Chapter 13
Zane
After doing a dump run, I hit up the large farm supply store just east of town to pick up an order I placed first thing this morning.
On my way in, I notice Pastor Fred Bingham of the New Harvest church is at the counter.
There’s no love lost between our families, and I’m used to the narrowed eyes and evil energy rolling off the hypocrite. He was instrumental in sending my brother to jail and covering up the violence under his own roof.
So when we bought the ranch and officially renamed it Kincaid’s Refuge, it was to make a statement to the community that the Matthews boys don’t back down, don’t turn tail and run, and don’t hide from conflict. We’ll always stand up for women in trouble.
But I’m not looking to draw attention from his sort this week, because part of protecting those in trouble is knowing when to keep a low profile. So instead of going straight to the counter, I head back into the rows of supplies, pretending to browse until he’s well gone.
I’ve picked up a bag of diatomaceous earth when I catch a murmur from the next aisle that pulls me up short.
“You know how Mercy is, soft-hearted fool that she is. Can’t resist a kicked puppy. But it didn’t last long.”
“What do you mean?”
“She disappeared after the meltdown.”
“Did she leave town?”
“Couldn’t have gone far. That car is at Cash Kincaid’s garage.”
I lean in, seeing red, trying to see through the stacked shelves who’s talking about Mercy—and, without naming her, Hope. It’s two women.
“Maybe she’s staying with him. Upstairs in that seedy apartment over the garage.”
They both laugh and that’s fucking enough.
Stalking around the corner, I see Jessika Foote talking with one of the store clerks, a slightly older woman whose name I don’t remember.
But she knows me, and from the way her face drains of colour, she correctly guesses that I just overheard her gossiping about my brother.
They’re standing in front of rope I’ve decided I want.
“Excuse me,” I say with pointed calm. “Are you done shopping for that rope there? Because I need a few bundles.”
Jessika just lifts her eyebrows, like she can’t believe I’d interrupt her conversation to do something as wild as buy something at a fucking store.
I refocus on the clerk, who at least has the good grace to look ashamed. Her name badge says Brenna. “Can you help me carry these to the front, Brenna?”
“Yes, of course.”
I fill her arms with four bundles, then grab two more myself, and steer her away from Jessika.
Halfway to the counter, I see Pastor Bingham is still there, because of course he is, but it’s a free country and he’d better hold his fucking tongue this morning.
“I’ll ring you up here,” Brenna says nervously, putting me at an unused cash register.
“Thanks, Brenna,” I say, using her name again as if I didn’t learn it one minute ago. I’m not as naturally charming as Dax or Cash, but I can turn it on when needed. “I have an order I submitted online, too.”
I expect her to tell me that I can pick that up at the loading dock. That’s how it always works. I let them know I’m here, they have one of the guys in the back help me put it in the truck.
I don’t expect her to let out a funny little laugh, her gaze flying to my face. “I picked that order myself,” she says. “Who are the boots for?”
She’s just making conversation. She doesn’t know, she hasn’t put it together.
She can’t have. Right now, she’s just confused why a Kincaid brother would buy little kid boots when we’re all very infamously single.
But she might put it together in the hours that follow this slow-motion, car wreck of a conversation.
“Got family visiting next month,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. Last Christmas, I flew out to Ontario to meet some cousins we never knew about.
But Luna hasn’t been ready to talk about them yet, let alone meet them, so next month is a stretch.
And at least one of my cousins has little kids, who I’ve now included in a cover-up story nobody asked me to create on the fly.
Fucking hell.
I keep my head down and don’t look around for Pastor Bingham or Jessika Foote as I take my receipt and head outside.
And then, after I grab my pick-up order from the loading dock, I hightail it into town and stop at the garage.
Cash winces when he sees me. “Won’t get to it until this afternoon.”
“No, I said it’s not a rush, and it’s not.” For me. I don’t know about Hope. A small twinge of guilt twists in my chest. “But listen, I gotta tell you about something I overheard at the farm supply store.”
Cash just rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure I go over at lunch and loudly make it clear that I’m painfully alone in my apartment every night. Make sure that it’s known my bed is open to everyone in town except Jessika.”
“Subtle.”
“Nobody expects anything less.”
Fair enough.
I think about how, or if, to tell Hope about this inconvenient development.
But when I return to the ranch, that thought gets shoved aside, because I hear Bellamy before I see her. A sustained, high-pitched keen that carries across the yard with impressive range for someone so small.
