Finding Home (7 page)

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Authors: Lois Greiman

BOOK: Finding Home
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“All right. Gil's a moron. But he's a big moron who's not shy about throwing his weight around, and it looks like his boy may have inherited his short fuse.”
“What do you expect when his dad's . . .” She jolted to a halt, finally noticing the tractor that stood in her driveway. A half-ton round bale was suspended in its tines.
“What's that?” she asked.
She could feel Dickenson's scowl without looking at him. “You so messed up you can't recognize hay?”
“I'm not messed up.” Maybe. “You brought me a bale?”
“It wasn't
my
idea; Toby thought maybe the horses should eat even if you did steal them from him.”
She snorted, winced at the pain, and set her jaw. “Well . . . thanks.”
“It wasn't
me
.”
“Then thank
him,
” she said and marched resolutely onward.
He swore again and followed her to the house. She turned the doorknob, then shifted to glance behind. Three people were crowding in after her, their faces registering varying degrees of fear and aggravation.
“Hey,” Dickenson said, turning to the kids. “You. What's your name?”
“Emily.” The girl raised wide mocha eyes to his.
“Yeah. Emily, run upstairs and get a hot bath ready for Head Case here, will you?”
“Okay,” she agreed, and squeezing through the doorway, rushed into the house.
Casie scowled at her rapidly retreating feet. “I don't need a bath.”
“Are you kidding?” Dickenson asked. “Your ass is caked in—”
“Watch your language.”
He snorted, almost objected, then shook his head and moved on. “Believe me, woman, you need a bath.”
“Tyler,” she said. “I've got a shirt and a clean pair of jeans in a laundry basket in the basement. Can you grab them for me?”
He shuffled his feet, looking guilty, as if
he
had been the one to toss her on her can, but despite everything she felt strangely exhilarated. “I think maybe the bronc buster's right this one—” he began, but she lowered her brows and gave him a look. He nodded solemnly.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, and turning away, hurried inside.
“What the hell's wrong with you?” Dickenson asked when the boy was out of sight.
Casie breathed a laugh. “I'll tell you what's wrong with me. I've got a hundred head of cattle left to calf out, twice that many ewes shooting out lambs like poison darts, and a half dozen rank horses that miraculously showed up in my cattle pen. What do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to be smart. I expect you to—”
“Well, I can't be smart if I can't get back to school and I can't get back to school if I can't pay tuition and I can't pay tuition if I can't—”
“Holy hell, Case, you think listening to some dirt-dull speaker is going to give you smarts? You've been in school half a lifetime and you're still not bright enough to know you don't just jump at a horse like that. You gotta ease into it a little. You could have been really hurt. You could have been—”
“Hah!” It wasn't so much a laugh as a grunt. “And this from a man who makes his living . . . his
living
. . .” She leaned in to tap him on the chest with a muddy forefinger. “. . . riding bucking horses. What? You think you're the only one who can take a chance? You think you're the only one who can do something crazy now and then?”
He opened his mouth, then paused and shook his head. “
You
want to do something crazy?”
“Yes! No.” She pursed her lips and realized suddenly that she didn't know what she wanted. But she wanted something. She wanted more. That much was clear. “It doesn't matter what I want,” she said. “I'll do what has to be done.”
He watched her in silence for a second, then said, “I just bet you will.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
He shook his head. “Just because you finally got a chance to think on your own, doesn't mean you have to get yourself killed first jump out of the chute. Take it a little—”
“I think for myself.”
“Yeah? That why you're selling the Lazy? So Bud doesn't have to pay his own tuition?”
“What are you talking about? Bud . . .” She paused, scowling. “Do you mean Brad?”
“I don't know what the hell his name is. I just know . . .” He halted, drew a breath. “Listen, you don't have to ride those horses. The boy's right. I shouldn't have left them with you. But you used to be . . .” He glanced away. “You and Chip . . .” A muscle jerked in his jaw as he turned back toward her. “When you had the wind in your hair and your legs wrapped around that gelding you looked like a . . .” He exhaled. “There wasn't no one could touch you, Case.”
She blinked at his reverent tone, remembered all the sheep droppings he had deposited in her school lunches, and drew herself back to reality with a snap. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about you and horses and this . . .” He swung his good arm to the left. “This ranch. It's your birthright, Case. Don't throw it away for some lazy son of a bitch who—”
“You're talking about my fiancé.”
“Fiancé!”
He laughed. “Still? How long is it going to take him to shit or—” He stopped. The world went quiet. It took her a minute to realize the kids had returned and were watching them with wide eyes and solemn expressions.
The girl rallied first. “You sure you don't want a bath?” she asked. Her casual tone suggested she'd witnessed enough battles to just be grateful no blood had been shed.
“I'm sure,” Casie said, and taking the clean clothes from Ty, charged into the bathroom.
