Chapter 7
Callie
I wake up to the sound of Dad slamming cabinets in the kitchen, which is never a good sign. When Hank Thompson starts his day by attacking the breakfast dishes, someone’s about to get a lecture.
That someone is probably me since lecturing Rita has never led to anything constructive.
I pad downstairs in my pajamas and bare feet, hoping maybe he’s just in a bad mood about work or the weather or the fact that our coffee maker is on the verge of crapping out. The kitchen smells like burnt toast and Dad’s shitty mood, which doesn’t bode well for my morning.
He’s standing at the kitchen table with a yellowed newspaper clipping spread out.
The headline reads “Local Woman Hospitalized After Church Potluck Food Poisoning” and it’s dated July 15, 1998.
He’s also got what appears to be a hand-drawn map of our property, complete with arrows and annotations in red ink.
“Morning, Dad,” I say carefully, heading for the coffee maker.
“Could you please take a seat, Callie?” he says without looking up from his evidence.
“I haven’t had coffee yet.”
“Please.”
The tone of his voice tells me he’s really got something on his mind. So, I sit, watching him arrange his papers.
Dad picks up the newspaper clipping and waves it at me like it’s the Constitution. “Do you know what this is?”
“A twenty-seven-year-old newspaper article about food poisoning?”
“This is proof,” he says, his voice rising with each word, “that the McCoys have been trying to destroy out family for decades.”
“Dad, the mayo went bad. It happens. Especially in July.”
“The mayo went bad because someone,” he stabs the paper with his finger, “left it out of the cooler for six hours during the hottest day of the summer.”
“Accidents happen.”
“This was no accident. This was sabotage.” He pulls out another piece of paper, this one covered in his cramped handwriting. “I’ve documented seventeen separate incidents over the past thirty years where the McCoys have tried to undermine us.”
I lean forward to read his list. “Dad, half of these are about cattle getting loose. Cows wander. It’s what they do.”
“Not into perfectly maintained fencing they don’t.”
“Our fencing isn’t perfectly maintained. Remember when Rita headbutted three posts loose last month?”
“That’s different.”
“How is that different?”
“Because Rita is an animal, not a conspiracy.”
I rub my temples, a headache circling, threatening to land. “Can we not do this before I’ve had caffeine? My thinking doesn’t function properly without it, and I have a feeling this conversation requires all my available brain cells.”
“We’re doing this now because Mrs. Delaney saw you on McCoy property two nights ago.”
My stomach drops, and I barely stifle an oh shit. “What?” I ask, my voice squeaking.
“She was driving home from her sister’s house and saw you sneaking around their ranch. With a goat.” He pulls out yet another piece of paper—a hand-drawn timeline with my activities marked in red.
Right. Rita’s great escape. Of course someone saw me. This is Cedar Ridge, where privacy goes to die and gossip spreads faster than wildfire.
“Rita got loose,” I say, which is technically true. “I had to go get her.”
“From their property?”
“That’s where she went. You know how she gets when she’s determined to go somewhere. What was I supposed to do? Give up and let her become one of them?” I chuckle at my humor attempt.
Dad does not.
“And you thought the best solution was to trespass instead of calling them to handle it?”
“It was late, Dad. I wasn’t going to wake up the McCoy family because my goat is naughty and has boundary issues.”
“So instead, you decided to have boundary issues yourself.”
“Dad, I don’t know what you expected me to do. I went and got Rita. They’d do the same if one of their animals wandered onto our property. It’s that simple.”
“Is it?” Dad leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “Because Mrs. Delaney said you were there for over an hour. She timed it, Callie. She sat in her car and timed it.”
Of course she did, the weirdo. Mrs. Delaney probably has a stopwatch app on her phone specifically for timing suspicious activities.
“Mrs. Delaney needs to mind her own business and get a damn life.”
“Mrs. Delaney is looking out for this family’s reputation.”
“Mrs. Delaney is a gossip with too much time on her hands and an unhealthy interest in other people’s lives. It’s sad when you think about it. I mean, what kind of strange person sits in her car to spy on other people? That’s messed up, Dad, and now she has you all worked up.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Dad waves the newspaper clipping again. “You were on McCoy land, late at night, for over an hour. What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t take an hour.”
