Chapter 6
Lark
Icould’ve said all that a little less dramatically, but then…I wouldn’t be me. So I sit here, waiting for this conversation to continue and for things to get ugly. I’m just not sure which of my family members will be the first to speak.
They stare.
I stare back.
Good times.
Finally, we have the first one to break.
“Tristan Stone was the Good Samaritan?” Deacon asks, his voice even.
That tells me that I’m about to get screamed at. My brother doesn’t do calm. He’s a loose cannon, and he’s about to blow.
“Yes.”
“And you left that part out why?” he asks with the same calmness that sends a shiver down my spine.
I laugh once, faking a bravado that is meant to hide my irritation at my big mouth. “Why do you think? Maybe because you all react like this, every single time anyone brings up their names.”
Momma clears her throat. “Tristan is who helped you when you got stuck in the storm?”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Why?”
I blink. “Umm…because I was stuck and he saw me…?”
I don’t know what other reason there would be.
She looks to my father. “Did you know he was who helped her, George?”
“No.” That one word is like a bullet.
The room stays quiet, and I know I need to fix this, because they were enjoying their usual Stone bashing, and I went and ruined it.
Time for some damage control. I make my voice a little nonchalant like I didn’t drop a bomb on them and scoop up some potatoes on my fork.
“All I’m saying is that Tristan was kind to me.
He drove me home, made sure I was safe, and…
I asked him about the pranks, and he said it wasn’t them.
He didn’t know who it was, but maybe we’re all so convinced that it’s them that we’re missing something,” I suggest. When I look at my family’s blank stares, I realize that I’m really, really bad at this. “Maybe?”
I pop my fork into my mouth and pray I choke or something, so I die by potato instead of my brothers.
Ryan scoffs. “We’ve been dealing with their bullshit for decades, Lark. You know this. How the hell can you defend them?”
I swallow and do not choke.
Damn it.
“I’m not defending them. I’m just pointing out that we are so hell-bent on saying they’re doing it, that maybe we’re blinded by hate. Also, it’s not been decades.”
My father speaks up. “I think you’re wrong there. I’ve been dealing with it my entire life.”
“And maybe they feel the same about us,” I challenge. “Besides, we don’t know they’re doing it.”
I’m going to stick to those facts. My family fails to remember that they have also been a part of the long-standing feud between the families.
My father, grandfather, and his father before him were all part of it.
They’ve done petty things back and forth.
There’s a rumor that my great-great-great-grandfather slept with a Stone’s wife.
It’s very muddy, and truly not everyone’s finest moments.
While I’m not saying this current batch of Stones isn’t causing the drama on our land, we’re not exactly innocent over the decades either.
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Then who’s doing it?”
“I don’t know,” I say quickly. I look to Momma, hoping that the kind, loving woman who resides in her heart will make her way out.
Her gaze moves from mine to my brothers’, then to my father’s. We all wait, because as much as my father likes to think he’s the head of the house, we all know it’s Momma. She and Daddy have some unspoken communication, and then my father places his fork and knife down and folds his hands together.
“He didn’t ask for anything in return after helping?” Daddy asks.
“No.”
“He just…was kind to you?”
“Yes.”
He also is who returned my truck to the driveway, but I leave that out. No need to stoke the fire.
Daddy nods. “And you believe the tale he spun that he’s not doing things to our farm? The farm that has nurtured your love of horses, fed you, kept you safe for your entire life?”
Oh boy.
While I don’t know if what Tristan said is true, I also don’t just automatically believe they are doing it.
There’s no gain. The Heartstone Ranch is thriving.
They do almost ten times the business we do.
We breed horses, but mostly for show. We also have a cattle portion of our ranch, which is the investment that Ryan made that’s been…
a nightmare. Still, their operation is leaps and bounds above ours.
Just based on the fact that they are constantly out delivering horses, and I know at the auctions they well outsell us, so there’s really no reason to try to hurt us, other than the fact that we hate each other.
Tristan isn’t a nice guy, per se, but he’s not mean. He’s been through a lot, and I’m really confused as to what his motive could be. He’s a single dad, doing the best he can, and cutting wires and moving animals and hay from one side of the barn to another just seems…trivial.
“I believe that the Stones are…arrogant enough”—that word should soothe their Gatlin pride a little—“that they’d want the credit.”
There. That should do it.
“Or they’re liars and went for the weakest link,” Ryan adds. “They knew you were easy picking, and they knew they could get you on their side and turn you against us.”