Rushing adrenaline made it possible for her to change without passing out. In a matter of minutes she was able to step into the living room, relatively clean and still upright.
“You sure you're okay?” Tyler asked.
“I'm perfect,” she said, and without a glance at Dickenson marched out the door toward the heifer pasture.
C
HAPTER
8
L
ater that night, both Casie's former euphoria and her unsolicited candor had disappeared. The sun was setting by the time she dragged herself into the house. Her back ached with every step, and normal breathing was still a challenge she'd not quite met.
She sighed as she pushed the door open, carefully toed off her boots, and limped dismally into the kitchen.
“Hello.”
Casie squawked like a trapped chicken, spun toward the noise, and grabbed her ribs.
The girl in the striped leggings lunged back a pace and stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes.
“Geez!” Casie rasped, breathing carefully lest certain ribs decided to spring out of their cage. “What are you doing here?”
A tiny gold hoop adorned the girl's right nostril, nearly matching her caramel latte skin. “I didn't mean to scare you. I was just worried so I stuck around.”
Casie took in these words with some misgiving and winced from her bent position. “Do I know you?”
“We met this morning.” She leaned sideways a little so as to look into Casie's eyes. “Don't you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I just . . . did we know each other from before? Are you the daughter of a long-lost friend or a cousin five times removed or something?”
The girl was eyeing Casie with some uncertainty, wild dreadlocks brushing her left arm. “I don't think so.”
“Then why are you still here?” Okay, apparently only the euphoria had completely passed. Dregs of the unsolicited candor seemed to have been left behind like stale coffee grounds.
“I told you, I was worried about you,” the girl repeated.
Spying her father's easy chair, Casie shambled off in that direction. “Well, I'm fine. Really,” she said, but maybe her hobbling gait made the words a little implausible. “Please . . . go home.”
“Listen . . .” the girl began, hustling after. “I can help you.”
“What?” Casie eased herself into the padded chair and tried not to moan as her hind end touched heaven.
“I know you can't pay me and that's fine. I'll work for free. I'll even buy my own groceries.”
Casie glanced up at the almost hidden note of desperation in the girl's voice. “Emily . . . It is Emily, right?” She was tired beyond belief, achy in places she'd never even cared to identify. “It's really nice of you to offer. But you can't just move in here.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because . . .” She was sure there were a dozen viable reasons, but for a moment her mind was a little too fatigued to single out a likely excuse. It took several fragmented seconds to latch onto something halfway decent. “What about a toothbrush?”
“What?”
Okay, maybe that excuse wasn't even halfway decent, but she stuck with it. “Dental hygiene,” she said, shifting a little and half closing her eyes at the feel of the cushion against her back. “It's very important and I don't have a spare brush.”
“Are you serious?” The girl's expression was deadpan.
“Yes,” she insisted. “You gotta have—”
“I have everything I need in my backpack.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Including a toothbrush.”
Dammit. “Still, you can't just drop out of life. What about school?”
“I graduated last year.”
“Then there's college. Tyler said you're really bright.”
Her full lips twisted with something that suggested irritation. “Well, I'm smart enough to know I can't pay tuition.”
Casie frowned. This seemed to be a recurring problem, but she didn't dare get sucked into the girl's troubles. She had a surplus of her own, and that was without her current rib difficulty. “Well, living here isn't going to help you,” she said. “You're going to have to get a loan or a scholarship or a . . . a fiancée willing to give up her dreams so you can pursue yours.”
“What?”
This honesty thing was the bomb, Casie thought, but reeled herself in. “You're going to have to get a paying job.”
“I had a job in Sioux Falls. It wasn't much, but I was saving. I was a barista at the Jumping Bean and I was good at it, too. Maybe I'm a little . . .” She paused, canted her head, shrugged noncommittally. “A little mouthy sometimes. But I'm a good worker. Ask anyone. Ask Ike.”
“Ike?”
“My boss. He didn't wanna let me go, but his daughter moved back from Nebraska so he gave her my position. I mean, I really couldn't blame him. Tara's gone to business school and he's really proud of her and everything. But anyway . . .” She let her words slump to a halt and shrugged. “Now I can't pay rent.”
“You're not living with your parents?”
Hurrying forward, Emily shifted the worn footstool in front of the chair. “Oh, they split up years ago,” she said, and although Casie thought she should probably ignore the inviting footrest and send the girl packing, it felt sinfully wonderful to ease her stocking feet onto the padding. “I lived with Mom until I graduated. She's pretty cool for a golden oldie, but then she met Doug and I didn't wanna slow her roll.”
Casie didn't know what to question first. “Doug?” The girl's energy was exhausting.
“Her boo. He's an all right guy. Kinda stodgy, but what do you expect from a banker? Anyway, he got a job offer in Milwaukee and I knew she wanted to go with him.”
