Chance of Rain (13 page)

“Are you sure that’s necessary? Maybe she would be calmer at home. I would hide the knives this time, and...” She trailed off, knowing there was nothing left to do. Denying the violence only allowed it to escalate.

Gram needed around-the-clock medical care.

Natalie looked down.

“I realize this is difficult to handle,” Dr. Carmichael said, “but she’s content here. She’s not suffering.”

Was that the best she could hope for, not suffering? Natalie shut her eyes.

“How you’re feeling right now is a normal part of the grieving process. Maybe you should start coming in again for sessions. It’s okay to worry for her, but you also need to focus on you, moving forward in your life.”

Forward? How could she move forward when Gram was dying? It was a form of suffering, this prolonged purgatory.

“Can I see her? I need to talk to her.”

Gram’s room looked the same, mauve-colored walls and soft lighting. Natalie had slept on the fold-out booth in the corner for five days when Gram had first moved in, until Dr. Carmichael had gently insisted Natalie go home. Then Gram had watched her from bewildered eyes that turned, mercurial, into rage and back again. Now her eyes were closed, her leathery skin a pale gray. The scratches Dr. Carmichael had told her about were short, thin lines around her mouth.

Natalie sat beside her and felt sick. “Hi, Gram.”

Gram didn’t stir. Machines monitoring her vitals were tucked discreetly behind wooden cabinets, muting their steady beeps. The tubes that connected them could have been a million miles long for how far away her grandmother seemed, floating in limbo, the space between them muting any sounds or understanding, but Natalie had to talk anyway.

“I’ve missed you.”
I
miss you now.

Outside the room, she heard people walking by.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come last week. There was this crazy storm. It kind of reminded me of that time when I was in sixth grade. Remember the power was out for two whole weeks? When a few people had run out of food, you opened up the diner anyway. We made barbeque in the street.”

No answer.

Unable to sit still, she got up and stood at the window, looking out at the busy streets. Were they happy, rushing around, or were they just
not suffering
too?

“Do you remember Sawyer Nolan? I’m sure you do, considering I talked about him nonstop in high school. Before that, even. Well, he’s back in town. I know when he left you said I would find somebody else, and you’re usually right, but I didn’t.”

She didn’t want to be content anymore, stagnant. She didn’t want to keep the diner the same, simply because that’s how Gram had done it. Maybe on some level Natalie had imagined her grandmother coming back to visit the diner, remembering the diner—remembering her. But Gram would never come back. Even if she was awake on her next visit, she would never again look at Natalie with wise, lucid eyes.

Natalie had lived in her own purgatory, shielding herself from the grief by pretending that nothing had changed, taking comfort in the place Gram had loved like a security blanket.

It wasn’t fair to use Gram as an excuse. She would have been pissed about that. Natalie allowed herself a small, sad smile, wishing she could mourn, finally feel the pain, but the tears wouldn’t come.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, Sawyer’s slim hope shrank to nothing at all. His muscles were as sore and torn up as they’d ever been during Hell Week. His days were a blur of physical labor, his nights an ache of pain and unfulfilled desire.

He had found two men through the local labor agency. One had the look of a country boy, but he’d turned out to be a drunk who cost him more work than he contributed. The other had a smooth face and smooth hands, but he’d been a huge help.

He went by a single name, Ian. From the little he’d told Sawyer, Ian had been a desk jockey at a bank until he got laid off a year ago. Since then he’d been working odd jobs around the central Texas Hill Country. He was a transient, but a hardworking one. Sawyer wished he could offer him a permanent job, but the more he worked, the more it became clear they’d never make it.

He had purchased a brand-new tractor that didn’t stall out every mile, but the farm had been too long neglected, the land uneven and cracked. He had managed to eradicate most of the pests, but the land still needed to be tilled, fertilized and planted. There just wasn’t enough time.

After washing up at the pump, he met Ian at the back door. Although Sawyer had told him again and again to just go in, he refused to step foot inside unless Sawyer was there. In the kitchen, they both sucked down a couple glasses of water.

Sawyer picked up a pencil and shaded in a two-centimeter radius in the northwest corner. He’d gotten the idea to use the map from the spare McClellan land survey he’d found in the library book. A little digging in his father’s paperwork had turned one up for his own farm. After a few days, it became clear that even a backbreaking pace would never cover the entire farm in time. He and Ian were both hooded and stumbling from lack of sleep, and the map was still overwhelmingly blank.

