Unstable (8 page)

What?
Why’s he happy I’m here? We hate each other. And what’s he mean he tried to save them?

Seems the officers left out some key elements to the story they gave me. And damn it…now that he’s said it, I have to ask.

Which means, I’m going to have to stomach my way through an actual conversation with the man who’s always been my arch nemesis.

The universe is seriously testing my abilities today,
but here goes nothing.
Deep breath in, shaky exhale out.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, as reasonably as my aggravated curiosity will allow.

“We can talk, probably should, but later.” He gazes past my shoulder and chuckles. “Bourbon looks like he could use some help. You
did
want to move the cows
out
of this field right?”

“No, Keaton. I was bored and thought I’d come play ‘tag’ with ‘em for a little while.”

“Then you’re doing a helluva job, ‘cause they’re fixin’ to tag ya back.”

What’s he blathering about now? I turn and look…but refuse to sigh or show any sign of defeat…that some of the cows, are in fact, wandering back into the field I just shooed them out of.

Really?
I seem to remember—open the gate to where the food is—they’ll go. So why they’re not cooperating now, in what has to be the first time since Noah let two of them on the Arc,
has
to be some weird conspiracy just to embarrass me in front of Keaton.

“Let me help you,” he says too kindly, moving to do so before I can refuse.

He uses his hat to swipe at the few remaining anarchist cows, sending them on their way. And Lord knows why, but I take a moment to peruse him…see just exactly how he turned out, physically anyway.

Hair still as black as the Stetson in his hand, jeans still as tight as he’s always played his cards to his chest. Every movement precise and purposeful, nothing wasted, just like he’s always been: good at everything.

Except recognizing value in the most valuable.

Back in the day, he’d been the boy to watch. A football star, a rodeo champ…and watch them they did—every girl in town.

Well, every girl except me, in
that
way. Oh, I always kept one eye on him, but not for myself. No, my interest in Keaton had always been one of pro-active precaution. Because
she
thought she loved him…and I loved her.

Not to mention, I had Merrick…
well, I thought I did
, and there was certainly no love lost between the two of them. They hated each other. So I often had to be discreet, but anytime we were at the same place he was… Keaton stayed in my scrutinous sight.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” His gloating drags my thoughts back to the present.

The field is now empty, all the cows on the other side of the closed gate and Bourbon taking a break in the bed of my truck.

Wasn’t hard for me at all, I didn’t do anything. Besides stand here like a helpless fool, thinking on days better left forgotten.

“I had it under control,” I gruffly lie.

“I’m sure you would have, Hen. Hard work’s never been your problem,” he says, hat back on and both hands on his hips. “I was talking about accepting help.
That
, you’ve always made harder than it has to be.”

It’s not
what
he just said as much as
how
he said it, like the haughty bastard he’s always been. My skin starts to tingle from the blaze of red-hot rage quickly moving from my toes to my scalp.

“How in the hell would you know?” I’m yelling, which will give him the gross misconception that I actually care what he thinks, which pisses me off worse and has me yelling even louder. “I’ve never asked you for help once in my entire life!”

“Exactly,” he lowly agrees, taking a menacing step closer. “But you could have. And you
should
have. Many times.”

“Oh, and you’d have just fixed everything, huh? The almighty Keaton Cash,” I mock in a loud jeer. “Please. Glad to see your self-image’s still fully intact.”

“Not everything. Some things aren’t ours to fix. But others? I know I could’ve saved you some heartache and a lot of trouble.”

Jesus, what happened in this town while I was gone? Did somebody spike the water supply? I’ve had more philosophical speeches thrown at me in the last few days than the rest of my entire life combined. And that’s saying something…seeing as how I was in therapy.

“You look exhausted.”

“Still a sweet talker too, thanks.”

He softly laughs. “You know what I meant. Can’t imagine what you’re going through, or what you’ve been through, but if you’ll let me, I really would like to help. Any way I can.”

“Why?” My question is spontaneous, but matter-of-fact and adequately edged in bafflement.

He shakes his head, staring down at the ground a few beats before raising his eyes to mine. And I look into them, really look, perhaps for the first time ever. I expect to find anything but what I do—genuine
empathy
, which is completely different and far less infuriating than sympathy, and no hint of any hidden agenda.

It’s new and completely shocking, so much so that I teeter, feeling a bit light-headed.

“Because I thought maybe you could use some. Because it’s the right thing to do.” His eyes seem to melt from their usual icy blue to that of gentle pools of endless, serene azure. And when he speaks next, his voice is empty of arrogance or finesse, but full of impact. “Because it’s you.”

I let out a sharp gasp, set even more aback by those three ominous words. It must be a while before I make any other noise or movement, because he starts to leave and makes sure to get in the last word as he does. “You think about it. You know where to find me. And Hen?” I peer over at him. “It really is damn good to see you again.”

