Chapter Ten
Marigold
T he sun warmed my shoulders as I inspected the back of Donner’s Dodge. The stubborn gate refused to fold down. With a determined push, I pressed my weight into it and heard a crack before it dropped further than expected, startling me.
Great. A broken part.
I could feel my neck gradually tanning under the relentless afternoon sun as I tried to jerry-rig the misaligned parts into position. Nothing worked.
The sudden sound of tires popping on gravel drew my attention to the driveway. Levi wasn’t due home from work for several more hours.
A silver Ford Bronco parked behind Donner’s truck. Ezra King stepped out.
Yesterday, Levi and I visited the quaint Catholic church with its towering steeple and enchanting stained-glass windows. Ezra had also been present.
He lied to me that night of the football game. Betrayal and acceptance warred within me as I tried to reconcile the lie with the kind man I’d spoken to for hours.
The sunlight reflected in his sunglasses as he meandered to where I sat in the bed of Donner’s truck.
“Hello,” he said, removing his sunglasses and hooking them to the collar of his shirt.
“What are you doing here?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wished to speak to you.”
Wished to speak to me? Who talked like that? Placing my foot on the rear of the Dodge, I vaulted over the gate of the truck and sat on the rail with my feet in the bed. “You could have spoken to me at church yesterday.”
“True, but Levi was there, and I didn’t want to cause a scene.”
I recalled the purplish bruises on Levi’s face, though they had now softened into faint shadows tracing his cheekbone. The man in front of me was responsible for those marks.
I couldn’t reconcile the murderous man Levi spoke of with the congenial companion I’d conversed with at the football game. Should I be afraid of Ezra or accept him as a friend?
“Why do you hate Levi?” Neither man seemed to be the type to throw punches at a wedding, yet they both had.
“Do you mind if I sit?” he withdrew his hands from his pockets and gestured toward the opposite side of the truck from where I sat.
I pointed to the rail across from me, unwilling to forgive his betrayal so easily.
He launched over the broken tailgate and faced me. “It’s cooler up here than in the valley.”
Still irked that he’d omitted his identity, I snapped. “Are you here to talk about the weather?”
A slow, sad smile played on his lips. “No. I came to apologize. I realized who you were shortly after we met. I didn’t want you to think ill of me, so I omitted my name.”
“And now you feel guilty?”
“Not really, no. I’m glad we had the opportunity to get to know one another. I came here because . . . ” He paused, bracing himself against the rail. “I care about what you think of me, and I worry that you’ve only heard dreadful things from Levi.”
Interesting. Levi believed Ezra had murdered his father—but the mysterious man I met at the football game, and the man who sat before me now, did not exude any hint of malevolence.
Killers didn’t apologize. Or so I suspected.
If he wasn’t a murderer, he still raised suspicion. “I can’t trust you.”
“Because of what Levi told you?”
“No. Because you lied.”
“Which is why I am here asking for forgiveness.”
Huffing, I spun my legs over the side of the truck and then hopped, landing in the dirt.
“What were you doing when I parked?” he asked.
“Trying to fix this,” I said, slapping the metal. “But I need a new part.”
“How about a used yet intact part?”
“You have a spare part for a 1996 Dodge Ram sitting in your shed?”
Rocks crunched beneath his weight as he spun off the truck bed onto the driveway. “No, but the farm has a truck graveyard. I’m not promising you’ll be able to find what you seek, but it’s a free place to start.”
Still reluctant to continue our conversation about forgiveness, I asked, “You busy right now?”
He grinned. “Follow me.”
Ezra
The rusted old truck trailed behind my Bronco as we descended the mountain. Considering it was a manual transmission, Marigold did an excellent job easing around the steep twists and turns.
She parked in the lot outside the last farmhouse—my house—and stepped out. Her wavy red hair dropped halfway down her back as she shoved her keys into her back pocket.
“Where is this truck graveyard?” she asked, a smudge of grease marring her jaw.
“Near one of the back pastures. C’mon. We’ll take a golf cart.”
“You have a golf cart?”
“This farm is over three hundred acres. Or we could take my truck if you’d prefer.”
She shook her head. “The golf cart sounds like fun.”
“Have you been to the farm before?”
“Yes, twice. The day after I . . . met Levi. And then yesterday, after church.”
I wanted to press for more details, curious to know what she was leaving out of her story. But I decided against it. For now, at least. “Have you had a tour?”
“Not yet.”