He passed the pencil to Ian, who slanted Sawyer a look of regret before erasing most of the work on the eastern border. “The levee overflowed again.”

Sawyer closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. They would never make it. Even his old mantra failed him.
Did you even try?
Yeah, he did.

It wasn’t enough.

He lounged on the front porch, his forearms resting on the newly installed and painted railing. All for nothing, because he hadn’t been able to bring the farm back from the brink, to run it as he was meant to do. Didn’t that beat all? His dad had been right about him.

An oversized truck rumbled over the horizon. Slack, Sawyer watched it approach.

A portly man in jeans and a stain-covered T-shirt hopped out. “Lonestar Junk,” he grunted. “Sorry about the delay. Storm put us out of commission there for a bit, but we’re back on track now.”

Just like that, he could be finished here. He could finally be rid of this town.

Chapter Ten

Natalie washed another coffee mug and dried it with a dish towel. The mugs she ordered had come in, and despite being brand new, they looked remarkably like her old vintage ones, except they didn’t chip or break all the time.

Wash, dry. Wash, dry. There was a kind of Zen to doing the dishes, though she wouldn’t ever say so out loud. She knew better than to tell people how much she looked forward to cleaning up the diner at the end of the day. They’d think she was lying—or just plain crazy.

Wash, dry.

She liked things about the daytime too. She felt satisfaction knowing the food was nourishing this town. She had friends here, good friends. Just yesterday, Mae Watson swore she saw a squirrel with a bow tied around its neck. So that was something. Wash, dry.

Ever since she’d gotten the new mugs, it seemed like there were more of them, as if they were multiplying. Of course, it only felt like there was more to wash and to dry. The diner was still serving the same number of coffees. An audit had confirmed this last night.

The cowbell on the door jangled and she called, “We’re closed.”

As usual it was Lucy and as usual, Lucy didn’t let a little thing like a business’ operating hours stop her. She poked at the fridge before pulling out a tub of chicken salad and a slice of pie.

Well, if her friend needed to eat, it would be rude not to sit with her. So Natalie did, tossing her drenched apron onto a counter in a sodden heap.

“What’s the matter?” Lucy asked. “No, let me guess. The matter is six feet of pride and not a lick of sense.”

“Luce, you just described half the men around here. And maybe women.”

“Then my odds of being right are pretty good.” She took a bite of chicken. “Fucker still didn’t show?”

Natalie shook her head. Three weeks and no word. He hadn’t even come into the diner to eat. Maybe that was to be expected since she had left him, but she hadn’t meant forever. She froze when she realized Lucy had raised an eyebrow at her and that she’d somehow slipped off her shoes and was rubbing her feet.

“Sorry. My feet are killing me. I’ve been on a rampage today.”

Lucy brightened. “Did you finally tell Mr. Winterman off for being a cheapskate?”

Mr. Winterman protested the rise in coffee prices from $0.99 to $1.09 several years ago, and Natalie hadn’t had the heart to stop serving him on account of ten cents.

“In my head, a hundred times. But he can keep his dime. It’s this mood I’m in.” She grabbed a fork and stabbed at the pie.

“What’s wrong?”

She examined her friend, from Lucy’s short-cropped hair to her mud-caked boots. She had always been tall and thin, but where before it was willowy, now her every move was imbued with a kind of casual power that came from compact muscle. Lucy didn’t date much, probably because she scared the shit out of most men. It probably didn’t help matters that she usually smelled faintly of diesel. Occupational hazard. Natalie couldn’t judge considering she smelled like grease at the end of the day.

“I don’t feel like I used to. I keep thinking about...change.”

Lucy waved her fork in recognition. “I saw the new specials. Blue Sky Omelet, that’s cute. Are you using food coloring?”

“Nah, it’s an egg white omelet on a blue plate, like clouds on a blue sky. But that’s not the kind of change I mean. Not just in the diner, but everywhere. Everything.”

“Drive out to the farm. I’ll bet someone has plenty of new tricks to show you.”

Just like that, Natalie’s thoughts snapped back to Sawyer for the umpteenth time that day. Unlike the diner, he was a change she had no control over. If he wasn’t willing to fight for them, if he didn’t want her twelve years later, then there was nothing she could do about it. He would lose the farm, and she would be alone. She winced. “How did you get Joe to accept your help? I can’t imagine he was too keen on handing over the farm to you.”

