Homesickness kicks the door down. I’m only twenty-three years old, but Lord, I’m so tired, I could lay down in the grave by my daddy and sleep. I’d rest, just watch the grass wave overhead, the trees flip their leaves, and the birds rustle at the edge of the clearing.
But I can’t. I’ve still got so much living to do, even if it hurts. It’s not my responsibility to bury this body—that’s for Landis to do when the time is right.
“You miss it?” I ask.
He blinks, focusing on me. “What?”
“You miss the mountains?” I whisper. “The creeks, the hollers?”
His throat bobs. “Yeah, but I don’t want to go back.”
“I’d go in a second,” I say. “I’d give it all up to just go home to my trailer in Harlan and raise Landis there. I’m fine with having nothing but my freedom.”
The corner of his mouth turns up, and his eyes are so sad.
“Tell me about it,” he says hoarsely.
Pushing myself up further, I let myself indulge in homesickness. “There was a long dirt road that turned into my drive. My trailer sat to the right, up on cinder blocks. It was old, but my mama kept it spotless. We cleaned every day at three, no exceptions. Up on the opposite side of the hill was a path that led to the clearing. Our family cemetery was on the left, and there was a grove of pawpaws that ran right up to it.”
His lids flicker. “You eat them?”
“Grew up on them,” I say, letting myself smile. “Pawpaw bread, pie, raw from the tree. I’d eat them until I was sick when they were in season.”
He’s quiet.
“What happened to your land?” he asks finally.
Anger seeps through the homesickness. “My mama let Leland sell it and give her the money. I think he didn’t want there to be anything for me to go back to.”
He’s thinking. I see his eyes moving under lowered lids.
“You didn’t want to marry him?” he says finally.
A wave of panic moves through me, and I breathe, letting it flow. The path that led me to being Leland’s wife is confusing. There are parts of it I’m still trying to understand, but I know some of it for certain.
“He met me at a diner one day while he was passing through,” I say, voice steady. “He came down the next day, just kept coming back. My mama wanted me to stay with him. She’d had a real hard time raising me alone, and I felt selfish not sacrificing.”
His jaw works.
“Plus, he knocked me up,” I say. “That sealed the deal.”
“How’d he do it?” he says.
God, he’s bold.
“With his dick. How do you think?” I snap. “After last night, surely, you don’t need me explaining how babies get made.”
His eyes narrow, studying me. He’s sharp, and it’s making me squirm. Finally, he stands and pushes the chair to the side. I cringe as he crosses the room and leans across the bed, reaching for the cuffs. They clink, then release. Frowning, I rub the red line on my wrist.
“That was overkill,” I say.
“Get up,” he says.
Shakily, I rise, wrapping my arms around my breasts. He jerks his head toward the door. “Put my shirt on and go downstairs and make me a cup of coffee. I got some phone calls to make.”
“So…are you going to help me?” I whisper.
He checks his gun and puts it in the bedside table, locking it. When he turns, there’s a frown creasing his forehead.
