Chapter 8 Dusty
Chapter 8
Dusty
Cam: Thanks again for today. Or yesterday, I guess.
Dusty: Anytime.
I’d been staring at that text exchange for the past week. Every spare moment I had—in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, in the early morning while I was getting ready for work—I looked at those two lines.
I hadn’t heard anything from her since. I didn’t really expect to. I’d been back in Meadowlark for a year, and before Saturday, the most I’d seen of her was the day I got home and accidentally intruded on girls’ night. Occasionally, I’d get a text from her, but that had been happening for ten years.
First, when my dad died, then on my birthday, and a few times a year after that. They were always short and to the point, sometimes just pictures of Meadowlark or Rebel Blue or things she thought were funny. I responded most of the time, but not all of the time, because it hurt when she didn’t keep the conversation going, which she never did.
She had Gus give me back my boots and my coat, but she kept the socks. I liked that, but I couldn’t exactly explain why.
Cam’s fancy car—a black Audi SUV—was outside of Gus’s when I rode past on Saturday morning. It had been there all week. I figured she had started staying there instead of at the Big House.
It was nice that she had people she could lean on. I wished I could be one of those people.
Normally, I worked a lot on Saturdays—dropped hay by myself, checked cattle—which I usually used as an excuse for a nice long ride and pulled pastures, but today I had plans with my mom, so I only stayed at Rebel Blue for a few hours.
I told myself that I had chosen to ride the trail that went by Gus’s because it was the fastest way to cut through the middle of the ranch, which was true, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hoping for at least a glimpse of Cam. But no luck.
When I got back to my truck, I immediately put the heater on full blast and blew hot air into my hands. I pulled my phone out—a few texts from my mom making sure we were still on for today, a couple from ranch hands, and some other random notifications.
I texted my mom and told her I was on my way and cleared the rest. I’d worry about everyone else later.
Before I could set my phone down, it lit up with Greer’s name and picture. I answered immediately.
“Talk to me,” I said. It was how my dad used to answer the phone, and without realizing it, Greer and I started using it but only when we called each other.
“Hey,” she said. “Are you on your way to Mom’s?”
“You are way too aware of my schedule for someone who lives in Alaska,” I said.
“I just got off the phone with her,” Greer responded. “She told me that Cam’s wedding didn’t happen.” Of course she did.
“Have you ever thought about easing into a topic, rather than throwing it all out there?”
“Nope. So?”
“So what?”
“Does that mean you’re staying in Meadowlark?” Greer understood the restlessness I felt, how easy it became to move from place to place, season to season.
“Who wants to know?” I asked.
“There’s this cattle ranch like a hundred miles from me that is looking for workers for summer—including like a ranch manager. Apparently, someone died.” Greer was always a blunt person. “Some of the guys were talking about it.”
I swallowed. Normally, this time of the year would be when I’d start looking for something new—prepping for the seasonal shift. This also wasn’t the first job someone had put on my radar recently.
“I don’t know, G,” I said. “I’ll have to see how things shake out.”
“Right,” Greer responded. I could hear her eye roll. “Things.”
“Yeah, things,” I said. “And I think Mom likes having one of us around. How would she feel if I ditched her to come hang out with you in Alaska?” I missed my sister, and it would be nice to be close to her, but I wasn’t looking for something new—I didn’t think.
“Okay, cheap shot,” Greer said. “But do you want me to send you the info? In case things shake the wrong way?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll look at it.”
“Coming your way. I gotta go, though. I’ll call you later this week?”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Love you.”
“Love you.” Greer hung up, and I continued my drive.
The drive from Rebel Blue to my mom’s house was about twenty-five minutes—maybe a little more since coming down from Rebel Blue was a little more precarious in the winter. The already skinny roads were even skinnier because they were lined with snow, and you had to watch for ice. Once you got to the bottom of the hill, though, it got better.
Aggie Tucker lived on a five-acre plot of land on the other side of town—only about ten minutes from Hank, Teddy’s dad. It was the same house I had grown up in—a small farmhouse with three bedrooms, one for my parents, one for Greer, and one for me—and two bathrooms, which meant that I shared a bathroom with my sister. I was still traumatized by it. Girls were messy as hell. And there was always hair everywhere.
When I made it to my mom’s, I wanted to get out of my car and into the house as quickly as I could, but first I grabbed a small pile of firewood from the side of the house before opening the door.
The floorboards creaked, and there was always a draft blowing through from somewhere, but it was still home. It smelled like cinnamon and coffee; my mom had been putting cinnamon in her coffee grounds for as long as I could remember. She also made coffee strong enough that it tasted vaguely like motor oil. But it always did the trick.
I found her in the kitchen, washing out her coffeepot and getting it ready for the next morning.
“Knock, knock,” I said, tapping my knuckles on the open doorframe that led into the kitchen.
“You think I didn’t hear that squeaky as hell door hinge when you came in?” my mom said without looking up from her task. Her long, gray hair was in a braid down her back, and she was wearing a pair of dark brown coveralls. Her stack of silver bracelets on each wrist jingled as she moved.
“Is that your way of telling me I need to fix it?”
My mom looked up and gave me a smile. “Thank you so much for offering, sweetie. How was work today?”
“Good,” I said. “Cold.” Working at Rebel Blue in the winter was a lot different from any other season—most of the cattle were moved to a lower ground, winter pasture, but it was a good time for indoor and outdoor maintenance, which was what I was doing today. Winter was all about preparation, and Gus was a hardass for preparation. Well, a hardass in general, but he knew what he was doing.