Lucy grew serious, as she always did when speaking of
that time
, when their sibling rivalry had been pushed aside in her effort to pull Joe from his despair. “He didn’t resist me taking over the farm. By that time, it had fallen to shit, and he didn’t want to deal with it anyway. It’s one thing to run a farm and another thing entirely to bring it back to life.” Lucy gave her a pointed look, since that was what Sawyer was trying to do. Failing to do. “Anyway, it was moving back into the house that put a bee in his bonnet. That and ordering him to stop drinking, stop using the tennis ball machine for shooting practice and stop pissing in the flower pots.”

“That’s gross.” And sad. “You did good by him.”

Lucy shrugged off her part in his recovery. “Well, men like him don’t accept help easily. Men like Sawyer.”

“Stubborn,” Natalie said archly.

“Texan,” Lucy corrected. “And yeah, stubborn. They’re also loyal, dependable, and they really know how to use their—”

“I get the idea.”

“Do you? In Dearling, a man gets asked about his farm or his ranch first, his family second. That’s their source of identity, their measure of worth. Sawyer may have gone away for a while but he’ll always be one of us.”

One of us.
When they were together, just him and her, Natalie felt they were the same. It wasn’t the southern drawl he got, especially when aroused, or their shared affinity for pie. They fit together, their bodies, their hearts. She had always felt that way, but how could it be true when she’d always wanted to stay in Dearling and he’d always wanted to leave?

Although maybe he hadn’t wanted to leave but felt he had to. She had understood when he had built himself up in high school, when he had enlisted right after. He had something to prove to his father, to the town and maybe to himself. But something was holding him back, and it wasn’t only water rights.

“If he wants to leave, he should be able to go. I don’t want him to feel tied down by me.”

“Tied down?” Lucy asked. “He didn’t have to come back at all. He could have sold it years ago when it still had its water rights, did you think of that? Whether he held on to the farm and his link to the town because of you or some other reason, I don’t know. But when he did come back, he came to see you every
day
and then accepted you without a fuss during the storm. Yeah, he wanted to bang you, but you said he was comfortable with you there, that it was more than that, right?”

“Yeah,” Natalie agreed cautiously.

“I don’t think he feels tied down by you, I think he
wants
to be tied down by you. Don’t shake your head at me, I didn’t mean in bed. He wants to stay here, with you
.
He just never felt welcome.”

Lucy’s words were eerily similar to Barry’s.

“I already tried to welcome him and it didn’t work. He walked away from me in high school, and he did it again last week. I can’t just beat him until he accepts me.”

“Now who’s the kinky one?”

“Okay, I deserved that.” Natalie sat back in her chair, but her friend’s point had been made. Sawyer had reached out to her in his own way.
If it were anyone
,
it would be you.
And it wasn’t only him blocking their progress.

She had her own issues, clinging to the diner. Of course she would give up this place, if not as her work then as her home, when she eventually married. Had she unintentionally resisted commitment, knowing it would mean leaving the place that had been her home almost all her life? Had Sawyer been right?

Strange that they could see each other so clearly when their own self-doubts were obscured. Strange but also right. Like looking in the mirror and finding what she’d been searching for.

“You know I love this place, Luce. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You do love this place.” Lucy paused. “But do you like it?”

Natalie frowned. “Like do I love it or am
in love
with it? The diner isn’t my boyfriend. It’s family.”

“Gram was family.”

“Is,” she corrected, feeling surly. “She
is
family.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. But the point remains that Gram is family. This is just a place.”

Her throat felt tight. Lucy’s slip had hit home. Gram’s heart might still beat, but her mind was far away. And now the diner’s importance drained like sand between her fingers.

Lucy scooped up the last bit of cherry filling with her finger before heading to the door. “I’m fixing to go to the quilting club. Come with me. Clock out early for once.”

Natalie returned to her dish station and picked up a dirty mug. “Please, and listen to two hours of drunken speculation about Sawyer’s package? No, thank you.”

“One hour,” Lucy corrected. “We only bring out the booze after we’re done quilting. I don’t drink and stitch. And you never did answer my question about Sawyer’s—”

Natalie flicked soapy water at her friend. “Stop that or I’ll have Joe arrest you for public indecency.”

