Rainbow Hill (3 page)

“May I continue?” Quinn said through gritted teeth.

“By all means, please do.”

“Our fathers, and myself, believe we should join together and get this farm to maximum working capacity. Maximize crop rotation, better housing for the herd, attempt more modern ways of farming.

“Okay,” Ethan said, his words measured, “but where does the destination plan for gays and urbanites out for a country weekend come into effect? These people don’t care about milking cows and crop rotation.”

“What do they care about when heading for the country?” Quinn challenged.

Ethan shrugged, thinking over the question. “Pretty scenery.”

Tucker threw up his hands. “We got views that’ll make you want to climb to the nearest hill and sing out like that women in that movie you always forced me to watch when you were a kid.”

Ignoring his father, Ethan pressed on. “Organic food. Jams and jellies in pretty packaging. Fresh baked goods that look like they were made in your grandmother’s kitchen, and not in some industrial lockup. Crafts by local artisans…Maybe even furniture or paintings.”

“Now you’re getting the idea, son.”

Ethan stood and walked the length of the floor. “But we can’t do that here.”

“Why not?” Tucker asked.

Ethan didn’t have an answer.

“Look,” Quinn said, standing so that Ethan noticed the snug fit of Quinn’s T-shirt. “Granted, my dad and your dad might not know much about those types of things, but we do, especially you. We plan on repairing some of the outbuildings so we can use them for retail space. With some whimsical paint choices and creative marketing, I think we can pull this together.” Quinn stopped directly in front of Ethan, the smell of freshly cut hay and Irish Spring soap attacking his senses. “Are you on board with this?”

“Please say you are,” Tucker said, his soulful gaze tearing away Ethan’s resistance. “We can’t do it without you. Your mother always said this was your special gift.”

“Arranging jars on a shelf is my special gift?”

“Making things beautiful,” Tucker clarified, smiling.

Ethan didn’t know if the tears that were threatening to spill were because his father needed him after all those years of believing that he didn’t, or if they were tears of sheer stupidity because he planned to say—

“Yes,” Ethan replied, looking at Tucker. “But it’s a joint effort.” He redirected his gaze to Quinn. “You have to help. No taking off planting and rotating things when I need you to erect a retail space or contract workers and artists. This is a job shared by everyone. Understood?” He stuck out his hand, waiting for a shake to seal the deal.

Swatting away Ethan’s hand, Quinn enveloped Ethan in a bear hug, hooting like it was ten seconds into the New Year. Ethan allowed his usually tense muscles to melt into Quinn’s mind-altering embrace. For only a moment, he half expected to relive the heat of that kiss he’d never forgotten, but with his father cheering by his side and slapping their backs in approval, he realized that it wouldn’t be.

Pulling back with a playful shake, Quinn said, “You won’t regret this. We’ll make it work.” Quinn pulled him in again, hugging tighter. “And thanks for giving my dad a fighting chance,” he whispered into Ethan’s ear.

Chapter Three

Filled with optimism, Quinn took the stairs two at a time. It was something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Taking the last step onto the threshold, he regained his composure as he prepared to break the good news to his dad. He breathed deeply, mustering the courage for what he would find behind the closed door. Purposely stomping across the hard wood floor, he loudly cleared his throat and knocked on his father’s bedroom door.

“You up yet?” he asked through the closed door. “It’s getting late. Come down and get something to eat.”

On hearing a few muffled, undecipherable words, Quinn opened the door, the brass knob cool in his hand. “You okay, Dad?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Frank Kincade’s voice sounded like he’d spent the better part of his life drinking whiskey late into the night, something Quinn suspected he had been doing a lot of lately. He inched in, the scent of stale sweat and beer floated in the gloom. Quinn saw his father sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed except for his lace-up work boots that were on the floor on the other side of the room. Quinn walked to the window and jerked up the shade to allow light to spill into the room.