Carrying the bags from the farm supply store, I follow the pitiful sobbing around the side of the house to the greenhouse.
Hope is sitting cross-legged on the grass, one hand on her daughter’s back, the other pressed flat to her belly, her eyes closed.
Bellamy is face-down on the ground.
“Bellaboo.” Hope’s voice is even, but I can hear the effort it’s costing her. “Baby, I know. I know you’re tired. But I need you to get up.”
“Nooooo.”
“I need you to get up, and then we can—”
“No, no, no, no—”
As her daughter wails again, Hope squeezes her face tight.
Maybe I’ve shown up at the worst possible time, but it might also be the exact right time, because it looks like she’s running out of energy. Bellamy sounds exhausted and furious, and it’s not even lunch yet. The last time Hope warned me a tantrum was incoming, it was later in the day.
I set the bags down and clear my throat. “Hey, Bellamy.”
Hope’s head whips up. Some complicated mixture of relief and mortification moves across her face, and she starts to say something—because she’s always one breath away from sorry—but I make a face and wave it off.
She doesn’t have anything to apologize for here.
Being little is hard.
At the sound of my voice, Bellamy lifts her head in curiosity, momentarily forgetting that she’s furious. Tears streak through the dust on her cheeks, and as soon as she figures out who said her name, the fury returns. I’m oddly proud of her for committing to the bit.
I imagine it’s also hard to be her mom twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without any help or reprieve.
But God damn that attitude is going to carry little miss Bellaboo far in life.
“I brought you a surprise,” I say. “But it’s only for people who are standing up.”
“What is it?” Bellamy demands, from the ground. Her mom sighs and mutters an unnecessary apology under her breath.
I wince, comically. “Can’t tell you. You’re not standing up, unfortunately.” I glance at Hope. “Got you a surprise, too.”
She scrambles to her feet. “You didn’t have to—”
“But now you’re standing, so I think I do have to.” I wink at her.
She catches on, shooting me a confused but appreciative look that warms me to my boots. “That’s right, I’m standing because I want the surprise.”
Another beat of hesitation passes as Bellamy weighs the injustice of having to do what the grown-ups are saying versus the possibility of a reward, and the reward wins by a narrow margin. She pushes herself up to sitting, then to standing, as if it were her idea all along.
I crouch down and open the first bag. Pull out a small pair of rubber boots in a deep forest green, with tiny frogs printed up the sides.
Bellamy stares at them. Tantrum forgotten.
I hold them out.
“Froggies,” she breathes as she takes them with both hands. Then she immediately sits back down in the gravel to yank off her shoes. Her eyes still bright with unshed tears, representing feelings she can’t communicate any other way, but her pouting mouth is wobbling up at the corners, not down.
And the boots have bought her mother a moment of quiet.
Which buys me time to reward Hope as well. For letting me interject now. For trusting me to help in this moment. For helping my family out.
I stand and reach into the second bag. Her boots are basic black. Pure function, because my instinct is that she doesn’t want anything that might seem like a gift.
And sure enough, even though they’re the most utilitarian boots available in her size, she’s wary as she stares at them.
“They’re just boots,” I say. “So your sandals don’t get dirty while you work. And it’s safer for your toes.”
Her pretty, perfect toes.
She opens her mouth.
“Not a gift,” I add, before she can find the shape of the argument. “You’re a ranch employee. Proper footwear is part of the deal.”
The crease between Hope’s brows doesn’t fully clear, but it softens. She takes them, and to give her a bit of space, I re-focus on her daughter.
Bellamy’s proudly put her boots on the wrong feet.
“Let me help.” I crouch back down, and she presents her feet to me with great seriousness.
As soon as we get them switched around, she starts racing around. “I need a puddle!”
“Hasn’t rained in a few days,” I say regretfully. “But there’s a hose at the side of the barn. I bet we could make a few puddles for you. If you guys have time to walk down there?”
Hope nods. “We’re done with the harvest already today. We were planting tomatoes in the octagon for your mother, and I asked Bella to stop digging up what I was putting in, and it spiralled from there. A walk down to the barn would be great.”
As we head in that direction, Bella leading the way, Hope says something under her breath that I don’t catch.
“Sorry?”
“Thank you,” she mutters. Then she lifts her voice, sounding very raw. “When she’s hurt or has a meltdown, I can’t breathe.”
