Chapter 6
Wyatt
Dawn might come a little later as the year dies, but Fern runs things on a tight schedule.
Bleary-eyed, I stumble through the house letting her out, the back door in the kitchen open to the cold morning air.
It’s still dark outside, and there’s a few of Them lazing about in the center of Their ring of toadstools as I grind the coffee.
Fern’s gone into pounce mode, and as I start the coffee maker, I scold her. “Leave Them be, girl.”
She sneezes purposely at the vicious little creatures, but They all laugh, still drunk on Their revelry.
Fern turns her nose up at them, does her business right outside Their circle, and then trots back into the house.
If she thinks she’s offended the pixies, she’s wrong.
They cackle even harder. The noise is infectious, and I laugh along with Them, scratching the wolfdog’s ears as she leans against me.
I scramble some eggs for us both, then give Caden a ring as I wash the dishes. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message on his machine, letting him know I have his mail and groceries both, and that I’ll bring them out before lunchtime.
He answers before I hang up, his voice slow with sleep. “Jesus fuck,” my little brother says in greeting. “Sun’s not even up.”
It’s a task to keep my molars from grinding together. Doc asked me to cut it out at my last checkup, and I’m trying. “You hear me about bringing your stuff by?”
“Yeah,” Cade answers with a yawn. “Come by after lunch, though.”
I pause, gathering myself. I’ve given Caden the benefit of every doubt for a year, since the wolf bit him.
I’ve locked him up every month. I’ve done all his shopping, gotten all his mail.
I’ve run around after him like a damn servant because he’s my kid brother, and being turned did a number on him.
“Why’s that? You got something big going down today?” I ask.
“Don’t give me a hard time about this,” Caden replies, an edge of irritation in his voice. In the background, a voice says, “Who’s calling so early, baby?”
“Caden Wesley Hayes,” I growl. “Is that Shelly Marie I hear?”
“Wyatt,” he says, drawing my name out into several beats. “Calm down.”
Fallon was right. She’s always right.
“If you’ve got the energy to fuck Roadhouse tail,” I growl, “you’ve got energy to come get your own damn food and mail. I’m sure as shit not bringing it to you.”
There’s a long pause. “I can’t, Wyatt. You know that.”
“You should see Fallon’s face, Caden. She walking worse than ever because some shit from Sunnyvale wouldn’t let things alone. Shelly tell you that?”
Another long pause. “I didn’t ask Fallon to get involved.”
If I could reach through the phone and shake him silly, I would. As though anyone’s ever had to ask Fallon to protect us, to stand up for us. Caden doesn’t remember what Mama and Pa were like. He doesn’t remember the ways we got by before Blackbird Hollow. He doesn’t get it. He never has.
“You’ll come get your groceries today before sundown, and you’ll be at the house on time for Sunday dinner.” Caden tries to break in, but I don’t let him. “I’m not fucking around. I’m not gonna push you too hard, but you can come here, and you can come home. We’ll start there and see how it goes.”
I can hear the gears in his head turning all the way across town. He’s always been a wheedler, and the kid’s such a looker that he nearly always gets his way. “I mean it, Cade. It’s time. This isn’t a request.”
“Fallon says jump and you say—”
“I say how damn high. Just. Like. You.” I slam the phone down before Caden pokes me into saying something I’ll regret.
Fern whines, leaning against me harder than ever. “Never get born the middle child,” I advise her. “Or you’ll spend your whole life navigating between tyrants.”
She chortles a little in response, stretches, then wags her tail at me. The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself a full cuppa. My mug for the day has pastel bears from the 1980s on it. When I moved in here, Fallon gave me a third of her massive collection of mugs.
I pad out to the back porch and sink into one of the four Adirondack chairs I built last year, right after moving in.
The sun’ll be up soon. I pull a quilt from the basket over my legs and sip my coffee in silence as Fern flops onto her side with a dull thump.
I smile at her, and her big tail pounds the wood porch.
It’s tempting to ruminate over my conversation with Caden, but, rough as she can be about things, Fallon’s usually right.
Our sister sees things sharper than just about anyone I know.
Caden acts like I follow her without question, but the kid doesn’t see us fight.
We’ve always kept it like that, more his parents than his siblings in so many ways.
To him, she’s just the hard-ass who never lets him get away with shit, and because the kid barely remembers what it was like to be out there before Blackbird Hollow, he can’t appreciate the magnitude of what she’s done for us, but especially for him.
Caden is a good man, and someday, if he can get this wolf thing under control, he might be a great one.
It’s time for him to stop sulking and get back to life.
I’m not willing to rush him on the how, but he’s gotta take a few steps forward, or he’s bound to get stuck.
The sun peeks up over Big Hill and hits the river, setting it ablaze with the golden fire of morning’s first light.
Three deep breaths, and I’ve got the family drama settled to a dull roar inside my head.
Each of us is hardheaded in our own way, and I learned long ago not to let being in the middle fuck me up too hard.
The light sinks into me as it creeps across town.
This view is the reason I took this house on.
It’s needed a lot of work, but I’ve been more than happy to do it to have a place of my own in the world.
I’m proud of how things have turned out so far, and there’s nothing more satisfying than spending a quiet morning on the porch with my dog.
But even without delivery duty on the docket, today’s going to be full.
I may not need to make the trip to Cade’s, but I need to get up the hill before I do anything else. If I know my sister, she’s going to spend the day scouring the woods for clues about the missing leafers. She can more than handle things alone, but Fern’ll be better off with her than me today.