Absolutely infuriating as ever…but at least he didn’t ask about buying my farm.

I HAVEN’T THE FAINTEST
idea how long I’ve been out here, but Bourbon’s holding strong, only leaving my side a few times to get a drink from the river and immediately return. “Rival River” I’d named it in my head, long ago, because it’s the marker that splits Calvert property from that of my “rival”—Cash land.

In fact, it’s where I first met Keaton Cash.

I was eight when Grandpa finally went into the nursing home and Mom took over the farm, which would have put Keaton at about ten.

I’d snuck off to explore, always the “ornery” one of us as mom said, “brave” if you were asking me. Either way, I was alone that day.

I was looking for critters—bugs, crickets, frogs—when he came crashing into my sanctuary.

“So, which one are you?” he asks, rudely, obviously thinking starting with a “hello” or his own introduction was unnecessary.

“Which one what?” I counter right back, giving the bratty boy my meanest face, muddy hands propped on my hips

“Twin.” He picks up a rock and skips it…four bounces, big deal. “My dad said there’s two of you and your Mama, no daddy though.”

I pick up a rock of my own…and throw it across the river as hard as I can, barely grazing his leg with it. “You and your dad should mind your own business!” I stick out my tongue, since the rock thing hadn’t worked out as well as planned.

“It is our business. Wanna know why?”

I may only be eight, but I’m not stupid—so I know he’s going to tell me no matter what I say, so I humor him. “Sure.”

“My dad says there’s no way your Mom can handle two kids and a big farm all by herself, so won't be long before she sells it to us. Then it’ll be ours. And that makes it our business.”

“Well, my mom said that boys have smaller brains than girls,” she hadn’t really, “so you’re…you’re just a big stupid head! We’ll help my mom with this farm, and it’ll be better than yours! So you and your dad can go suck an egg!”

He’d laughed at me and shook his head like I was a silly twit, hoping for the hopeless. And that was just the beginning of what became a long-standing, ever-growing hatred I held for Keaton Cash.

I never told him “which one” I was either…he figured it out all on his own. Nosy bastard.

The sun begins its decent, the natural transition of day to dusk, about the time my stomach starts growling, so I decide to head back to the house.

When I get inside, the answering machine is blinking with a new message. I can’t help my small grin— who still has a landline, let alone an archaic answering machine?

My mother, that’s who, and probably everyone else in Ashfall over the age of forty. Change simply isn’t welcomed around these parts.

I press the play button and listen to Donna’s always perky voice reel off all the details of my mother’s final arrangements.

Set to happen in two days, beginning with an evening memorial service at the funeral home.

I have no clue of my mother’s standing in the community—how social she was or wasn’t—but it doesn’t matter, there’ll be more people in attendance than I even know. And the thought of even just one showing up is every bit as terrifying as one-hundred.

Not that the whole town doesn’t already know I’m back; between Addison no doubt informing her generation, and Donna, albeit harmless, unable to stop herself from telling the Bridge Club. But everyone being aware is a whole different beast than actually having to face them…all at once.

While memorializing, then burying, my mother.

I’D SWEAR THE TWO
days never happened. It feels like the call just came two minutes ago…but it’s time. Gatlin rides with me to the memorial service, unasked but very much appreciated. I’m pretty sure he knows how wrapped up in a ball of nerves I’ve spent the last couple, almost non-existent, days. Barely eating or sleeping. But I now feel somewhat better, knowing this seemingly dependable man, no longer what I consider a stranger, will be there with me.

“I’ll be right beside you, Henley. If it’s too much and you want to leave, just let me know.”

That’s certainly an option, one which I’ve already considered, but adamantly dismissed. Why go at all if only to just run out, once again proving to everyone I’m weak…disappearing anytime things get tough?

No, I’m not seventeen anymore, and
it’s my mother
. I won’t be the runner this time. I’m done giving away undeserved power for free. This town no longer gets to shame me into hiding, or robbing me of a single, final moment I will ever have with the woman who gave me life.

We arrive about fifteen minutes early, on purpose, and we’re still late. I’d forgotten how Ashfall time worked—if you’re not at least thirty minutes early—you’re late.

Nelson’s parking lot is packed and the hardware store’s lot next to it is half-full with the overflow. People are stopped at the door of the funeral home, waiting in line to enter.

“Okay, no, no fucking way, oh my God!” I ramble out my panic in one long string…then yelp, “What was that?”

“You ran over the curb,” Gatlin doesn’t
quite
laugh, or
quite
sigh, but he’s straining to hold in some kind of reaction over there. “Henley, how ‘bout you get out and head on in, people will let you pass, and I’ll park then meet you inside. Sound good?”