Taking a chance, I extended my arm toward her. “Will you allow me to be your guide?”
She hesitated, then intertwined her arm with mine. “As long as we end up at the truck graveyard.”
“Of course, Milady.”I gestured toward the farmhouse before us. “As you can see, this is my house. You’ve been to Beth’s. Next up is my mother’s. Then the farm store.”
She plucked flowers from the community co-op garden, caressed ripe peaches in the orchard, giggled at the cows grazing in the pastures, and marveled at the furrowed rows of soybean, hay, and corn fields.
To my astonishment, Marigold had a way of dispelling all of my worries. As we strolled and talked, her arm lightly brushing against mine, a sense of contentment washed over me. It was almost . . . joyful.
“Is the golf cart in there?” she asked, pointing toward the old barn.
My worries swept over me once more. Inside were four grow tents concealing marijuana plants flourishing under artificial light. Only Jake and I were privy to this secret operation hidden behind the padlocked doors.
What would she think if she found out?
I came to the cabin this morning to ask for forgiveness, but I also intended to inquire about her thoughts of me. After I rushed away at the football game, and then as I watched her in church yesterday, I realized how much her perception mattered to me.
Had Levi painted me as a monster?
Why did I care?
I wasn’t sure. But I did know that I enjoyed her company, and I didn’t want her to view me as a criminal—even if I was one.
“No, the golf cart is this way.” I steered her toward a newer metal barn located a quarter mile away, housing an array of farm equipment.
Entering through a side door of the monstrous metal structure, we were greeted by dim lights casting shadows on tractors, combine harvesters, and broken irrigation pipes. The faint aroma of cow manure and hay mingled in the air, yet Marigold didn’t flinch at the smell the way most girls would.
“Over here,” I said, gesturing toward the little green golf cart positioned to the right of a wide barn door. With a push and a metallic creak, I widened the door enough for the cart to pass through smoothly.
Marigold slid into the passenger seat beside me. I cranked the key in the ignition, and we swerved out the door.
“This is a unique farm,” I noted as we drove. “Because of its size and the diversity of dairy cows and harvesting crops, it’s the biggest and most well-known in the area.”
Watching the fields blur past us, she said, "That could also be because of its name.”
I smiled. “Yes. Ghost Mountain Farm sticks with you, huh? Tell me about your truck.”
Perspiration moistened my hairline as she told me about Old Man Donner and the part-time job opportunity with him. Her eyes sparkled at the prospect of earning a few dollars, igniting a strong desire in me to offer her a position at the farm.
I was drowning in debt. Jake was on the payroll for legitimacy. I had no margin to hire her.
Marigold’s presence evoked memories of a girl I’d encountered in Italy.
I knew I wasn’t made for farm life. So after graduation, I left Sutton to backpack the world. But I only made it to Europe. Italy captivated me with its vineyards, Roman structures, Florence art, and picturesque waterways in Venice. The allure was heightened by the company of Alessia, a captivating Italian woman I’d met in Amalfi. She made me feel like my true self. We boated around Sicily and wandered through vineyards, sampling various types of wine and cheeses.
And then she dumped me for a wealthier American tourist.
I left Italy soon after, yet my passion for grapes and wine lingered.
These memories wouldn’t leave me as I roved the farm in a golf cart with Marigold. Both girls—Alessia and Marigold—saw me beyond my responsibilities, allowing me to embrace a sense of boundless freedom.
To my family, I was a brother and a son. To Levi, I was a villain. Yet with Marigold, I found solace in being myself.
The truck graveyard came into view.
“It’s just up here,” I said, surprised to know that a younger version of me—that carefree spirit—still lived deep within my psyche. Perhaps this mystery girl might carve the dark edges off my soul and reveal the boy I was before my life crumbled.
Veering right, we jolted over a grassy path of fallow field toward a cluster of abandoned and rusting machinery—a red and green tractor. They loomed large beside three cars stripped of their wheels. Scattered around were eight pickup trucks in various stages of decay, adding splashes of color to the desolate scene.
Marigold hopped out the second we stopped and asked, “Do you have a toolbox?”
I pulled one from the back of the golf cart. “Right here.”
Finding the tools she needed, she went to an old Dodge and started tinkering with the tailgate.
I casually leaned against the side of a blue Ford F-150 and asked, “Where did you learn to fix trucks?”
She shrugged, her hands still working on the tailgate. “I dunno. It’s not just trucks. I can fix almost anything.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Is that so?”
