Chapter 8
Crew doesn’t say a word as they ride up the hill, the cart slowing down only slightly as it plugs away at the increasing steepness.
Boone is undeterred; in fact, he’s grown rather impatient with the golf cart and its inability to move faster as it climbs.
The heeler looks back at them every few feet, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, seeming to urge them with his eyes to hurry it up.
Grace smiles at him, admiring his natural agility.
She hasn’t seen him in action yet, but she’d bet he’s a hell of a herder.
Probably runs the cows and sheep like a drill sergeant, not unlike his owner.
Once they’re parked in front of the house, Grace and Crew assist Cooper off the golf cart and up the steps that lead to the wraparound deck.
Crew holds on to his brother with one arm and flings the front door open with the other, and the three of them hobble awkwardly inside like some piss-poor rendition of a monkey walk.
Crew tosses the golf cart keys onto a table near the door and toes off his boots, all the while still holding up his little brother and…
yep. Still scowling. And not just with his mouth—his entire face is somehow downturned into a scathing frown.
“Extra room is this way,” he grumbles, starting down the hallway to their left.
He gives Cooper a brief scan, his eyes somehow hardening even further as he clocks the way his head has lolled forward like it’s on a swivel.
Yet, even through Crew’s stony exterior, he remains a big brother.
A caretaker to his core, especially when he begrudgingly mumbles, “I’ll bring you some clothes so you don’t ruin my sheets. ”
They make it to the bedroom at the end of the hall with no small amount of effort, Boone trailing at their heels happily.
By the time they sit Cooper down on the bed, his eyes are half-closed.
His head drops back, gravity bringing the rest of his body with him, and in what seems like an instant, he is wrapping himself up in the duvet and exhaling contentedly. Crew sighs.
“I’ll grab him some pajamas,” he says, running a hand roughly through his hair.
It’s only the second time she’s seen him not wearing a cowboy hat, and it’s no less jarring than it was at the bar.
More so, maybe, because the neon beer signs have been replaced with warm, cozy lamplight that accentuates his natural waves, bathing their feathered edges in swaths of gold.
It’s silly that any man should have such pretty hair, but especially Crew, who hides it beneath a hat 99 percent of the time.
She must have been observing his raven locks for longer than she realized, because Crew glances at her and seems to be waiting for her to say something.
Grace blinks. “What?”
Crew’s eyes and mouth soften just slightly, the hand that was tangled in his hair now coming down to scratch at his jaw. “I’ll get him changed.” He nods toward the door.
Right. Grace nods quickly, cheeks heating. “Yeah,” she blurts, beginning her speedy exit. “Of course. I should head back anyway.”
“No,” he cuts in, turning on his heel to keep her in his sights as she starts to move. “I just meant you’d probably be more comfortable in the living room. Getting him to cooperate enough to change, uh—” He looks back to his brother, who is well and truly snoring now. “It won’t be pretty.”
Halting her footsteps, Grace cranes her neck to meet his eyes. The way they sparkle amid the room’s glowing light is fascinating; there are hints of tree sap and lush forest green. “Oh.”
Crew offers her a half smile, a simple, gentle tug of his mouth. “I won’t be a minute.” He nods toward the door again. “Make yourself at home.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t ask any questions, though there are about a hundred rolling around in her brain as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Why does he want her to stay? Is it so he can yell at her for lying?
Is he going to tell his mother? Does he think that because it was Waylon who they decided to mess with, she was part of this ridiculous stunt?
Each question is more dramatic and paranoid than the last, but she keeps them at bay and does what he says, leaving him with Cooper to venture down the hallway and into the living room.
Where his parents are connoisseurs of fine, chocolaty leather furniture, Crew has a taste for the softer, plusher variety.
A giant sectional—appropriately sized for him, she supposes—is the centerpiece of the room, upholstered in a light gray fabric that looks like it’d melt beneath your fingertips.
She’s seriously considering falling into it and letting herself drown in the cushions when something on the opposite wall catches her eye.
What she finds is so endearing, her heart squeezes in her chest. Polaroids, newspaper clippings, family photo shoots, all in different, eclectic frames, sitting alongside more masculine tchotchkes than the ones in the main house.
