Chapter 2
BOULDER
Songbird’s got a plate in front of her before I finish crossing the floor.
Toast, eggs, the good bacon Junie sends over on Fridays.
Sable stares at it like she’s forgotten what a fork is for, then picks one up because Songbird’s still standing there, arms crossed, waiting for her to eat.
Smart woman. I make a note to thank her later and a second note, sharper, that I don’t examine: Sable’s hands wrapped around that fork are nicked across the knuckles, an old burn scar along one thumb, grease worked so deep into the seams it’ll never fully wash. Like Wade’s hands.
I keep moving.
“Cross.” He doesn’t need the long version, so he doesn’t get it. “My brother is dead. That’s his stepdaughter, and she’s mine to handle.”
He doesn’t ask why I never mentioned my brother before. He looks past me at her once and nods, like that’s the whole conversation he needs.
“Whiskey. Get her truck escorted up to the compound after she eats. You ride with her.” Whiskey’s already got his keys off the hook, no joke in him for once, which tells me my voice came out wrong side of steady.
Somebody’s on the phone with Junie before I say her name out loud. Good. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Prez and I built this place to run without us standing over every piece of it, and tonight I need that more than I’ve needed it in years.
I go out front for air.
Wade’s truck sits nose-out under the sodium light, and it takes everything I’ve got not to walk straight to it like there’s an answer inside.
Through the glass, I see his jacket’s folded over the seatback, cuffs turned in, still fixing to be worn later. There’s a paper pinned under the wiper. I pull it free and read it standing there in the buzzing orange light.
Typed. A phone number. Rental agreement, barn access, favorable terms if resolved promptly. Somebody’s lawyer wrote that, or somebody who wanted it to look that way. Not a drunk with a crowbar. A patient man who thinks he’s got all the time in the world.
He doesn’t.
I fold it into my cut, the same pocket that holds my phone with a number I never called.
Our previous prospect, Lonnie, is sitting on his crate by the door, where he sits most nights now, not inside, not gone either. Not sure if that’s hell or purgatory.
I pull my phone out in the lot with the noise of the bar at my back and find the number I saved three weeks ago. Voicemail picks up after hours and I leave a message.
“This is Cole Briggs. Returning your message about my brother.” My own voice sounds weird. “I got it. Sorry it took this long.” I hang up before whatever’s climbing my throat can get any further than that.
Three weeks. The farm. The house. Wade’s dead. I found out from a stranger’s voicemail and let it sit unanswered like it was an inconvenient bill.
The compound gate swings and the prospect on watch straightens up fast when he clocks the second set of headlights that he didn’t expect. I wave him down before he can make a thing of it.
Junie’s already on the kitchen steps when the trucks roll in, porch light on, robe over her nightgown, gray braid loose for once instead of pinned.
She doesn’t ask a single question, just takes one look at Sable climbing down out of the cab, stiff and careful like her body’s not sure it’s allowed to stop moving yet, and puts an arm out toward the door.
“Bed’s made. There’s soup on if you want it but I’m sure Songbird fed you. Nobody’s going to talk your ear off tonight unless you want them to,” Junie says, keeping it light.
Sable looks back at me once before she goes in.
Not for permission. Just checking I’m still there.
I give her the only thing I’ve got easy to give right now, a short nod.
That’s when it happens, one bad second in the porch light where I see her plain.
Worn flannel, braid coming loose from the drive, and underneath the grief a face that would stop traffic in a bigger town than this one, the kind of pretty nobody’s ever told her about, which somehow makes it worse.
Looking at her makes me forget the porch step is right there.
I put it away fast. Wade raised her. She’s twenty years old and three weeks a mourner.
She’s standing in my yard because her only family told her to.
One bad second in the porch light doesn’t get another one.
I owe my brother a debt I can’t ever square.
Wanting his girl isn’t a payment. It’s theft on top of what I already owe him.
“Nobody wakes her. Nobody questions her before she’s ready,” I say, to nobody and everybody.
Whiskey nods and settles onto the porch rail across from her window like he’s got nowhere else to be.
I stand alone in the yard a while after the last light inside goes out, cold coming up through my boots, the windshield paper a hard fold against my ribs through the cut. Wade never once tried to collect while he was breathing. He waited for the last second and sent her instead.
Fine. I’ll pay.
Not with an apology, not with soft words. I’ve never known how to say things right. With the only thing I’ve ever been good for. I’ll make sure she gets our farm without having to ask.
Starting tomorrow. Starting with the house I swore I would never set foot in again.