Page 10 of Slow Burn

I follow the sound of my father’s voice, his familiar deep timber rumbling through the house. Whatever he’s said is followed by a bellow of a laugh, a sound I haven’t heard in years, if not decades. Not since our mom left, anyway.

But my heart stops when I reach the threshold of the door and see what–or who–it was that made him laugh like that. I figured I’d escape interacting with our visitor, having spent all evening getting my cows out of the road.

Clearly I misjudged how long my dad can sit and gab with anyone who stops by. Because sitting at my kitchen table, long legs stretched across to an opposite kitchen chair, bare feet poised on the seat, is Lyla fucking Morgan.

Chapter 5

Lyla

I have to crane my neck to take in the expansive foyer as Wade Hollis leads me through his house. The place is huge, but not ostentatious. The massive ranch house has been built from logs, and everything in here is either a warm wood grain or painted a deep, rich green.

Austin suggested I come by the house to talk to Wade about how I might be able to help out on the ranch. Back when Austin was left with nothing to his name, it was Wade that had offered him a job and a place to live. No questions asked. He gave him a steady paycheck and a roof over his head, but he also supported him the way a father would.

I’m not exactly one to go looking for handouts or favours, but Austin seemed to think that Wade wouldn’t hesitate to help another Morgan.

The question is, how? It’s been almost a decade since I set foot on a cattle ranch, and I never took Farming 101 as an elective in business school. I never saw myself coming back here, let alone looking for work.

I follow Wade from the foyer through to the open-concept living space and kitchen, a wall of floor to ceiling windows opening up before me. Dusk has settled over the Alberta foothills, and it’s too dark to see out to the property, but I can imagine the view.

I remember it. Sage Valley always had the most breathtaking vantage point of the Rocky Mountains.

Tonight though, the focal point of the room is a roaring fire in the hearth on the opposite end of the living room. Flames lick the logs, sending a plume of smoke curling up into the floor to ceiling chimney made entirely of large, smooth river rock.

Wade limps over to the kitchen, and it strikes me how much he’s aged since I’ve seen him last. He wasn’t much older than my father, and there’s a tugging in my chest at the stark reminder that I will never have the privilege of watching my parents age.

“Can I offer you a drink? Whiskey?” Wade asks, pulling himself down a crystal highball glass from one of the cabinets and pouring himself two fingers of golden liquid from the bottle on the counter.

I shake my head. “None for me, thanks. I will take a tea if you have something herbal.”

Wade nods and flicks on the kettle sitting next to the broad gas range before coming to sit across from me at the round kitchen table. He places a plate of Biscoff cookies between us, and I help myself to one.

The light from the hanging pendant light above us casts shadows on Wade’s sun-weathered face that highlight his deep wrinkles.

“So, how ya been, kid?” He asks, taking a cookie of his own. He dips it in his whiskey once before taking a bite.

I consider whether I want to give him my usual answer, or if I want to give him the truth: that I don’t exactly want to be here, jobless and living in a motel, and if given the choice I’d be nowhere close to my old hometown again.

“Could be better,” I say, finding a middle ground between the truth and an outright lie. If I want to make any progress toward landing a job, I can’t tell him I’m miserable about being here.

I’m not one to schmooze, per se. I never have been. I’ve always told it like it is, never watering down my opinions. But that’s what landed me here in the first place. I stuck my foot in my mouth one too many times. “Job hunting is never easy, and I think I’ve reviewed my resume so many times I’m going cross eyed. But it sure is nice to see you again.”

Wade nods contemplatively, his throat bobbing as he swallows his sip of whiskey. He sets his glass down on the wooden table with a clink.

“We’ve sure missed you around here,” he admits. “It was a sad day when you moved to Calgary. Sad day when Austin had to sell off the estate, too. Your parents put a lot of love into that place.” There’s a beat of silence between us before he adds, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring it all up again. I’m sure it’s not something you like to talk about.”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t mind. I think about my parents every day. It’s actually better when people don’t dance around the subject. Makes me feel like I’m not the only one walking this earth who remembers them.”

This is especially true now that the only place holding onto my memories of them has been sold off. Austin had to free up his half of the estate to pay for the legal fees after he got himself into some trouble out at the bar one night.

We don’t exactly see eye to eye on the fact that he sold our family’s property. In fact, I never agreed to it, he never gave me the chance. He told me he didn’t have another option after he broke the news of the sale. Our parents weren’t wealthy except for the land they owned and the love we shared in our family, and Austin needed the money. It was either that or do jail time.

Maybe that’s why I’m still so bitter. He wasn’t exactly the guardian I needed after Mom and Dad died. He rebelled against every new responsibility that was thrust upon him.

Then he lost our home. It wasn’t the first time he let me down, but it was the worst blow by far.

I still carry the hurt with me that my childhood home is no longer mine. The only place I’ve ever felt truly free to be myself, the only place I ever felt truly grounded, now belongs to someone else.

Maybe I’m looking back on my childhood with rose coloured glasses, but something about that place, and my parents… it’s the last time I remember feeling like I belonged somewhere. My job was the one thing I excelled at, and with that gone too, I’m drifting.