Chapter Three Savannah
Chapter Three
Savannah
The heat of Blaze’s gaze still burns through me like I’m that naive girl again and stupid enough to believe in forever with a man who doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.
“Hate’s safer than love.”
That fucking asshole. How dare he think he can speak to me after everything he did . . . and didn’t do?
I wander around the house the day after the funeral, my mind still spinning from my run-in with Blaze.
It just feels wrong without Aunt Marg. Too still. Too quiet.
Aunt Marg always had a television on as background noise when she baked. She hummed and talked to herself too. It always made me chuckle when I’d catch her having full-blown conversations with herself.
Now there’s just silence.
I move between rooms until I end up in her bedroom.
The eyelet-lace coverlet is perfectly folded and wrinkle free.
Throw pillows are perfectly centered on the bed.
I walk over to her closet and pull open the door.
My eyes fall on the faded blue-denim jacket with embroidered wildflowers on the back.
It was her favorite. She made that jacket herself back when she first came to Wyoming.
Young and heartbroken and determined to reinvent herself.
“I was running,” she’d told me when I asked her about why she’d come to Wyoming.
“From Nashville, from a man who didn’t deserve me, from dreams I realized were never going to come true.
I figured I’d take a break, stay here for maybe a year or two since your mom and dad were here.
Then I met your uncle, and the rest was history. ”
I remember her putting a hand on my shoulder, the intent look on her face when she said, “I came here looking for a break from life. Instead, I found my home and my future. I just needed to stop running, Savvie.”
She built this.
And I left it all behind.
But she never pushed me to come back. Never guilt-tripped me. She respected my decision and made sure I knew I always had a home here.
I’m sure it hurt her every time I told her I couldn’t come home. And it kills me that I never got a chance to tell her the truth about why.
A shuddering sigh quakes my chest.
I open her dresser drawers, then the nightstand drawer, where I find a photo album.
It’s one of those old-school books, with sticky pages and plastic covers.
I open it carefully and flip through the pages.
A smile tugs at my lips as I watch the progression of her life between the pages.
There are pictures of her and Mom through the years, photos of Red Rock when she moved in and then over time as she and my uncle restored it.
I giggle at the pictures of me and Nash when we were young and doing chores on the ranch. There are pictures of Aunt Marg teaching me to milk Miss Bea and Ginger, and me and Nash canning beets, our hands stained a reddish purple.
My throat tightens at the last picture of me in the album.
It’s right after my high school graduation.
There are suitcases packed up next to my car.
It should have been a happy time. But Mom and Dad were gone, and Nash and I were broken.
Aunt Marg hugs me tight, and while I’m smiling for the photo, I remember crying on the inside.
I peer at the image, at Aunt Marg’s eyes. Something sad stirs in the depths.
Maybe she knew I wasn’t just leaving for school.
Maybe she knew I was leaving forever.
I rest the album on my lap, my head tilted up toward the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I know she never held it against me. She only wanted me to be happy.
And that makes this hurt even more.
Later, I fall asleep on her bed with the television on. Aunt Marg couldn’t fall asleep without it. Always needed the background noise, day and night. I wrap the coverlet around me, the faint scent of lavender lulling me to sleep.
Thin beams of light stream in through the billowy curtains in the morning, and for a second I forget. I forget she’s gone. I forget I’m all alone here.
Then I remember. Everything. And all the regrets I buried in their very shallow graves have resurrected to torment me yet again.
I clutch the strap of my handbag as I walk down the street toward Kent Atwood’s office.
Our town lawyer scheduled the will reading for two days after the funeral because of “pressing timelines.” I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but with Blaze back in town, I have no intention of staying here a second longer than necessary to get things in order with Aunt Margaret’s estate.
Cold spreads through my chest when I see Nash’s pickup truck parked out front. We could have driven together, but then again, that would have required us to speak to each other, and he hasn’t uttered more than five words to me since he tore me down the day I showed up at Red Rock.
Squaring my shoulders, I walk up the stone path toward the front door like I’m about to attend another funeral.
The caustic words he spewed back at Red Rock still cut deep. He’s bitter and angry. I get it. I walked away and left him alone to pick up the pieces of his life. He lost our parents, then Blaze, then me. I’d feel hurt and abandoned too.
