come by some weeks, depending on what new upset has triggered whatever turmoil and where, but we’re self-reliant here in all ways that matter. Meat and milk and water. A small variety of vegetables grow in the garden, and we’ve started new sprouts in portable containers in case we have to leave in a hurry. We’ve enough grain from an abandoned farm to plant wheat in the spring, now that there are more hands to work the land and harvest.
Cracking the screen door open, I peek outside. The motorhome Tony and Kate arrived in is dark and quiet on the side of the house, and Knox sits in one of the chairs on the porch, staring out at the farm. I take another sip of coffee and lean against the doorframe, watching him for a minute.
I’m still learning about Knox—something new every day—but I know he never stops planning. He never stops anticipating and thinking ahead. Not after all we’ve been through. All of us do that, to some degree. Preparing for what-ifs and bracing ourselves for each new day. Even Harper won’t leave the house without ensuring both dogs, the horses, chickens, pigs, goats, and the cattle all have food in their bowls and water in their troughs, just in case we don’t make it back to care for them. It’s heartbreaking, really, but that’s the way of things.
Perhaps Knox is contemplating the winter garden we’ll need to plant as soon as autumn hits. Or maybe he’s thinking about the canned, pickled, and dehydrated goods we need to rotate from the storm cellar. Or that Kevin reported Montana going dark.
The breeze picks up, and I close Knox’s flannel over my camisole and step onto the porch.
He glances over. “Hey, beautiful.” His voice is quiet and rough from disuse.
“Hey back,” I whisper. I climb into the seat beside him, curling my legs under me. “You’re up early.” I offer him a sip of my coffee.
“The crickets,” he explains, and glancing at his empty mug—probably drained hours ago—Knox takes a long sip of mine.
I smile, leaning my head back as I rock to the sound of the cricket symphony. “Same. It reminds me of Texas when it’s quiet here.”
He nods, his thumb absently brushing the handle of the mug. “Do you miss it?”
“Sonora?”
He dips his chin.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t miss it at all.”
Knox’s gaze lingers, and he hands my mug back to me. Loca’s tail swishes in the paddock, and I consider what she and I went through together. “Despite everything,” I start, “I am happier here—I feel safe and comfortable—more than I ever was in Sonora.” I meet Knox’s gaze. “Even living with Mavey always felt like a holding pattern to whatever came next. Like I was treading water.”
The chickens muddle around in the coop over by the garden with a flutter. “I’ve thought about it a lot, actually.” I turn the mug around in my hand and take another sip, anxious to swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I don’t think you or Beth could ever really know how grateful I am to be here. If it wasn’t for you?—”
Knox rests his hand over mine.
I don’t finish because Knox already knows. We’ve had this conversation, or at least many just like it, and it’s still hard to fully comprehend, even now.
Our chairs creak on the old porch in an off-beat rhythm that’s soothing.
“I can say the same,” Knox murmurs. “So, let’s call it even.”
Rooster snorts, shaking his head as he clomps closer to the fence line to sniff for wandering weeds. “I never asked you—” I tilt my head. “How did Rooster get his name?”
Knox leans his head back and continues rocking. “My brother.”
“Kellen named him?”
“Renamed him, actually. His registered name was Midas, but when he first came to the ranch, he would mimic the roosters in the morning and wake Kellen up. It pissed him off so much I seriously thought I might wake up one morning and my horse would be gone. But that never happened, and Kellen started calling him Rooster. It just stuck, I guess.”
Even though Knox doesn’t talk about Kellen much, I know he thinks about his brother a lot. One of the blessings of this place is that it’s filled with happy memories Knox can’t seem to escape, even if I know they make him sad too.
Knox’s eyes glint in the pale moonlight, half covered with clouds. “One of my first memories is of Kellen making my lunch for school. He always snuck me a piece of candy.”
I grin. “What a good brother.”
“He took me trick or treating once when my mom wasn’t feeling well or had to work late—I can’t remember. He took me to the posh houses on the hill?—”
“The ones with the full-sized candy bars,” we say together.
Knox huffs a laugh. “I thought he was the coolest brother when he did stuff like that.” We continue rocking as a golden hue lines the horizon with daybreak.