“And she didn't want . . .” Remembering her recent propensity for unnecessary bluntness, Casie stopped herself before someone burst into tears. She wasn't taking bets on who might start blubbering first. “You didn't want to go with her?”
“To
Milwaukee?
Does anybody?”
“I believe there's a team of Clydesdale . . .” she began, then, “Never mind.
“Listen, Emily, I'd like to help you out. Really I would, but I'm not going to be here long myself. I'll be going back to Saint Paul as soon as I can. I mean, I've got bills coming out of my eyeballs.”
“I thought you were engaged to that doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“I dunno.” She scowled. “Just something Ty said. You're
not
going to get married?”
“Well, yeah, I am, but he's still a resident and until he starts making doctor's wages I have to have an income.”
“So you put him through school?”
Casie didn't like this recurring theme, even though she might have started it herself. “He helped out when he could.”
“Yeah? Like, how often was that?”
“Medical school's not easy and he . . .” She paused, realizing she was making excuses. “The bottom line is I need to get back to the city.”
“I know, and that's fine. I mean, it's not like I expect to stay here forever. I'm not a mooch. I just need a couple days to get on my feet.”
Casie could feel weakness easing over her and bolstered herself with good sense and maturity. “I'm sorry, but—”
“I made tuna casserole.”
“What?”
“Well, there wasn't any tuna. And not much of anything else, but I thought you'd be hungry.” Worry flickered behind her dark eyes. Entirely bare of any kind of enhancement, they looked young and hopelessly earnest. “I didn't mean to make you mad.”
“I'm not mad. I just—”
“Good.” Her tone was almost breathless. “I'll get it for you.”
“No, Emily, I can—”
“You just sit there. I'll bring it right in,” she said and hurried toward the kitchen.
“How long have you been here?” Casie asked, raising her voice, but there was no need; the girl was already returning with a steaming mug in her left hand.
“Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes, but—”
“Cuz I made some. I thought you might be cold so it was kind of altruistic, but I can hardly last three hours without a hit of caffeine myself, so I had a couple cups, too. I hope you don't mind. Here you go,” she said and handed it over.
“Thank you.”
“It might be kind of strong,” she said and squeezed her hands together in front of her oversized shirt.
It looked like it might also be lethal, Casie thought. She took a sip. Yup, it had the jolt of a well-grounded electric fence, but the soothing heat of it went straight to her bones.
The sound of the microwave buzzer seemed to zap the girl like a cattle prod.
“Be right back,” she said and rushed into the kitchen.
In a matter of moments, Casie had a fork in her hand and a plate of gooey noodles resting on her lap.
“Taste it,” Emily insisted.
For lack of another viable course, Casie stabbed three fat noodles. Steaming cheese squished from the center of the little pasta tubes as she transported them to her mouth. They were hot and buttery with a touch of some intriguing flavor she couldn't quite identify. Still, she mustn't let herself be seduced by noodles. She should at least hold out for chocolate chip cookies or something, she thought, and paused the flight of her fork.
“Listen . . . Emily,” she began, “I understand—”
“How do you like it?”
“What?”
“The hotdish . . . how is it?”
“It's excellent.”
“You didn't have a lot in the cupboard. No mushrooms, and the vegetables looked kind of dehydrated. Couldn't even find any garlic, so I just used what you had.”
“And I appreciate it, but—”
“And I cleaned the bathroom.”
“You . . .” She paused. “Really?”
“There were a lot of magazines.”
Casie was almost too tired to be embarrassed by the condition of the bathroom. “Clayton liked to have a little reading material on hand.”
“Seventy-three volumes of
Successful Farming
.”
From the basement, a tiny noise could be heard. So the lambs were waking up. Casie refrained from letting her eyes fall closed.
“He let things slip a little after Mom died. I meant to—”
“Mine set fire to the house on my fifth birthday.”
“. . . to . . .” Casie stared at the girl for several moments, then shook her head. “He . . . what?”
“I guess he liked his meth.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't—” Casie began, but Emily stopped her.
“He was a crazy old ass but that's okay. See . . . I'm not judging or anything.”
There seemed to be so few things to say. “Thank you?” was the best she could come up with.
Emily nodded. And now her expression was naked, stripped of all subterfuge. “Let me stay,” she said. “Just for a few days. I'll feed the lambs.”
“You know about the lambs?” Casie asked, but just then the babies burst into ravenous bleats.
“I didn't know they were supposed to be a secret,” Emily said.
The girl's sober expression made Casie grin despite herself. Maybe she was overly fatigued. Maybe she was concussed. Hell, maybe she was crazy. “Emily . . .”
“Ty showed me how to care for them,” she said. “We cleaned the pen and put down new wood shavings.”
“I—”
“One night,” she said. “One night and I'll cook you breakfast like you never had before.”
Casie scowled, but the tuna-less tuna casserole was calling.
“One night,” she said, “then you have to go.”

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