I scoff and point my fork at him. “You are one to talk. How many times did you get roped into some stupid scheme that landed us in hot water? Oh, like the last one that we’re still trying to recover from because you sank the farm into a hole. Not sure I’m the weak link, Ry.”
The air in the room grows thick, and I know I stepped in it.
My brother is why we’re drowning in debt.
He’s made bad investments, bad decisions on expansions—like the cattle.
Then he sunk a bunch of money into some co-op horse-trading scheme that lost the majority of our money.
But because both of them came on each other’s heels, it’s causing the farm to suffer.
I was wrong to bring it up. It may be true, but I let my temper flare and I feel awful. “Ryan, I’m sorry,” I say quickly.
He puts his napkin on the table and pushes his chair back.
I get to my feet. “Please, don’t go,” I plead. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
Ryan shakes his head. “You’re right, Lark. I fucked up. I’ve done some stupid things, and we are in this mess because of me.”
Guilt fills my veins, and I hate my big mouth. “Stop. I never should’ve said that. I was angry and lashed out. I’m sorry. Truly.”
I am a lot of things, but I never, ever want to hurt anyone. My brothers have done everything for me, without question.
He nods once. “I know you are. And I’m not mad at you—I’m mad at myself.”
“Be mad at me,” I say quickly.
Ryan purses his lips. “I’ll do that too, but I’m going to fix that fence now before the sun goes down.” He looks to Momma. “I’m sorry for ruining dinner.”
She tilts her head. “Go on. I’ll fix you another plate and keep it in the box.”
“Thanks.”
He walks out, and I quite literally hate myself. This is why they call me Tornado. I’m all sunshine and rainbows until something sets me off, and then I get whipped up and spun around, taking out anything in my path.
It doesn’t happen much since I grew up, but when I was a kid—oof, I was bad.
I turn back to the table, where everyone is quiet and not eating.
“I’m sorry, y’all,” I say to my family.
Deacon speaks first. “You weren’t wrong about Ryan, Lark, and maybe we’re wrong about the Stones and what’s happening with the farm, but I just don’t think we are.” He looks to my parents. “Can I get a plate kept for me too?”
“You’re done eating as well?” Momma asks.
“No, I’m going to eat all of this, but I’m a growing boy and need sustenance.”
And just like that, the energy shifts, and we finish our meal while mine sits like a boulder in my stomach.
I walk out to the property line where my farm and Tristan’s come together. I sent him a text asking if he could meet me out here to talk. I figure if I can beg him to help me prove his family isn’t messing with us, we can put this calling-the-cops bullshit to rest.
But instead of finding him, I see a sweet little girl just a few paces away, sitting in the grass on the other side of the fence with tears streaming down her face while she holds a chicken in her lap.
“And he doesn’t listen to me, Cinnamon. He thinks I’m just a dumb kid,” she weeps. “I’m not a kid. I’m almost a teenager, and I’m growing up. Mom would’ve let me do it, but he just doesn’t care.”
I should turn around, but right as I’m about to, she looks over and then gets to her feet. I smile. “Hey, Sadie. Sorry to bother you.”
She wipes at her tears with the back of her hand. “Hey. You’re not. I’m just…sitting.”
I walk closer, ignoring the tear that’s still lingering on her cheek. “That is a beautiful chicken,” I tell her.
“This is Cinnamon. She’s my favorite.”
I grin. “We have about fifty chickens, and I’m the only one who has named them all. I have a favorite too, but her name is Norma Hen.”
Sadie’s eyes widen a touch. “You named them?”
I nod. “I did more funny names. Like, Hennifer is one, and then I have Mary Poopins. Oh, and my rooster is Cluck Norris, after Chuck Norris, but you’re probably too young to know who that is.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, I don’t know why that’s funny.”
“I feel old. What are some of your chickens’ names?”
“Most of mine are after food. My rooster is named Cheeseburger, because he looks like the color of cheese. Then I have Sugar, Basil, Meatball, and Hey-Girl.”
“Hey-Girl?” I ask, a little confused since that’s not a food I know of.
“She’s a runner, and I would just chase her while yelling it, so Dad said that was her name.” Sadie shrugs.
“That’s a good name then. I have a few that no matter how much I try to get them to love me, they just don’t. Chickens are fickle animals.”
Sadie nods in agreement. “That’s Cheeseburger. Dad threatens to make him dinner every day because he charges him as soon as he comes close to the coop.”