9. Flint
Flint
“This is your big plan?” Kane demands, surveying the lumber and the rough sketch I made. I bought the build plans, but I’ve already modified them. A few marks of my pencil, and I think it’ll turn out even better than the author’s original finished draft.
“Pretty cool, huh?” I walk around the workshop. It’s one of many on the grounds, and Bronco leaves them open for us to do whatever we want inside of them. This project is going to be an around-the-clock one if I hope to finish it in time. Ridge has already said he’ll help too.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You volunteered, so you’re the asshole. Don’t help if you don’t want to,” I argue. He said he wanted to help, but he’s been busting my balls ever since I told him the plan.
“Those boys aren’t just a fucking accessory she comes with like a purse or coat.”
“No shit,” I mutter. I was excited when he agreed to help. Kane doesn’t do things for anybody, and he’s a grumpy bastard who keeps mainly to himself.
“They’re real people,” Kane says, taking two steps toward me. The fury on his face makes me think he’s about to throw a punch.
I brace myself, not even sure why he’s about to fight me.
Before I moved into my cabin, I stayed in the barracks.
We weren’t the closest, but I liked Kane.
He’s a straight shooter who always tells it like it is.
Don’t know why he’d be so protective over kids he’s never even met.
As soon as I think the thought, everything clicks into place. “This about those scars on your back?”
“You know what? You’re not worth it. Have fun with your stupid project.”
He stomps toward the door, and I’m not sure what the right thing is to say.
For all my life, there’s one truth I’ve known and carried with me.
I’ve known every moment of every day that I was loved.
That’s a powerful thing to carry, but I’m realizing the opposite message might be ten times more powerful. “I’m not going to hurt them.”
He pauses.
“I’ll love them and protect them. I’ll take care of them.”
“They’ll hate you some day for some random kid reason that makes no sense to you but perfect sense to them.”
“I can deal with that.”
He turns. “And the first time one of them mouths off at you, are you going to put your fist in their stomach?”
I swear under my breath. “You didn’t deserve that bullshit. No kid does.”
“Yeah, well, it happens. It happens every day, and no one steps in to stop it.”
“What was his name?”
“Does it matter?”
“Want to make sure I kick the right ass.”
That gets an almost smile from him. “To be a kid is to be at your most powerless, your most vulnerable. A lot of fucked up people in the world think that makes it okay to hurt them.”
I hadn’t thought about it like that, how vulnerable you are when you’re small and defenseless.
I never had to think about that stuff because I had a dad who was willing to lay down his life for his family without a second thought.
“Those people who hurt kids, people like your stepdad, they deserve to be put down.”
He jerks his head toward the lumber pile. “So, are we building shit or not?”
I pull my truck to a stop in Ronnie's driveway. She's been working at the ranch for the past week, but I haven't been to see her. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It took every ounce of my restraint to walk past the little barn that houses her office day after day. But I can’t scare her off before I get her into my place.
As it is, I've spent the past week preparing my cabin for her, the boys, and her grandmother.
I did all sorts of things I'd never considered before, like putting kid shampoo bottles in the bathroom, the kind with bright colors and promises of no tears on the label. Then there were the toothpaste tubes with characters on them. Even got some sheets with dinosaurs.
The truth is, I don't know much about Ronnie's kids, but I know she's a good mom. One day, I hope to be lucky enough to have a kid with her. Just the thought of Ronnie's belly swelling with my kid fills me with excitement.
I was an only child, and I always wanted to have siblings. Maybe this is my chance to build a big, beautiful family with Ronnie, her boys, and her grandmother.
When I park in her driveway, she pulls open the front door. She comes to greet me, looking a little pale but beautiful as always. There are bags under her eyes like she hasn't been sleeping well.
“Are you sure about this?” She asks, eyeing my trailer.
I pat the side of it. “Yeah, it can hold two or three houses’ worth of stuff. Your little bungalow here won’t be a problem at all, even if you have it filled to the brim on the inside.”
“Cheaper than hiring a moving company,” a silver-haired woman says. She's got a twinkle in her eye when she looks at me, almost like she knows a secret.
I tip my hat to her. “I herd cattle during the week and boxes on the weekends. Happy to help, ma’am.”
She holds out a hand with fingers gnarled from arthritis. “You must be Flint. I’m Alice.”
I take her hand very gently, feeling a strange rush of protectiveness. There’s something about the way she’s looking at me that tells me she’s spent years protecting Ronnie. I plan to prove I’m worthy of that task so she can rest easy now. “You tell me what you want moved, and I’ll get it done.”
She turns to her granddaughter. “He might do.”
Ronnie gestures me to follow her inside the living room.
The first thing I note are the three buckets in various spots, each collecting water from a dripping ceiling.
Some of the carpet is cut up, exposing concrete that has sidewalk chalk drawings of superheroes on it.
What carpet still remains is worn and frayed.
The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling, but the place smells like a candle factory. More than that, it’s clean and boxes are packed neatly into piles and carefully labeled. The pride Ronnie takes in her home is evident in every square inch of this place.