“Damn it’s stuffy in here,” he said, deciding to open the window. “It’s a beauty out. Let’s let some air in.” His gaze dropped to the bedside table, a silver picture frame covered in a fine layer of dust catching Quinn’s attention—a gift from his mother’s great aunt, he remembered. The young couple on their wedding day smiled back at Quinn, their glistening eyes full of anticipation.

Frank scrubbed his hand over his face, exhaling. “Those damn birds won’t let me sleep. How can creatures so small make all that racket?”

“They’re letting you know that you shouldn’t be sleeping.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, son,” Frank murmured under his breath, now steadying against the edge of mattress with both hands. He lifted his chin, his brown eyes verging on soullessness. “Why don’t you get me a drink?” His smile was thin.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

The smile dropped. “Of water.” He eyed a glass smudged with fingerprints sitting beside the framed wedding photo.

“Of course,” Quinn answered, feeling ashamed. He moved for the glass.

“You know I’m trying really hard.”

“I know you are.” Quinn took the glass and filled it from the bathroom sink, allowing the water from the tap to run cold first. He gazed around the small room. It was surprisingly orderly compared to the bedroom.

When handing the glass to Frank, Quinn noticed his father’s hand tremble. “Got it?” he asked, refusing to let go until he was sure Frank had a firm grasp.

Frank nodded, licking his lips. He drank like a man with a great thirst.

“Ethan’s downstairs. He only just arrived.” Quinn folded over his father’s shirt collar, pressing it flat with his fingertips while Frank drained the glass.

“Does he still have that funny hair color?”

“That was a long time ago. We were in high school.”

Frank’s chuckle turned into a phlegmy, rumbling cough. “No one should ever have that color of hair,” he managed. “It looked like dried out straw. Miracle the herd didn’t try to munch it off him.”

“I believe it was supposed to be platinum blond.”

“Whatever color you call it, it was pretty damn awful. Scared the living hell out of me when I saw him walking down Main Street that day. Almost caused me to run a red light, the glare off his head was that bad.”

Quinn laughed along with Frank. “It was pretty bad, but let’s not bring it up. He just got caught up with our plan.”

“Your plan. Tucker’s plan,” Frank clarified. “Not mine.” Taking the final sip, Frank replaced the glass on the table. “If you ask me, you two are dreaming. Who’s gonna drive all the way out here to buy some fancy jelly when they could go down the block to the grocery? Stupid people, that’s who. Do you want to be invaded by stupid people? I surely don’t.”

“They’re not stupid people, they are people enjoying themselves, enjoying life. And there’s no harm in us making some money off those people so we can enjoy life too.”

“Enjoy life,” Frank scoffed. “Life’s not about enjoying, it’s about working yourself to the point where your limbs can no longer move and then you die.”

“That’s a joyous perspective.” Quinn clapped his hands in the hopes of motivating his father to stand and snap out of his morose mood. “Now get up and get yourself downstairs. Tucker’s made stew, and if you don’t want that there’s always eggs but we have work to do. I need help cutting grass out at the backfield, and we’re falling behind. Sun’s shining, and it’s time to make hay. Literally.”

“I heard you, so stop talking so loudly,” Frank stood with some effort. “And if you ever clap again in my presence, I’m going to clap you upside the head.”

Although it sounded as if Frank was joking, Quinn didn’t want to find out if he was or wasn’t. He shoved his hands firmly into his back jeans pockets. “Trying to get you moving, that’s all.”

“I’m not a cow, son.”

“Won’t do it again.”

Frank ran his hand over his thinning hair, combing it into place. “Do you really believe that this cockamamie plan of yours is going to work? I’m not trying to rain on your parade, but I’m a farmer, always have been. I don’t know anything about city people in fancy cars who apparently have too much money. I was born in Frederick County, and unlike you and Ethan, I’ve lived here all my life.”

“We need your expertise to make this work. You know every facet of farming.”

“So do you, and so does, Tucker.”

“True but I’m going to be busy with Ethan, and Tucker needs your help. He’s not as young as he used to be and could use the help around here.”