This was my first time in a long time working an actual winter in the mountains. Usually, after whatever job or ranch I was on in the summer, I would head to Arizona, New Mexico, or South America and work someplace warm. I was like a bird: I preferred to fly south for the winter. I was still getting used to staying put.
“This winter hasn’t been too bad,” my mom said as she poured water into the back of her coffeepot, which had seen better days. “Just as cold as usual but not that much snow.”
“Should I buy you a new coffeepot?” I asked, nodding toward hers.
“Don’t you dare,” my mom said. “I want to be buried with this one.”
“Morbid, Mom,” I murmured.
“No.” She shook her head. She was scooping in the ground coffee now. “What’s morbid is knowing the only people at my funeral will be you and Greer—no significant others, no grandkids.”
Again? She’d really been on this lately. “Mo-ther,” I said, enunciating and dragging out each syllable.
“I’m just saying is all.” My mom shrugged as she threw a dash of cinnamon in the ground coffee. “How’s Cam?”
My mom was as subtle as a gunshot. That’s where Greer got it from. “I thought we were building shit today,” I said. “Having some good ol’ fashioned bonding time.”
“We are,” she said.
“Can we do it without the interrogation?” I asked.
“Afraid not, kiddo,” she said. “But we can wait until we get in the workshop.” My mom handed me a thermos of coffee and picked up one for herself—she must have poured them from her batch of coffee this morning. She never made less than a full pot.
I sighed and followed her out the back door toward the barn with my coffee and the firewood. When my mom and dad had bought the house, it had been a functional barn, but they quickly converted it to a workshop for her. She had been working out of it for as long as I could remember.
She unlocked the door and slid it open. In the summer, she worked with the barn door open to let the mountain breezes in, but it was too cold now. I headed toward the back and pushed open a window for ventilation before I got the fire going nearby. There was a small chimney, but ventilation was important in a small space—especially in a small space full of wood. And sawdust. So much sawdust.
“So,” I said, rubbing my hands together, “what are we building today?”
“Mid-century-style credenza and a couple of custom bookshelves,” my mom said. “And if we get through that, you can help me place wood for a butcher block countertop.”
My mom was ridiculously talented. She made beautiful things that withstood generations—like the Ryders’ kitchen table and the bar at the Devil’s Boot.
“Good stuff,” I said, taking off my coat but leaving my jacket on. Once we got working, it would get a little warmer—especially with the fire going. My mom handed me a piece of paper that had on it her sketches and a detailed breakdown of every piece of wood she needed cut and its size, which was my job today.
I loved her sketches. She always did them on a legal notepad, and when she was done with the job, I tried to keep as many of them as I could before she’d throw them away. She would say I was too sentimental, but I just liked collecting the things that showcased her work. Some people got written recipes or sewing patterns from their moms; I got these. I started saving them after my dad died. I wished I had more from him.
There was a stack of wood planks next to the saw, ready for cutting. I walked over to it and started getting everything ready.
“So,” my mom said, “how is Cam?”
“I don’t know, Mom.” I sighed. “It’s not like we talk.”
“But you do play shotgun rider to her runaway bride after her non-wedding?” I rolled my eyes. Of course she knew about that. If I had to guess, that gossip Luke Brooks was probably to blame.
Technically speaking, Cam was the shotgun rider, not me. “That was nothing,” I said. “Just me helping out a friend.”
“So you two are friends?”
“No.” Maybe? I ran a hand through my hair, a little frustrated—not at my mom, but at the whole situation. I didn’t like the questioning.
“But you just said that you were helping out a friend.”
“Cam is my friend,” I said, which was true—at least to me. “But I don’t know if I’m hers.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I knew my mom was giving me a pointed look, but I didn’t look up at her.
“You’re telling me,” I muttered.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“Nothing, Mom,” I said. “I know that you love Cam, and I know you think she’s the reason I came home, but she isn’t. Just because she’s technically ‘available’ now, or whatever, doesn’t mean that anything is going to happen between us.” I swallowed, trying to smother the hope ember that burned in my chest whenever I thought about Cam. “I feel bad that she got hurt, and I wanted to help her feel better…by being her friend.”
“But you still feel something for her,” my mom said.
“How could I not?” I asked. “But I don’t even know her anymore.” My feelings for Cam were like an earthquake and its aftershocks. When they started, they were big and overwhelming, and once the main event had passed—once we’d gone our separate ways—I’d learned to live with the way they still shook me up at unexpected times.
And when I saw her now, I still felt that small tremor in my bones. But I didn’t know if the feelings were real or if they were the ghosts of something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“But isn’t there an opportunity to get to know her again now?”
“I don’t know if I can,” I said, even though I really wanted to. “Without everything else getting in the way.” Cam and I had baggage—baggage that I didn’t know if I was ready to open.
“You drive your mother crazy, Ter—”
I cut my mom off immediately. “All right, no need to bring the full name into this. You made your point.”
My mom gave me a smug smile. “Think I could pull off blackmail? What if I take out an ad in the paper with your full name unless you ask Cam on a date—once the appropriate waiting period after her wedding has passed, of course.”
“I think you could,” I said. “But I don’t think you would.”
My mom shook a finger at me. “God damn the fact that I love you so much, Dusty. Let’s build shit.”