Seeing this, it makes me all the happier to be moving her into my cabin. There, she won’t worry about a leaking roof or whatever happened to make her remove carpet. She won’t have to fret over peeling wallpaper or put up with an aging refrigerator that’s humming louder than my old truck.
She pads into the kitchen and takes a sip of her ginger ale. Loud thumping sounds come from upstairs. “No running in the house!”
Her command has no effect at all as two small blonde boys race down a carpeted set of stairs, pushing each other the entire time. “Is he here? Can we talk to him?”
I glance at Ronnie but one look at her face tells me she’s enraptured with these two.
It makes sense. A woman who’s making a grocery shopping list with dinosaur nuggets on it during her own birthday weekend spends most of her time focused on her kids.
“Slow down. He’s right here. Boys, this is Mr. Greene.
Flint, this is Branson and Brock. They’re my twins. ”
“Whoa, he’s tall!”
“Can I touch your hat?”
“Can you say howdy?”
“How many horses do you have?”
I chuckle and squat, surprised by their enthusiasm. I don’t remember being their age, but obviously, everything is exciting when you’re five. “You can call me Flint.”
“Can we sleep in the barn?”
“Is your dad tall like you?”
They look like little copies of each other. Like their mom loved the first one so much, she immediately made one more just like him. I guess that’s the fun part of being twins.
Another tiny sip of ginger ale. Damn, she’s looking queasy. “Flint is here to help move. You can ask him questions later.”
“Are you strong? How many boxes can you move? I can move three!” One of them proclaims proudly.
“That’s because those are mom’s boxes. I can move the heavy ones,” the other insists.
“Well, that’s good. I’m going to need some strong men to help me.” I lean close and stage whisper, “I was a little worried about all these boxes by myself. Do you think we can be a team today?”
I spend the next two hours, moving furniture and directing the boys on where to put various boxes.
I make sure to heap on the praise, watching their little chests puff out with pride whenever I do.
Fuck, is this what my dad felt like watching me follow him around?
Because there’s a warm glow in my heart that wasn’t there before today.
Alice spends the entire time telling me exactly how to arrange the truck. She doesn’t ask for my ideas or input. Nope, it’s clear this eighty-year-old woman knows far better than me, and I don’t argue with her.
Every time she wants me to rearrange, I just duck my head, keep my mouth shut, and do it. It’s not just Ronnie’s heart I want. I want all of them.
I catch Alice’s small smile after a particularly difficult time of re-arranging. Sweat is pouring off my back, and I’m damn exhausted. But that little smile lets me know I passed the test, even if I pretend I didn’t see it.
“You stop that right now, young lady!” Alice screeches at one point when I’m in the truck with the boys.
“Uh-oh,” one of them says. I think he’s Branson. There’s no way to tell them apart physically, but I’m learning that Branson is a little bit louder than Brock.
“Let’s go see what’s happening. You two come with me,” I say and reach for them, helping them down from the trailer one at a time. If there’s one thing I’m already catching, it’s that the world is a pretty dangerous place for a curious five-year-old boy who wants to climb on everything.
The boys follow me to the sound of voices. Alice is in her bedroom, scowling at Ronnie.
Her ponytail is messy, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?” I ask quietly, eyeing the armoire she’s standing by. It’s made of walnut and takes up half the wall. It’s not some cheap furniture that came in a flat box. No, this is the real deal, the type of piece that’s passed through generations.
Alice glares at her. “You shouldn’t be moving things in your condition.”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “I barely gave it a tug, and I’m sorry. I won’t do it. I just didn’t think.”
“Your condition?” I glance at Ronnie, my stomach tightening. She made me and the boys cheese sandwiches with tomato for lunch and she didn’t eat one. Other than the little bit of ginger ale she’s been sipping today, she hasn’t had much.
Alice sniffs indignantly. “I meant as a woman.” She glares at me. “In my generation, men were men, and they'd never let a woman work as hard as she works.”
“Grandma!” She calls sharply.
I get the distinct idea that I'm missing something between the two of them, but I just duck my head and quietly say, “Yes, ma'am.”
I move the armoire by myself. It’s not heavy, just bulky. The kids keep trying to get under foot, and I’m scared as hell I’m going to hurt one of them with it. Finally, I send Brock to hold open the front door and Branson to “guide” me into the truck.
Another hour passes before I close up the trailer.
“Can I go with Flint?” Branson asks.
Brock nods eagerly. “Me too.”
I open my mouth to tell them that they're welcome to ride with me, but Ronnie shakes her head. “You boys are with me right now. Flint will meet us over there.”
Branson opens his mouth, and I suspect he’s about to argue.
“Best listen to your mom, boys. The sooner we get over there, the sooner you get to see the farm.”
Ronnie looks exhausted when we arrive at my cabin. She’s out of her car fast and fighting a yawn. “If we can get the beds unloaded tonight, then tomorrow, I’ll finish unloading the trailer if that’s good with you.”
“Actually, there’s something I want to show you and the boys,” I say suddenly nervous that maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake.