Chapter 10 Collins
Collins
I spent the whole night after Brady and I got home from the church pacing around my room.
I wasn’t getting a lot of sleep anyway—as evidenced by the dark circles that had become a permanent fixture under my eyes over the past six months.
I couldn’t remember the last time I got more than five hours, and that was a good night, but since I’d come home, I was getting even less than usual.
When we got back, I was kind of hoping that one of the ghosty inhabitants would be waiting for me—ready to talk and tell me that the entire spiritual realm was just playing a big ol’ joke on me, and we were all going to start chatting again.
That didn’t happen. There wasn’t a ghost to be found in the apartment—which made me even more stir-crazy.
When I finally gave in to the fact that neither sleep nor ghosts were going to magically appear for me, I walked to Toades in the early-morning light and borrowed my dad’s truck to go up to Boone’s place.
My visit was planned, but I don’t think Boone ever would’ve expected me to be up and at ’em this early in the morning.
Boone would be pleased, though, except that getting to his place early meant that he wouldn’t be able to complain about “waiting for my lazy ass,” which he loved to do.
After the floor giving out and the subsequent falling situation, Brady was determined to get out of the church as quickly as possible.
The town fire marshal had nothing on him in those moments—grumbling about building codes and safety—which was even funnier considering we were in an abandoned church that hardly anyone knew about, let alone cared about.
Me, on the other hand, I could’ve stayed there all night.
Wrapped in hot, strong, upholsterer arms was quite nice, actually. I don’t think he realized how tightly he was holding me or how gently he moved my hair from my face or how he was stroking my back.
It had been a long time since I’d been like that with someone, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. We all need physical touch occasionally, and now I was good for a bit—and I didn’t even have to fake-laugh at a stupid joke or carry on a conversation with someone I didn’t like.
And I wasn’t craving more of it—at all. I didn’t have to fight the urge to curl up into his side or lay my head on his shoulder during the drive home.
Nope. None of that.
I tried my best to push every thought about Brady to the back of my head and replace them with the other memorable moment from last night.
“You,” the ghost in the corner of the church had said when I asked him what he was looking at. I heard him—as clear as day, but then when I asked him to say it again, I was met with silence.
Instead, my world returned to its muffled state, and my only consolation prize was the upholsterer arms.
Which was honestly a decent prize. Shit, there he was again. Get out of my head, Brady. It’s full enough without you and your stupid arms. My brain involuntarily started thinking up scenarios that could end up with me back in them—some more…appropriate than others.
“You need to get a grip, Collins Cartwright,” I muttered as I drove.
I didn’t have anyone to talk to, so I might as well talk to myself.
I turned up the dirt road that lead to Boone’s property.
He lived about thirty minutes outside of town, up the side of the peak.
His dirt road was way more well-maintained than the one last night—as was every other dirt road in Sweetwater Peak, which was a lot.
The only asphalt we had was on Main Street.
I was immediately greeted by one of Boone’s many signs that led up to his house. This one said Keep Out, the next one Turn Back Now, and then No Visitors Allowed. They kept going as I got farther and farther down the road.
Boone had a small cow outfit, so the road up to his property had a few gates and cattle guards, but all of them were open for me.
That meant I didn’t have to get out of my car, push a gate open, close it, then get back in my car and keep driving until the next one.
It was a small thing, but for Boone, it was one of the ways he showed that he cared—that he wanted me to visit.
Even though Boone was originally from Meadowlark, he’d been in Sweetwater Peak for nearly forty years. He was old and ornery and mean.
And I loved him dearly.
My parents—my mom especially—saw Boone’s standoffish nature as a challenge.
Joanie Collins—yeah, I am my mom’s maiden name namesake, and Clarke is my dad’s mom’s maiden namesake—met Boone for the first time at the hardware store shortly after he moved to Sweetwater Peak.
She was in her early twenties. She had never known her father and had recently lost her mom, but things were starting to look up.
She had just started dating my dad and had bought the house that would become Toades, and was buying new locks, supplies for squeaky door hinges, and a lot of furniture polish.
She didn’t have enough cash on her to cover the cost, and Boone slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter to cover the difference and told her to get out of his way.