"Anything else that might help with that?"
"I wish she still napped more consistently. Then I could work while she sleeps. But she doesn't nap just anywhere anymore. Only in a bed."
"Would a baby monitor help?"
She looks at me in surprise.
I shrug. "We aim to provide what our workers need."
Boots. Monitors. Kisses.
No, not kisses, Zane. Fuck.
I clear my throat. “How are you settling in?”
“All right.”
“I stopped at the garage. Cash hasn’t started on your car yet, he’s busy, but he said he’ll get to it this afternoon. It might be a few days for parts.”
I expect her to look frustrated at that update, but her expression is closer to relief as she processes the news.
“That’s all right, then?” I ask.
“Yes. I do want to get back on the road, but…I could use a few extra days of work, to be honest. And Bellamy is enjoying herself here.”
“Good.” I stop at the hose and unfurl it from the hook. There’s a slope away from the barn, and a worn dirt divot at the low point before the grass starts to rise again, heading toward the greenhouses.
It’s the perfect spot for a little girl to stomp in a puddle.
“Watch out,” I say as I turn on the water. The first spurt is sun warmed, but it quickly turns cold, coming straight from the deep artesian well that taps into the aquifer under our land.
Bellamy shrieks in delight as a puddle spreads over the dirt. Once there’s a good pool of water, I turn the tap down so the water slows to a trickle, then I lay the hose down so it keeps refilling the puddle to a splash-worthy depth.
“Oh, she’s going to make such a mess,” Hope says, rubbing her hands on her cheeks.
“But that’s a lot of fun.” I grin. “I come in from the fields muddy all the time. And then the hose is right here for cleaning up.”
She takes a deep breath and smiles. It makes her eyes sparkle. “Okay. Whew, I bet she’s going to nap well this afternoon. Thank you.”
I hold her gaze. “It’s nothing. We’re happy to have the help around here.”
“I appreciate that more than you can know.”
“Oh, no, the appreciation is firmly ours. Luna likes you, which is something. She’s actually quite prickly about letting us hire her help.”
“Why do you call her by her given name?” Hot red spots spark on the apples of her cheeks. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s all right.” I rub my thumb against my moustache as I think about it.
“Well, for one thing, Luna’s not her given name.
It’s her chosen name. She picked Luna when she was a teenager—and we always knew that?
Her birth name is Leeann, and I wouldn’t call her that.
But here on the ranch, we’re all equal partners.
I call her Mom when we’re alone, or when she’s giving me shit about my brothers. ”
“I can’t picture her giving anyone shit. She’s so soft—even when she’s prickly.”
Grinning, I nod. “Sure, when you haven’t just run through her house in muddy boots.”
“Did you do that a lot as kids?”
I chuckle out loud. “That was three months ago.”
She laughs with me, and that sparkle in her gaze grows, until it’s all that I can see.
Which is my cue to leave, because I made myself a promise a few days ago that I would render myself invisible to this woman, and I haven’t managed to do that. At all.
But if there’s any chance of staying on the employer side of a line drawn between us, it will only be because I learn how to remove myself from moments where I just want to lean in.
“All right, I’ve got chores to do. Do you mind making sure the hose is cranked off nice and tight when she’s done playing?”
She nods, her gaze lingering on my face. “I can do that. And we’ll definitely take off our boots at the front door.”
“Great.” I take a step back, then another. I still don’t look away, though. “See you later, then.”
“Do you need help? With your chores, I mean?” She bites her lip, as if she’s uncertain about having offered that.
But my God, I want to say yes.
I grin at her. “You know how to break in fresh rope, City Girl?”
She lifts her chin. “I could learn.”
“I bet you could.”
Do I need help?
Not exactly.
Do I want to say yes anyway?
Fuck yeah.
If she wants extra work, I could show her around the barn. “You said Bellamy is going to have a nap this afternoon?”
“She might.”
“Would you leave her in the house with Luna?”
That’s a big question. I know it’s a scary thing for Hope to consider.
Slowly, she nods.
I return the acknowledgement. “Then come find me at the barn.” I mean to offer her some jobs she can do in her new boots, but that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “If you’re interested, I’ll give you a lesson with rope. Just in case you ever have to tie someone up.”
Her eyes flare wide.
But she doesn’t look away.
And the way she stares at me—and the warmth of her gaze on my back as I walk away—stays with me for the rest of the morning.