Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Thomas shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear.
I temper my tone. “Good. You can pay me back by helping me set up my phone later.”
“Aren’t you gonna clean ours?” one of the twins asks—which one, who knows? They’re identical demons.
“Nope.” Grabbing my coat from the hook, I guide Biscuit out of the barn, past the corral gate, the sound of the twins’ whining fading the farther I get.
Biscuit tosses his head back with excitement as the wide-open field waits before us.
“Yeah, you know what’s coming, right?” I stroke his muzzle. “Go easy on me, boy. It’s been a minute.”
He answers with a huff.
I slip my foot into a stirrup and hoist myself onto his back. Just like riding a bike. But wouldn’t it be ironic, to survive so many years behind bars relatively unscathed, only to break my neck the morning after I returned home because I didn’t listen to a sixteen-year-old girl’s warning?
“There you are!”
I stifle my groan—I hate when I’m right—and school my expression before turning Biscuit to meet my brother-in-law as he strolls up with purpose.
Jon has swapped his red plaid shirt for a blue one, but otherwise, he’s dressed the exact same as he was last night. Right down to the tacky belt buckle and stupid hat. “Been lookin’ everywhere for ya, all morning!” he announces cheerily.
“Everywhere?” I drawl.
He shrugs. “I went to the main house. Mum said she hadn’t seen you. So, I knocked on your door. Figured you were still asleep.”
“Yeah, I don’t sleep.” Not much, anyway. Haven’t since I was last under a Landry roof. It’s hard to with one eye open, and I don’t see myself breaking that habit anytime soon.
“I guess you wouldn’t.” Jon scratches his chin. “How ’bout I get saddled up and give you a tour ’round the property—”
“I don’t need a tour. I grew up here.” Beneath me, Biscuit dances impatiently.
Jon holds his hands in the air. “Look, I know. I get it.”
“Do you?” Does Jon—or anyone else around here—have the slightest fucking clue what I’m feeling?
“I don’t mean any offense. I’m just … things have changed. The herd’s a lot bigger, and they don’t like strangers.” Jon gestures toward the left where, in the far distance, a cluster of animals graze, tiny brown dots against the green landscape. “Plus, that back quarter I bought is wild. Still have a lot of clearing to do—”
“I could find my way around this land in the dark.” At least, I could at one time in my life. And the fact that Jon’s buying up adjacent land is annoying.
Jon lifts his hat to brush his hair off his forehead before setting it down again. “You’re right. I don’t know what you’re feeling right now, but you gotta admit, this is some adjusting for all of us. I don’t know how we got off on the wrong foot, but can we try again? For everyone’s sake?”
Biscuit refuses to stand still anymore, turning in place.
From the chicken coop, my mother watches us, a hefty basket in her hand. Nearby, Macy teases the collies with a stick in the air before tossing it for them to give chase. There’s no way they can hear our words, and yet even from here, I sense my mother holding her breath.
“I’m goin’ for a ride now. Alone. When I get back, I’ll let you show me what you think I need to see. Deal?”
Jon claps his hands together. “Sounds like a plan. I’ve gotta go check on—”
I don’t hang around to hear the end of that sentence, directing Biscuit away with a squeeze of my calves against his sides.
In seconds, he’s running at full gallop.
And, for just a beat, it’s like I’ve woken up from this eternal nightmare.
Chapter 10
Emery
This covered porch was always my mother’s favorite spot. It’s tiny, just enough space for two wicker chairs nudged together, but it faces south and catches the sun for most of the day. She’d fantasized about replacing it with a grand extension often, but when my father offered to hire a contractor to make her dream come true, she quickly shot down the idea, insisting it was perfect the way it was.
She’d spend mornings out here with a tea and, after she retired from teaching, her afternoons with a pint of Guinness and her crochet needles. Annie would often join her.
Since she passed, I find myself coming here to see if I can feel her. Sometimes I think I can—with the way the wicker still holds her body’s shape and the pungent scent of a freshly lit citronella candle. But on this crisp morning, bundled in a blanket, as I cradle my oversized coffee mug, waiting for the caffeine to kick in and the weight of sleeplessness to fade, all I feel is her immense absence.
What I would give to have her or my father sitting in the empty seat beside me, letting me bend their ear as I struggle to navigate the unexpected wave of emotion that threatens to drown me.