“I was thinking,” he says, which only makes me smile again.
“Of course you were.”
His eyes shift to me in question before he continues. “I want to talk to Aunt Beth about building a bunker. Not just a cellar but a place we’ll all be comfortable in when the time comes, because it will. Sooner or later.” He exhales a deep breath. “I’m not sure what to do about the animals yet, but we have to start somewhere.”
“It’s a good idea—a huge undertaking, but you’re not wrong. Beth will agree. In fact, she’s made a few comments about having one.”
He nods. “It definitely won’t be easy, and we could use more hands to help, but—” He shrugs. “We know where procrastinating gets us.”
I nod in silent agreement and finish my coffee as we watch the sunrise. The sky turns from indigo to gray, then teal, before the sun peeks through the intermittent clouds, casting the cornfields in gold. I lose myself to the rustling stalks and the way they sway back and forth in the breeze.
When I glance at Knox again, that pensive expression of his makes my heart sink a little. His mind rarely rests. “Maybe,” I start, cocking my head slightly. “Maybe we spend the morning doing a bit of planning.”
Knox’s gaze shifts away from a vague point on the horizon to me. “Planning?”
“To see if this bunker idea will really work. We can brainstorm what we think it will take and if it’s even possible before we speak with Beth about it.”
The furrow in Knox’s brow lessens minutely, and the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “You know me too well,” he mutters.
“Ha. I’m getting there,” I concede, and I climb to my feet and head inside to grab a notepad and pen.
* * *
After a break for breakfast, a couple more hours walking the property, and taking stock of what’s at our disposal for such a project—as well as a lengthy list of what we still need—Knox and I regroup on the porch again, sipping on our cold cups of lemonade.
I lick the sweetness from my lips, content. “How many pollywogs do you think Harper will bring back this time?” Setting my glass down, I straighten my back after leaning over my horribly drawn, disproportionate sketch of our fantasy bunker.
“Too many,” Knox murmurs. He sets his pencil down on his measurements and chicken scratch and glances at the water trough Harper’s last batch are thriving in. “I prefer the sound of crickets to the croak of toads.”
Smiling, I pull my cap off and wipe the perspiration from my brow. “ Frogs ,” I correct, punctuating the word like Harper always does when Knox teases her.
“Toads,” he counters, and winking at me, he sits back in his seat and takes a hearty gulp from his lemonade glass.
I heave out a contented, slightly tired sigh and stare at the land that disappears into the hills, connected to an abandoned neighboring farm. “Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way,” I say thoughtfully. “Beth and Georgie were saying the other night that their neighbors left their farm weeks ago. Whatever its condition, it has the infrastructure we need at least. Running water, wiring for power and reworkable space...Maybe we can use it to our advantage somehow.”
“We could,” Knox agrees. “The only problem with that is the distance. If there’s an emergency, the Mayberry’s farm is a lot farther away than twenty feet.” He nods to the barn and storm cellar.
“True.” I exhale a weary sigh.
“But you might be on to something.” Knox rubs his brow, shaking his head with discontent.
“At least we have options,” I remind him. “We’ll figure it out.” And I say it with truth because, despite my constant worry and pessimism, I’ve been feeling uncharacteristically optimistic lately.
Knox huffs with amusement and his eyes flick to my Toxic Positivity hat. And finally, as he rocks back in his chair a genuine smile tugs at Knox’s cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Pssh.” I shrug as if it’s in my nature to be a positive ray of sunshine. “You know where to come if you need an unhealthy dose of positivity for the day.”
“Since when?” he jokes.
“Since—” I glance around. “This place. It has a way of making anything feel possible.” Because we’re all together. Because we’re so far removed from utter chaos and destruction at the moment. Because Knox and I can tackle anything, we’ve proven that already. Whatever the reason, everything feels as if it’s exactly as it should be, and there’s a sense of relief in that.
Knox stops rocking, straightening in his chair. “Do you—” The furrow in his brow returns. “Do you hear that?” The careful way he says it gives me pause, and my heart pounds harder in my chest.
“Hear what?” I ask nervously, and we both rise to our feet. His attention snaps to the gravel drive.
Knox grips the porch post, straining to listen. “A car engine.”