Lucy laughed on her way out the door. “I’d kick his ass, and he knows it.”

After she had gone, Natalie stepped away from the sink.
Clock out early for once.
Those words had been like the lonely click of a lock tumbling into place. She owned the diner, but she acted like nothing more than a waitress. She claimed to love this place, but she never bothered to improve it.

In her story, the princess had left the palace to live with her commoner. She had reached out for what she wanted, bringing the prince out of hiding. Natalie was secure in her Formica castle. How depressing.

She didn’t have the heart, or the energy, to finish the dishes now. She tidied up the counters and left the mugs to soak overnight, knowing she’d regret it come morning. Climbing the stairs with heavy feet, she wondered if her tiredness was making everything seem freakishly bright, because it was like a spotlight. Maybe she was getting abducted by aliens.

But no, that was Sawyer lounging against the wall beside her door.

“Fixed your security lighting,” he said.

“I didn’t even know I had security lighting.”

“You didn’t.”

“Ah.” She shuffled her feet, kind of squinted to see him better. “So, what’re you doing here? I mean, besides lighting upgrades.”

Suddenly it was dark, as he came over her, around her, the faint musky scent of him like coming up for air after being underwater.

“For this.” His mouth descended over hers, as his hands grasped her waist, and yes of course, the softness of his lips, the intensity of his grip, always this. His presence tore down the numbness that protected her, the contentedness she’d hidden behind. She lived a lifetime in every in-out breath of his chest to hers, the grief over the diner, over Gram. Sorrow and hope coiled in what she’d missed most of all—feeling. As the tears came, the security light became glaring. She pulled back, looked down.

“Don’t turn away from me,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I tried to make it work, to get the damn farm functioning again, but it’s not going to happen. There’s just not enough time. I’m sorry. But I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I think I have a solution.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He skated his lips over her temple, her cheeks, her neck as he spoke. “I’ll still have the land and the house, like you want. And I’ll need something to do that doesn’t involve farming, so I was thinking I could open a petting zoo.”

God, it was hard to focus when his tongue stroked her skin. “A...what?”

“We’ll get goats and chickens. And a horse for riding.” He found the buttons of her dress, undid a few. “Maybe a giraffe.”

“A giraffe.”

“It’s not a fully formed plan. Still in the concept stage. But I think it could work, if...”

“If what?”

“If you’re with me.”

“Oh, Sawyer.” She kissed him back, all-over-him back. “Yes to giraffes. Yes to everything.”

He pulled her inside, half-carrying her to her bedroom. They slipped against each other, moved together until they were both naked and panting, frantic with it.
Now.
It had to be now.

Turning her over, he covered her body with his, blanketed her, spread her legs with his knees and clasped her wrists to the bed. Her belly, her breasts were flush against cool sheets. He pushed inside her, hard and inexorable, and their groans mirrored the violence within her body.

He lay over her, pinning her down. It was like being consumed by fire, and she surrendered to his heat. Each thrust was a stake of his claim, his weight a promise of protection and possession. Also because he stopped at one point, gasping, “You know this means you have to marry me, right?”

She paused, considering. As proposals went, she’d always imagined something more conventional. A suit and a nice dinner at the local steakhouse. But she couldn’t fault him for his methods. What better way to ask for her hand when they were joined in every other way?

Silence rippled through the space where their moans had been. She could hear him waiting,
feel
him pulsing inside her. But he didn’t say anything, his patience like the slick burn of whiskey down her throat, courage enough to continue.

“I’m sorry I freaked out that night.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said roughly. “I was pretty freaked out too.”

“Because you thought you’d hurt me, but I knew you hadn’t. I was just...”

“You were upset because I pushed you. I shouldn’t have said the things I said. I had no right.”

“They were true.” She swallowed. “And I was upset but also lonely. I want a family. I want to stop living in the past, to move on, and for me that means kids. If you don’t want that—”

“I do,” he said, but she was on a roll.

“I’m being honest here, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay because of that. I know stuff like this freaks guys out, especially guys like you.”

“Damn it, Natalie. Guys like me? The thought of you pregnant is hotter than a blacktop in August.” His hand fitted over the softness of her belly. “Filled with my seed. My wife. Mine.” He cupped her breast, swiping her nipple with his thumb. “Swollen here, damp with milk.”

His entire body shuddered, all along hers. Inside, his cock pulsed.