Boone was a pistachio that Joanie was desperate to crack, and up until Clarke and I were born, she was unsuccessful.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I think Boone had a soft spot for her and my dad because that was the only reason why he would’ve shown up to the hospital as soon as he heard that Joanie was in labor.
Boone was the closest thing Clarke and I had to a living grandparent, but he was more like a grumpy grand-uncle.
When I passed the last gate, I only had to drive a few hundred yards to get to Boone’s headgate.
It was made of logs, but there’d been a fire on his property about ten years ago that blackened the headgate and about fifty feet of fence on one side of it.
The bull skull in the middle of the headgate post was hanging crooked and was missing one of its horns.
I slowed the truck down to a crawl. Boone had a lot of animals, and I knew my truck was about to get swarmed by whatever herd of misfits were currently living their best lives on his property.
Like clockwork, as I got closer to the house, four dogs and a pig started making their way toward the truck. I rolled my windows down so I could keep an eye on them as I parked.
I hopped out of the truck and immediately crouched to the ground so I could love on all of them.
I recognized Lady, a three-legged black German shepherd; Tank, a very bulky and stout pit bull mix; and Chicken Soup—Chicken for short—the world’s teeniest (and meanest) Chihuahua mix.
I didn’t recognize the brown-and-black spotted dog that I could only describe as “farm mutt,” but I did notice it only had one ear.
The pig—whose name was just Pig—nuzzled into my shoulder as I distributed pets and loves to all of them. I heard Boone’s flimsy screen door swing open and his boots move across the porch.
Boone was in his midseventies. His long hair was white and pulled into a ponytail at the back of his neck, and his white beard was looking a little scraggly—as usual. “It’s almost seven,” he said gruffly.
“That’s early for me!” I called. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“And I thought you’d be on time for once,” he said.
“I missed you, too,” I said as I stood and started toward him. He had already made his way down the porch stairs, and I could see the regret in his eyes when he realized what I was getting ready to do: I threw my arms around him and held him tight in a hug.
“Do we have to do this every time?” Boone grumbled.
“Yes, we do,” I said. “Hugs are healthy.” That was rich coming from me. I’m not really a hugger, but Boone was an exception. “They’re good for you—especially in your old age. This could be the thing that takes you from ninety-nine to a hundred—this moment right here.”
“I’d rather get thrown off a cliff than live to be a hundred, and if it’s all your fault because of your insistence on the damn hugs, I’m bringing you with me.”
I laughed and breathed Boone in—pipe tobacco and leather conditioner. I would’ve come up here sooner, but Boone had been out of town for the past two weeks.
“How was Meadowlark?” I asked as I pulled back.
“Good,” he said.
“You were there for a wedding?” I asked.
“Yeah, my niece.” Boone rubbed at the back of his neck. “Still can’t believe that stubborn little shit is old enough to get married.”
“Stubborn little shit?” I said back to him. “Oh, you two are definitely related.”
Boone grunted. “You should meet my baby brother.” Something about Boone referring to someone as his “baby brother” when I knew his brother was in his late sixties made me laugh. I guess no matter how old they got, Boone would always be the oldest.
“Is he stubborn too?” I asked.
“Not even a little bit.” Boone shook his head. “Don’t know where he came from.” I laughed again.
“So, new dog?” I asked.
Boone huffed. “Stupid dog jumped out of a truck on the road up to town.” When Boone says “stupid dog,” he actually means “this perfect baby angel of a dog”—it’s just his way. “Got left, so I picked him up and brought him home.”
“What’s his name?” I said, crouching to scratch the new pup’s head.
“Phillips Screwdriver,” Boone said, and my head whipped up.
“You cannot be serious,” I responded.
Boone shrugged. “I call him Phil for short.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered, and looked down at Phil. “You are very cute, though. So.” I looked back up at Boone. “What are we doing today?”
“Moving cattle,” he said. “Your boots are on the porch. Let’s get moving.”
—
Both Clarke and I learned to ride horses at Boone’s place. This was after we had attempted recreational volleyball when we were eight, which resulted in an incident that made it pretty clear to our parents that team sports weren’t going to be our thing.