She ignored my question and asked, “Can I take a piece off this one?”
I crossed my arms. “That’s why these trucks are here. Harvest what you need.” Trying to keep the conversation light, I said, “I don’t mean to pry, but . . . why can’t you remember where you learned to fix things?”
She huffed. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why?”
With a swift motion, she extracted the piece from the truck and held it up. “Because it’s none of your business.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
She spun around, the truck piece in her palm. “But you did.”
“I apologize.”
“You’re doing a lot of that today.”
I nodded. “True.”
She stalked to the golf cart, pocketed the piece, and loaded the tools into the back. “Can we go?”
“Yes,” I said. I wanted to ask more without offending her. “You don’t recall your family or birthplace?”
We hit a bump in the road, causing the cart to jolt. I focused on her solid jaw as she clenched tightly, grinding her teeth.
“No,” she gritted out. “But it sounds like rumors about me are already spreading.”
I averted my eyes back to the road ahead. “Have you asked the Sheriff to run your name through the database? He might be able to locate your family. He’s my new brother-in-law.”
Her voice lifted with hope. “You think he’d help?”
“Yes. He’s an excellent lawman.” Hopefully not good enough to discover my new operation, though.
“When can I talk to him?”
Perhaps we could spend more time together. “Would you like to go now?”
“Truly?”
I nodded. “We can take my truck.”
She squirmed in excitement as though unable to contain her joy. I drove the golf cart to my house and parked in the front lawn underneath the leafy shade of the giant tree.
Marigold hesitated before entering my Bronco.
A pang of anger pricked at me. “Marigold?”
She looked at me.
“I can only guess what Levi has told you about me. Let me assure you. I would never hurt you.”
Her eyes studied me a few seconds longer. Then, without a word, she unlatched the door and hopped inside.
Marigold and I lingered by the reception desk inside the Sheriff’s office. His secretary, Joy, tapped her pink dagger-like nails on the phone. “Do you have an appointment?” she said with a bored expression on her perfectly contoured face.
“No.”
It was hard to miss the heavy black eyeliner that curved at the corners of her eyes. “Sorry, he’s too busy.”
“Ezra!” Jackson’s name echoed through the entryway. “I have a minute.”
I couldn’t tell if he was granting me access because of my familial relation or because my presence intrigued him. I’d never come to the sheriff's office willingly before.
Exchanging a knowing glance with Marigold, we stepped inside the spacious office.
“Ezra.” He gave a gruff shake of my hand. “What brings you here today?” Intrigue it was.
Papers cluttered the top of his desk. A sure sign he was busy. Usually, Jackson’s space was immaculate.
“This is Marigold.” I gestured to her as she shook his hand. “She was wondering—”
“Can you help me find my family?” she finished for me.
Jackson motioned for us to sit in the chairs opposite his desk. Without saying a word, he corralled the papers into a neat pile.
Marigold looked at me expectantly. I subtly motioned under the desk for patience—signaling that he would address her question eventually. Jackson was a man of few words.
He stared at us for forty seconds. Yes, I counted.
“I heard about your case around town,” he finally said to her. “Tell me your version of how the events unfolded.”
“I have no memory of anything in my life before Saturday, July twenty-seventh,” Marigold offered.
“But you know your name?”
“Yes.” She twisted in her seat.
“Then you remember something. What else have you got?”
She intertwined her fingers in her lap, clearly nervous. “Maybe an abusive boyfriend.”
“What do you mean, maybe ?” Jackson’s tone was firm, demanding answers. This, along with his military background, is what won him the Sheriff’s office. Folks felt safe with his no-nonsense attitude and precision-like questioning that got him results.
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I have a vague memory of a guy who hit me. It’s hazy.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No.”
Her cold fingers trembled beneath my touch.
With a deep sigh, Jackson pressed on. “Do you recall your last name?”
“Yes. I’m Marigold Anne Rivers.”
He stood and turned to a wooden filing cabinet behind his desk. Fingering through slots, he found the one he was looking for and extracted a slip of paper. “Can you complete this form?”
She tugged free of my grip, still seemingly unaware that I’d held her hand. “I can fill out my name and address,” she said, reviewing the paper. “I’m living with Levi Shaw.”
Jackson gave me a pointed look as if to say, what kind of game are you playing?
“No social security number?” He asked, turning back to face her.
“No.”
“Birth date?”
“No, but I’m twenty-six.”