A faded autographed baseball protected by a glass cube, a boxing trophy, a large cigar box, and, though mildly disgusting and morbid, a taxidermy raccoon sitting in a canoe, holding a tiny paddle.
A muffled exchange sounds from down the hall, and Grace is emboldened to step closer, wanting to get a better look at the pictures.
Some people she recognizes, even at their varying ages—Clint Caldwell with brown hair instead of gray, standing at a beach with his arm around his elder son, who is already almost taller than he is.
Crew is all knobby knees and pointy elbows, and he’s squinting as he faces the camera, a hand at his brow to block out the beating sun.
Next to that photo is one of three sudsy children in a claw-foot bathtub.
On the far left, a girl—Caia, Grace presumes—who is grinning bright as she holds up two fingers behind her brother’s head.
It must be Cooper, because he’s the smallest of the three, and Crew is—even as a child—so distinct.
His freckles, his mop of jet-black hair, wet and plastered to his forehead.
That stern look, which has evolved over the years but not really, not at its core, conveying a sense of protectiveness and authority over his siblings.
He watches over them both from the far end of the tub like a tiny warden.
Grace smiles, noting his furrowed brow and pinched mouth.
He can’t be older than ten here, and already, he’s perfecting the signature scowl that will follow him into adulthood.
A framed, faded newspaper article is the next one down. It’s a story covering the opening of Halcyon Ranch back in 1918, and there’s a picture—faded almost beyond recognition—of an older couple, hand in hand under the original stone gate entrance.
Next to that, a nearly monochromatic photograph, curved at the edges like it’s been held one too many times.
A vast expanse of sand as the backdrop, and two uniformed soldiers front and center.
Crew stands with his arm around the other man’s neck, smirking.
It takes a moment, but Grace eventually recognizes the other man in the photograph.
Knows him by the pearly white teeth, that movie star grin.
Easton. The naked, horse-riding cologne model.
An insistent bump against her shin interrupts her snooping, and she looks down to find Boone staring up at her expectantly.
Grace smiles, crouching down to pet him.
Uncharacteristically open to belly rubs for a heeler, he flops down onto his back to give her full access.
She’s scratching his fur, chuckling at the way his tongue has started to hang out of his mouth, when a gravelly voice cuts through the quiet living room. “Hey.”
Grace starts, swiveling her head around to find Crew standing at the mouth of the hallway, watching her curiously.
“Hey,” she says, slightly breathy from the surprise. She stands hastily, leaving a bereft Boone still on his back with his paws in the air. Grace looks toward the direction from which Crew came. “Cooper all tucked in?”
Crew smirks, nodding as he enters the room fully and leans onto one of the couch’s arms. “He’ll be hurting tomorrow in more ways than one,” he confirms with a little shake of his head. “But he’s fine. Mouthy as ever.”
Grace smiles, then walks over to the opposite side of the couch and sits down in a gingerly manner, hovering right at the edge.
It’s such a nice couch, and it’s fabric, not leather, and the grime on her jeans—it could track or stain.
Crew, amused by her stiffness, tilts his head slightly.
“You can actually sit, you know,” he says softly.
She lets herself sink down a half inch. “I know,” she replies quickly, though she is still not quite comfortably seated.
He continues to watch her, eyebrows flickering upward, that frequent ghost of a smile returning to his mouth. Like a passing ship in the night, she never gets a good enough look at it. It’s always gone too soon, replaced with only a shadow of what it once was. “Grace.”
Grace decides to cut his urging off at the pass by asking, “Is that Easton?” She points at the photo in question.
“Were you two in the army together?” The words tumble out with no regard for how prying they are, and it’s profoundly disappointing to watch Crew’s smile fade in response. To be the reason it disappears.
His chin dips to his chest. With a tight nod, he says, “Yeah. We grew up together, too.”
At the admission, Grace clears her throat. She’s slightly stunned by this, by the peek into the lore of Halcyon. “The guys were looking at a centerfold of him earlier tonight. Apparently he’s a cologne model now.”
A little huff escapes Crew’s nose. “I heard.”