“Watch it with that old stuff. I’m only a few months shy of Tucker’s birthday.”

“You know what I mean. Excuse me if I was disrespectful.”

Frank placed a hand on Quinn’s shoulder and squeezed. “You couldn’t be disrespectful if you tried, Quinn. You’re exactly like your mother. Loving…and hardheaded.”

Quinn smiled. “That’s perfect coming from you. But I suspect I get that trait from you, not from Mom.”

“Whoever said time heals all wounds is an asshole. The more that time passes, the sadder I become.” He dropped his hold on Quinn. “I keep praying for the pain to dull, praying that the drink will help it along, but it doesn’t”

“Then you should stop drinking.” Quinn tried not to beg. “No point if it doesn’t do what you want it to do.”

Frank’s gaze was fixed on the floorboards, and he remained silent.

“C’mon,” Quinn said, nudging Frank, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Moving slowly, Frank walked toward his boots and bent to retrieve them. He groaned when he straightened. “Figure I’ll be needing these.”

“It’s a good bet.”

They walked down the stairs in silence, Quinn leading the way. He wanted to say so many things to Frank, but the words never seemed to leave the trappings of his mind, and the last thing he needed was to alienate his father, worried he might say the wrong thing. The reason for returning to Jefferson from out west was to help him, not hurt him. He had been hurt enough with the death of his wife, Connie, and the repossession of the farm he had loved. Honestly, Quinn couldn’t deal with any more loss either. He had suffered enough of that lately too.

Quinn followed the hushed conversation coming from the kitchen. He cleared his throat, announcing their arrival, and was met with forced smiles. “Are we interrupting?” he asked, knowing that they had.

“Not exactly,” Ethan returned. “It seems to me that any conversation that we do have about the future of this farm should be had with everyone present in this room.”

Quinn turned to Frank. “Dad, you remember Ethan.” He prayed silently that Frank would be on his best behavior.

It was Ethan who crossed the room first, proffering a hand. “Mister Kincade, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Frank shook Ethan’s hand, his face stoic. “I should say the same since I haven’t seen you since your mother’s passing.”

Ethan didn’t hide his emotions as well as Frank, Quinn understanding the pain his high school friend was feeling at this very moment. “Thanks, Mister Kincade, although I’ve been directed to call you Frank.”

“That would be a good starting point, don’t you think?”

They released hands, Ethan continuing to stand as Frank took a seat at the table to put on his shoes.

Quinn watched as his father went through the motions, Frank appearing considerably older than his age. He wanted to offer help as Frank fumbled with one of the shoelaces but decided against it, worried that his father would find it demeaning instead of helpful.

“How’d you sleep, Frank?” Tucker asked, his tone jovial. “Hope you liked dinner last night because it’s your turn at the stove tonight.”

“Hope you like a can of baked beans,” Frank responded through a grumble. “’Cause that’s all you’re getting.”

“I love baked beans.” Ethan feigned excitement. “When I was in England last year, I had them served over two pieces of toast. I was pleasantly surprised how appetizing it actually tasted.”

“Well, don’t expect anything that fancy out of me.” Frank raised his gaze at Ethan. “I’ll open the can, place it in a pot, and put it on the stove. The rest, you’re on your own.”

“Ethan,” Quinn smirked, crossing his arms over his chest, “you’ll have to excuse my dad. He’s usually not this unpleasant.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yes, he is,” Tucker seconded. “Always was a nasty old pain in the ass.”

A low chuckle emanated from Frank. “You were too, but you just happened to hide it better. That’s how you hooked Judith. That woman was so pretty, I don’t know how she looked at your ugly mug every day of her life. She must’ve had poor vision. There’s no other excuse.”

Tucker relaxed against his chair. “And Connie? She wasn’t exactly what you’d call homely. That handsome man standing over there has to take after someone, and it certainly isn’t you.” Tucker let out a snort. “Where do you think he got those looks? From you?”