“C’mon, girl,” I say to my pup as I push out of my chair. “Let’s get you to Auntie Fallon’s Doggy Daycare.”
Marion Roanhorse glances up from her copy of Miniatures Monthly as I walk in. Not because I walked into the front office of the Stardust Motel, but just as a matter of coincidence. Nothing but whatever goes on inside her brilliant mind can interrupt Marion when she’s focused on something.
The woman’s a certified mathematical genius, but this year she’s committed to miniatures, and there is a massive village of dollhouses behind the desk that she’s tending to for an art installation.
She pushes back her reading glasses, her long black hair swishing around her shoulders. Her eyes crinkle as she smiles.
Marion and I have been friends since high school, but we don’t get together enough these days.
When things are sorted with Caden, I’ll invite her and Betty up for Sunday dinners again.
Everything in my life got smaller when Caden turned, but if I’m going to force him into moving forward, I should do the same.
“You here for the salt?” she asks. “Or a decent cuppa and a bit of gossip?”
I laugh. “I’ll take all three, if you’re offering.”
She pours me a cup of coffee, and I lean against the counter. “What’s shaking?”
Marion snorts. “Who says ‘what’s shaking’ anymore?”
I shrug. “Just giving it a try.”
“You sound like a fogey,” she says through a peal of laughter.
I let my mouth fall open in mock offense. “What kind of word is ‘fogey,’ then?”
“Write it down, Hayes,” she replies. “You need to beef up your vocab for our next game night.”
I raise my cup to her and nod. “That I do.”
She tilts her head at me, her smile wistful and her dark brown eyes sparkling. It’s like no time has passed, even though it’s been a few weeks since I got out this way. It’s always like that with us; we just pick up wherever we left off, giving each other shit and swapping tales.
“Well,” she says, tucking her tiny hands into her oversized alpaca sweater. “I heard that Rebecca Jackson caught Michael cheating on her.”
I let out a low whistle, even though that’s not news. Mike’s been cheating on Rebecca since they were homecoming king and queen. But leaning into the drama is more fun, so I play up my scandalized act a little.
Marion’s cheeks pink up a little, as though she’s a bit excited. This is gonna be good. “With Marcie Cavendish.”
“No shit,” I breathe, actually scandalized now. This is a juicy bit of news. Marcie Cavendish has been a pain in Rebecca Jackson’s ass for nigh on three decades now. Fallon used to call them the Warring Barbies. “Is Becks pitching a fit?”
Marion’s cheeks puff up with pure smugness. “Keyed both their cars last night while they were bumping uglies in Room 23. Wrote ‘whore’ on hers and ‘cheating filth’ on his.” Marion leans back in her chair, shaking her head, pleased as punch. “I almost considered liking her.”
“Almost,” I quip, before taking a long drink of coffee. Everyone makes better coffee than me. “Anybody else interesting staying over?”
The mirth drains out of Marion’s face. “This about the missing leafers?”
I nod.
Marion shakes her head. “Any chance you might just sit this one out, bud?”
Marion’s tribe has very particular ideas about what’s weird in the woods. They’re not wrong about any of them. The things she knows are real. They’re just not the things hedgeriders are tasked with handling.
We originated in the British Isles, long before they were called that.
Historically, hedgeriders deal primarily with Them, like our ancestors.
They have a long history of traveling far beyond Their land of origin to make trouble.
The entities the Indigenous peoples of this land recognize are not ours to care for, only to respect.
We don’t talk about these things much, but Marion’s always known what I am.
Though Fallon’s always been stubborn about making sure Caden and I know the difference between Them and the entities indigenous to the land, it’s possible we’ve got this one wrong. “Is there a reason for me to?”
Marion shrugs. “It’s your kind of thing. Reeks of Them. Just some wishful thinking that maybe you’d just…y’know…”
“Butt out?” I suggest.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Any chance of that?”
Marion’s a good friend. I always appreciate that she gets concerned about me. I shake my head and take another sip of coffee. “Nope.”
Before Marion can fire off another volley, the bell on the front door tinkles. A white woman walks in, a gust of cold wind behind her, sending wet leaves swirling inside. My heart slows, thumping so hard in my ears I could swear I hear drums beating.
Her wavy blonde hair is the color of wildflower honey, and with the rain coming in, it’s curled up a bit more around her face. Her frame is swallowed by a canvas barn jacket that looks about two sizes too big for her. Nice enough body, I suppose, but it’s her face that gets me.
She’s got one of those mouths that probably turns downward naturally, and cheekbones that make me wish I could paint, just to capture the way the light hits them. But her eyes. Her eyes are avid, filled with an intensity I can’t rip my gaze away from.
I’m staring. It’s rude. But I can’t stop. Marion’s eyes flick between me and the woman a few times before she saves my awkward ass. “Hey there. Room 11, right?”
The woman nods, giving me a wide berth as she steps around me to speak to Marion. Couldn’t have been the staring that did it. I wonder if the universe might do me a favor and swallow me whole.
“I’ll just load the salt, then,” I say when it becomes obvious the woman isn’t going to say a word with me leaning on the counter.
Marion just closes her eyes and nods, so full of secondhand embarrassment for me that she might blush. As I push my way out the door, I let out a hiss of air, feeling for all the world like someone’s smashed me over the head with something.