I just wish I had someone . . . anyone . . . on my side.
The curious eyes of Kent’s small staff narrow at me once I step into the main office. I rub the back of my neck, a shiver slipping down my spine under the weight of their stares as I walk toward the receptionist.
“Hello, Savannah,” the girl says with a forced smile. “Kent is in the conference room.” She reaches behind her and points at a closed door. “You can go on in.”
The scents of lemon oil and old books fill my lungs. They are scents I always found comforting as a kid when I’d come here with Dad. I’d walk around the law library while he met with Kent, running a finger over the leather-bound spines of legal books tucked neatly into their respective shelves.
I twist the handle on the door and push it open.
Kent stands up from his chair and walks over to me.
“Savannah,” he says, stretching out a hand to clasp mine in a firm handshake. He’s dressed in a gray suit, his silver hair neatly combed back. “It’s been too long. I wish we were seeing each other under better circumstances.”
I nod, shifting under Nash’s cold stare. “I was just thinking about the days I’d tag along with Dad and sit in your law library.”
Kent chuckles. “You pored over legal precedents for hours and hours, to the point where we were certain you were going to follow in my footsteps and become the next town lawyer. But I guess you were just meant for bigger things.”
Nash scoffs and mutters, “Bigger things, my ass.”
A sharp pang assaults my heart. Dad had always talked about me going to law school after college. He wanted me to handle all of the contracts and legal dealings for our ranch and used to brag to all of his friends about how lucky he was to have such a smart, business-minded daughter.
I bite down hard on my lower lip. He had such high hopes for the family’s future, and all of it went up in smoke. Literally.
And ironically, my stupid fairy-tale fantasies of the future were partly to blame.
I sink into a chair across from my brother. Nash stares at the table, eyes focused on the unopened envelope in front of him. Kent takes a seat opposite us after pulling a thick file from a nearby cabinet.
“I know this is a difficult time for you both, so I’ll try to make things as easy and straightforward as possible,” Kent says, putting a hand over the file folder. “Nash, you’ve been handling the operations there for the past couple of years, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Nash adjusts his hat.
“Why don’t you give me a rundown of what’s happening on the land? A current state of affairs.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and listen as he rattles off details for the lawyer that are so foreign to me, they may as well be in another language.
“The cattle operation runs about two hundred Angus-Hereford cross cattle grazing on three thousand acres,” he says. “The land is split between our own land and BLM leases . . .”
My eyes fly open wide at that. Uhhh . . . what the heck is BLM?
“And the water situation?” Kent asks.
Nash lets out a sigh, picks up his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and places the hat back on his head. “Not great. The spring in the north pasture is running at half capacity, and the well by the main barn needs a new pump. Ain’t gonna last much longer.”
Kent scribbles some notes on a yellow legal pad while I gape at my brother.
“What about the equipment?” Kent asks.
“We’re hanging on, but pretty soon we’re gonna need to replace equipment.” Nash’s jaw tightens, and he gives me a pointed look. “Some things just can’t be fixed.”
That hits me like a gut punch, exactly the way he wanted it to.
Kent takes some notes. “What about the cash situation?”
“Money is real tight,” Nash says. “Property taxes alone run about fifteen grand a year. We’ve got equipment loans, a mortgage on part of the property, and an open line of credit we use for vet bills and feed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. “I could have helped.”
“Didn’t seem like you were fixing to get involved with things back home when you had your shiny new life in the big city,” Nash says. “And anyway, it ain’t like you ever asked.”
Kent clears his throat. “I think it’s time to move on to the will.” He rifles through some papers and starts with the legal jargon that I’m convinced nobody besides lawyers even understands.
Then he looks up at Nash. “‘To my beloved nephew Nash Carlson, I leave my grandfather’s pocket watch, my father’s Winchester rifle, and fifteen thousand dollars from my life insurance policy.’”
Nash nods, but his shoulders are tight. Fifteen thousand won’t come close to solving the ranch’s problems, and he knows it.
Then Kent turns his attention to me. “To my beloved niece Savannah Carlson, I leave the remainder of my personal effects, my savings account in the amount of eight thousand dollars, and . . .”
Kent’s voice trails off, his lips tight for the long second he pauses.