24. Sutton
24
SUTTON
I can’t get the image of Laine out of my mind all morning. Her surprisingly pink lips, her untamed hair, the twin freckles that dot her shoulder. If we both didn’t have plans for the day, I would have wanted to stay at our dreamlike refuge at the lake, maybe over another night, or a week. I think I’d live and die there with Laine in my arms if she’d let me.
Ever since I first laid eyes on Laine the first day of class, I felt drawn to her. When we actually spoke, actually spent time together, that feeling only strengthened.
Laine is a person who smiles at anything and everything: a pigeon stealing a fry, old people playing chess at the park, blue skies, rain. And every time I’ve seen her smile, I’ve wished my love could be the reason for it.
Last night, finally, I got my wish.
I wasn’t her teacher’s assistant, her tutor, her best friend, her fake boyfriend. No. I was just Sutton.
And she was Laine.
And we were perfect .
“Something funny?” Wells asks, throwing a coiled rope at me.
I fix my face, hiding my sappy grin I’ve been wearing all day. Wells stares at me for a moment, his eyes darkening. Whatever camaraderie I felt building between us the past couple of days crumbles. The three other ranch hands in the barn stare for a moment before Wells’ glare has them back to their tasks. Still, they keep their ears tipped to us.
“What’s wrong with you?” I laugh through my words, still amped up on adrenaline from last night. “Did Cassidy finally come to her senses and call the wedding off?”
The barn, even the horses, goes completely still and quiet for five tense heartbeats.
I meant it as a joke, but Wells sends a dagger look my way. He opens his mouth to say something—something that probably includes a four-letter word or two—but he snaps it shut and busies himself with his horse’s saddle.
“Dad’s not feeling well today,” he grumbles, the conversation dying there.
Sluggish footsteps sound behind us. I turn to see Hank walking directly toward me, his weathered face looking wearier than usual. Just like when I was a kid, I straighten at the sight of him. Today, his steps are slower than usual, and only a few feet from me, he stumbles, seemingly over nothing.
All at once, I hear the cowboys behind me suck sharp inhales, and Wells rushes to our dad’s side, both of them letting out a curse. He catches Hank just inches before his torso would have slammed into the ground. Our father leans against Wells, straightening. The dirty look he gives Wells could wilt a wildflower.
“I don’t need your help,” he mutters, nudging Wells’ chest away before looking back at me, his expression soured. “You’re coming with me and Wells. Saddle up. ”
“How long will we be?” I say it without thinking. Or, I say it while only thinking of one thing—Laine. She should be back from her interview any minute, and I was already planning on how I could steal her away from helping Mom and Frankie with wedding prep.
My father’s jaw twitches. “It will take…as long as it takes.” His words are slow, almost slurred.
Something about his voice carves at my stomach.
“I want to let Laine know when she can expect me back,” I explain, trying to decipher why my father speaks as if he’s in slow motion. Unsettlement churns in me.
Wells whispers under his breath, “For the love…”
“You’ll be back tonight.”
I clench my jaw, on the defense from Wells’ and Hank’s unexplained bristly attitudes. When I lug a saddle over to Darla, the gentle mare, Hank clicks his tongue. “Duke’s horse,” he instructs.
I follow behind Hank’s horse. Wells follows behind mine. And because it’s just the three of us, it’s a silent ride aside from the nearby stream rushing over smoothed rocks and the sound of hooves digging into the steep path under us. Beneath me, my older brother’s horse seems restless, whipping his head around every few minutes, as if trying to shake his bridle off.
Three hours into the ride, the sky shadows with dark, rolling clouds. The wind, usually calm in our little valley, picks up enough that I have to push my hat down farther on my head so it won’t go flying off.
After a particularly rocky patch of trail, Wells’ voice pierces through the wind, unsteady. “How are you feeling up there, Dad? ”
Hank says nothing.
“What exactly are we doing today?” I ask finally. I hadn’t bothered to inquire before we left, my mind already at full capacity, thinking about one thing and one thing only. By the time I wondered what the three of us could be doing without the other cowboys, the tense silence had already settled. I didn’t dare break it.
I look back at Wells, but all he offers is an icy stare.
The higher our horses climb, the rougher the trail gets. Along the way, I study the rocks along our path, keeping an eye out for rattlers or uneven rock. Above us, rain patters, striking the pines’ branches overhead and flicking the brim of my hat. I shift in my saddle, repositioning my denim jacket. The forecast didn’t call for rain.
Hank stops his horse at the crest of the mountain. Beyond us, the range continues into sharp peaks, their tips hidden by storm clouds. I pull up alongside him.
Wells does the same on Hank’s other side, again asking him how he’s feeling. Hank, again, ignores the question, keeping his eyes trained on the land below us—Silver Ridge’s green valley, dotted by barns and our family home. It all looks so small from way up here through the misty showers.
The muscles in Hank’s face twitch.
Wells doesn’t look at the ranch. Instead, he looks down at his hands, bowing his head as if in prayer. I can barely see his low-set brows from under the brim of his hat.
A roll of thunder echoes to us, and Duke’s horse steps in place quickly, again rearing his head back, those black, glossy eyes wide. He knows a storm is coming.