“Do you have a phone number at least?”
“Yes,” I said.
She frowned at me, clearly confused.
“I’ll give you my old phone,” I said.
“I was referring to a phone number we could trace back to an identity,” Jackson clarified.
She shook her head.
“Fill out your name and address,” Jackson said. “I’ll see what I can do.” After she filled out the few items, he said, “Come back in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” she said, her voice raising an octave.
“Yes. I’m sorry. There are pressing matters I need to attend to.”
As I glanced over the papers, words like drug , trafficking , and Sutton caught my attention.
Did he know?
I had to play it safe. I held out my hand. “Thank you for your time, Jackson. We’ll be back in two weeks.”
Marigold’s sagging shoulders reminded me of a wilted flower as we returned to my truck.
“Hey,” I reassured her. “Don’t lose hope. He might find something.”
She tried to smile. “Hopefully.”
“Let’s get you back to the farm and I’ll give you that phone.”
Her spirits lifted like a flower blooming under sunlight as she asked eagerly, “Truly?”
“Yes. I have an old one I was about to toss. You may have it.”
“Are you lying to me to make me feel better?”
I held out my hand for a shake. “No. Promise.”
When she shook, I felt the warmth of her fingers thaw a section of my soul. Jackson’s warning look pierced my memory. She lived with Levi.
What exactly was I getting myself into?
Marigold
An unread message blinked on my phone’s screen when I arrived home. I tapped it open while exiting the truck.
Ezra: Let me know if you need more truck parts. See you in two weeks.
A sudden tap on the window made me drop the phone with a yelp.
Levi raised his hands apologetically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” His muffled voice was barely audible through the closed door.
Granules of dirt stuck to my fingers as I fumbled along the floorboards to retrieve the phone. Finally finding it, I grasped its metal frame just as Levi pulled open the door.
“Were you at Donner’s?” he said, then he noticed what I held. “Where did that come from?”
Shifting out of the truck, I landed on the driveway. Ezra was right. The temperature was cooler on the mountain than in the valley.
Producing the Dodge part from my pocket, I said, “I was at the truck graveyard savaging for parts. Now I can fix the tailgate.”
“Who told you about the truck graveyard?”
“Ezra,” I said. “And he’s the one who gave the phone to me.”
I’d contemplated how to present these offerings to Levi and concluded that being straightforward was the best approach. I couldn’t stop them from loathing each other, but I also couldn’t be swayed to hate either of them because of their word against the other.
From my perspective, Levi was a good guy. And so was Ezra.
Levi’s grin disappeared as he said, “Why were you with Ezra? Marigold, he’s dangerous.”
I released the tailgate and began working with the tools I’d left in the back.
“He’s trying to steal you from me.”
I paused. Yes, this thought had occurred to me—but when we were in the golf cart, Ezra looked at me like he was surprised to like me. I didn’t know exactly who Ezra was or what he was capable of, but I knew he wished me no harm. He’d seen my hesitation before getting into his truck, and he’d spoken to me with care.
No, Ezra King was not a threat, but I wouldn’t pretend to know his intentions for Levi. Thus, I didn’t plan to get stuck between them.
This didn’t excuse his mishandling of information at the football game.
I’d keep an eye on him. “He was a gentleman,” I said.
Levi’s shadow loomed as he approached the area where I worked. “He acts that way with everyone. He’s playing you. You can’t see him again.”
Standing up straight, I addressed Levi calmly but firmly. “Levi,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “You helped me when I was hurt. You’ve given me a place to stay. But you cannot tell me who I may and may not speak with.”
His hand lightly gripped my wrist. “I only want to protect you.”
I moved away from his touch. “And I appreciate that. But can you trust me?”
“I know Ezra better than you.”
“Levi, when you answered the door that night when you were drunk and bruised, I could have fled. But I trusted my intuition and stayed. Allow me that same trust with Ezra now, too, okay? I needed this part, and he helped me get it. He gave me the phone and I’m grateful. Aren’t you?”
I didn’t share about my trip to the police station. I wanted one thing, one hope, that was mine to dream about at night.
“Ezra is the one who gave me the bruises.”
Levi wasn’t going to drop this. Turning my back on him, I worked the broken piece off the truck. “Can I fix this?”
“Marigold, if something happened to you I—”
“Would understand that I’m an adult capable of making my own decisions and even making my own mistakes?” My back remained turned.
“I would never forgive myself,” he said, and then he walked away.