“It does when you’re chasing a goat who thinks property lines are suggestions and fences are merely decorative.”
“Callie Marie Thompson, don’t lie.”
The use of my full name means Dad’s going hardcore. I take a deep breath and try to think of a way to explain this that won’t result in him having a stroke or blowing a gasket.
“Fine. Rita got loose and went to their ranch. When I went to get her, she was dirty from rolling in their water trough. So I hosed her off before bringing her home.”
“You used their hose?”
“Yes.”
“Without permission?”
“It was an emergency.”
“It was trespassing!”
“It was being a responsible pet owner!”
“It was being a Thompson who forgot her place!”
The words hit me like a slap. I stare at Dad, feeling something cold settle in my chest.
“My place?” I repeat quietly.
“Your place is here, with your family, away from people who would use you to get back at us.”
“Nobody’s using me for anything.”
“Aren’t they? You think it’s a coincidence that after thirty years of no contact, the McCoy boys are suddenly being friendly to you?”
“Maybe they’re just decent human beings.”
“They’re McCoys. There’s a difference.”
I stand up, shaking with anger. “You know what, Dad? I’m tired of this. I’m tired of living my life around a thirty-year-old grudge over spoiled potato salad.”
“It’s not about potato salad!”
“Then what is it about? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re more committed to hating them than you are to moving on with your life.”
“It’s about family loyalty. It’s about remembering who we are and where we come from.”
“It’s about being stuck in the past.”
Dad’s face goes from red to purple. “What would your mother think about you cavorting with McCoys?”
The mention of Mom hits me like a punch to the gut, but I don’t let it show. Mom died when I was sixteen, and I still miss her every single day. She was the voice of reason in this house, the one who could calm Dad down when his temper got the better of him.
“You know what Mom would think?” I say, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “She’d think you’re being ridiculous. She’d tell you that holding grudges is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
“Your mother understood family honor.”
“My mother understood forgiveness. She understood that life’s too short to waste on senseless feuds over stupid mistakes.”
“Those weren’t mistakes—”
“Yes, they were!” I slam my hand on the table, making the newspaper clipping jump. “The chili ribbon was a judging error. The potato salad was spoiled mayo. The loose cattle were accidents. These are normal things that happen to normal people, Dad, not some grand conspiracy.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand that you’d rather be angry than happy. I understand that you’d rather fight than forgive. And I understand that Mom would be disappointed in both of us right now for even having this conversation.”
Dad’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Your mother would understand that I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what? From people who fixed our fence for free? From people who’ve been nothing but nice to me?”
“From people who will break your heart to get back at me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know McCoys. They’re charming when they want something, and ruthless when they get it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Callie. Your mother’s death taught you that.”
Before I can respond to that emotional grenade, Rita decides to make her entrance.
She bursts through the back door, which I forgot to close, and leaps onto the kitchen table.
“Rita, no!” I lunge for her, but it’s too late.
She lands squarely in the middle of the table, sending the newspaper clipping flying and knocking over my orange juice glass. The juice spreads across the table in a sticky orange river, soaking through the ancient evidence of McCoy treachery.
“My proof!” Dad shouts, trying to save the newspaper clipping.
“Rita, get down!” I grab for her collar, but she’s having too much fun. She kicks the salt and pepper shakers onto the floor, where they shatter with a crash that sounds like a small explosion.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Dad yells over the chaos. “No control! No discipline! No respect!”
“She’s a goat, not a marine!”
Rita bleats triumphantly and jumps down from the table, but she’s not done yet. She grabs Dad’s property map in her teeth and starts shaking it like a dog with a chew toy.
“Not the map!” Dad dives for the paper, but Rita’s faster. She bolts for the door with her prize, leaving a trail of orange juice hoof prints across the kitchen floor.
“Rita!” I chase after her, but she’s already outside, prancing around the yard with Dad’s carefully annotated map swinging from her mouth like a victory flag.
By the time I catch her and wrestle the map away, it’s torn into pieces and covered in goat slobber.
I walk back into the kitchen to find Dad standing in the wreckage, his hands on his hips and his face that alarming shade of purple. Again.
“I’ll clean this up,” I say quietly, holding out the pieces of his map.