Chapter 2
Three Months Later
The bell above the door of Murphy’s General Store dings as Shaky Rick Gentry plods in.
Standing behind the counter with a lukewarm cup of coffee and a years-old issue of People magazine, Grace doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s Shaky.
The shuffling of his shoes against the tile floor and the alcohol-soaked air that permanently clings to him is enough for her to know it’s almost five in the afternoon, and he’s here for his daily re-up of malt liquor.
Grace goes back to idly flipping pages full of celebrity horoscopes and trendy summer shoes.
The bell dings again a few seconds later, and this time, Grace looks up to see a woman on her cell phone, walking quickly toward the back of the store.
It’s hard to say who it is, but by the neat, slim-fitting clothes and the shiny brown hair, she doesn’t appear to be a local.
No one in Minetta dresses like that. In fact, no one who lives within ten miles of Treesaw County dresses like that.
Maybe she’s from McBrayer or passing through from Austin or San Antonio.
She’ll forget about this place as soon as she crosses over the train tracks on Main Street.
Grace takes a long pull of her coffee, now verging on cold, and turns back to her magazine. She’s in the middle of looking at a picture of Ben Affleck hauling a trash bag into a dumpster when she hears the telltale shuffle of Shaky’s shoes.
“Hey, Grace,” he says in a soft voice. In his hands are two bottles of Olde English 800 that he slowly sets atop the counter.
Grace smiles as she rings him up. “How you doin’, Shaky?”
“Still breathin’, somehow.” He shrugs as he digs into the pockets of his ill-fitting jeans. “Keep tryin’ to die, but God don’t agree with that plan, I guess.” He pulls out a couple of crumpled dollar bills and some linty nickels and dimes but then seems to reach the bottom of the well.
The little monitor above the register shows the total is $10.06, about seven dollars more than Shaky has to offer. Their eyes meet, and Grace’s heart squeezes. “Murphy said if the till is short again, he’s gonna start docking my pay and put in cameras. I wish I could help you, I really do—”
“Please, Grace,” Shaky pleads, gripping the counter with his bony fingers. “I can’t…I can’t sleep. I just want to sleep, but my head, my body, it…” He seems to be barely holding himself upright, like the counter is the only thing anchoring him.
Grace sighs, looking out into the store, then back to him, to the way his brows have pulled together and his eyes have started to shine with tears. “If it were up to me, you know I’d give ’em to you, no questions asked. But I need this job.”
Shaky’s head falls forward, and she hears him sniffle. It breaks her heart; if she had the extra cash to float him, or if she could count on Murphy not counting the till down to the last penny, she’d make it happen. But as it is, they’re both coming up short.
A crisp, brand-new fifty-dollar bill slides into Grace’s view, pushed by delicate fingers bearing silver and turquoise rings.
The shiny red polish atop the long, perfectly manicured nails gleams under the overhead lighting.
The scent of beer and stale sweat wafting off of Shaky swirls with an unfamiliar, luxurious blend of deep vanilla, crisp tobacco, and mint.
Grace glances up and is met with a pair of brown eyes and a smile that crinkles them at the corners.
“Allow me,” the woman says, nudging her head in Shaky’s direction.
Shaky turns to her in disbelief. “That’s awful kind of you, ma’am. Are you sure?”
The woman nods and places a manicured hand on Shaky’s shoulder.
“It wasn’t too long ago that I was desperate for a good night’s sleep, too.
” There’s something behind the look in her eyes—a knowing, an understanding shared between the two of them in mere seconds.
“I hope you find it. And if you can’t, there’s a place in McBrayer that can help.
For free. All you’ll need is the bus fare to get there. ”
“Thank you,” Shaky says, nodding. “Thank you very much.”
Grace, watching the entire interaction in a sort of awe, only spurs into movement when the woman looks back to her, her eyes drifting to the bottles on the counter.
“Sorry,” Grace blurts out, then reaches quickly for the brown bags beneath the register. She hands the bottles to Shaky once they’re wrapped up, and he leaves her alone with the glamorous, mysterious benefactor.
Now that she has a moment to actually assess, she sees two large bottles of water tucked under one of the woman’s arms, and a bag of sunflower seeds bigger than Grace’s head in the other.
The woman has an enigmatic, all-knowing kind of smirk on her lips as she sets the items on the counter. “Grace, right?”
Grace nods as she starts to ring everything up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll take a pack of Virginia Slims and a Lucky 7s scratch-off, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course.” Spinning around, Grace grabs the pack of cigarettes and then pulls on the spool of Lucky 7s and rips off a ticket.
It seems odd—considering the obvious wealth this woman has—for her to be buying cheap scratch-offs, but Grace doesn’t comment on it.
She sets the ticket on the counter, then rings up the cigarettes and hands those over, too.
“Those look like they were painful,” the woman says, and Grace looks up to see her staring at Grace’s upturned palm where the pack of cigarettes sits. Beneath the cellophane-wrapped box is the collection of scars she tries—and fails, evidently—not to put on display.
“Yes, ma’am” is all Grace says, before promptly going back to her task of bagging up the water bottles and sunflower seeds.
A beat of quiet passes while she takes the fifty-dollar bill and counts the change, but as she reaches to hand over the coins and cash, she notices the woman is staring right at her.
She reaches for the change, softly gripping Grace’s hand as she does.
With a little smile folded into ruby-red lips, she asks, “You used to be a horse trainer over at Braxton Ranch. Is that right?”
Something akin to panic starts to bubble up in Grace’s stomach. Heat blooms on her cheeks under the woman’s attention. For a moment, she’s sure she misheard her. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Grace asks, “Beg your pardon?”
“I have an old friend. We used to be very close—attached at the hip, really—but we don’t get to see each other much anymore.
Anyway, I talked to her recently, and she told me all about this real talented horse trainer who was scraping by working at a general store in Minetta.
Said she was only working there because she’d walked away from Braxton Ranch and couldn’t land another ranching job. ”
“Your—your friend,” Grace stammers, knuckles going white as she grips the counter.
The woman nods. “Dear friend. Maryann Hartford.”
Grace blinks, not fully processing the information. “Maryann?”
Another quick nod. The woman looks at the nails of her left hand, first by curling them inward, then stretching her palm and spreading her fingers out.
The diamond bedecking her ring finger is so large and sparkling that it creates fragmented, dancing light patterns over the walls.
“I told Maryann I’d just lost one of my trainers—idiot decided to move to Montana because he was finally fed up with the heat.
” She uses air quotes with her fingers as she says it, rolling her eyes.
“And Maryann told me she knew of just the person who could fill the spot.”
The words start to intertwine in Grace’s brain like a tangle of barbed wire.
She can’t imagine how she must look right now, and trying to make sense of it only confuses her more, so finally she blurts out the question she should’ve asked right out of the gate.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” Grace says breathily, holding out her hands.
“But would you mind telling me who you are?”
The woman lets out a soft chuckle. How a chuckle can sound elegant, Grace isn’t sure, but the woman manages it. “I was wondering when you’d ask.” She sticks out a hand in Grace’s direction. “I’m Renata Caldwell. I own Halcyon Ranch.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
That night, in the parking lot of the studio apartment she lives in on the edge of town, Grace calls Maryann from a prepaid cell phone. “C’mon, c’mon,” Grace mutters as she paces back and forth, cursing the woman for only having a landline.
Maryann picks up on the fifth ring, simply shouting, “What?”
The familiar annoyance in her tone sends a pang of homesickness shooting through Grace’s gut. With a little smile, she says, “It’s Grace.”
“Oh,” Maryann sighs. “Hi, honey. Been a while.”
They exchange quick pleasantries before Grace reveals the true reason for the phone call. “I met Renata Caldwell today.”
“Well, that woman works quickly, I’ll tell you what. Didn’t waste a single second findin’ you in that Podunk town. She offer you that job?”
Grace chuckles in disbelief. “She offered me a shot at the job, but only because you talked me up more than you should’ve, I’m sure. What’d you even say to her?”
“I told her the truth! You’re the finest horse trainer in the state, and she just so happens to have a job opening for a horse trainer. Don’t question my judgment.”
Grace looks up at the sky, rubbing her thumb and index fingers across her brow.
“I wasn’t planning on going back to training.
Or ranching, for that matter.” A beat of silence hangs between them, and Grace wonders for a second if Maryann’s hung up.
The only indication that she hasn’t is the sudden click of her teeth. Grace frowns. “Maryann?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the older woman says, “I was just sittin’ here wondering if you’re stupid or just plain dumb.”
Grace’s mouth falls open in indignation. “That’s—”