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A few shops ahead of us, the door of the hardware store opened up, and the lungs I’d just emptied locked shut.
Because there was Keaton Meyer.
Sighting Keaton in the wild was a rare and unheard of event. But when my gaze did happen to be blessed by his visage, I lost all higher function of my brain and body, leaving me staring like a fool at a man no one might ever have, least of all me.
He was a beast of a man, rugged in that unaffected way, with a short but slightly unkempt beard and a head of hair I found myself envious of, the gentle waves licking the collar of his flannel shirt. He was a thunderhead, brewing lightning behind eyes black and depthless. His shirt was cuffed just below his elbows, I suspected because the folded material couldn’t house the masses of his biceps. The effect was more intense than I anticipated. His forearms were bigger around than my arm, traced with veins and dusted with dark hair. At the end of each was a hammer of a fist, one clutching a plastic bag.
Keaton had always been the stoic Meyer brother, but when his dad died nearly five years ago and his wife shortly after, he disappeared. Physically and otherwise.
I knew a little bit of the feeling.
I realized I was gawking, and on noticing what had stopped my clock, my sisters shared a wicked smile.
He, however, didn’t see us. He didn’t seem to see anyone. His brow was flat, as were his lips. Gravity affected him differently, pulling him, body and soul, into the ground. As if bearing the weight of his burden took everything he had, every minute, every breath of every day.
“Well, hey Keaton!” Jo called.
“Iris Jo,” I hissed at her back, since she was already on the move in his direction.
He stopped, surprised at the sound of his name. His dark brows clicked together as he looked us over, lingering on me.
Flushed, I put on a smile.
“How’s it going?” Jo asked.
“Good,” he answered, though his eyes shifted in search of escape. “I was just on my way back to a job site. Needed a couple things.” He lifted the bags in that hammer fist a little.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in a year,” Jo said. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Don’t be nosy, Jo,” I scolded. “I’m sorry. What she’s trying to say is, it’s good to see you.”
A sort-of chuckle—just a puff through his nose. “S’ppose it was when we worked on Main Street. ‘Bout six months ago, if I recall.”
“That’s right,” Jo started. “Meyers construction saved the day. There was no way we could revamp Main Street without your help. And now we’ve filled up more than half the closed stores, thanks to your hard work. Very generous.” Her tone indicated that she was speaking more for my benefit than his.
“We were glad to help.” He paused awkwardly, his eyes darting to his truck, which was parked almost in within his arm’s reach. “Well, I should be—”
“I said get outta here!” came an angry male voice from behind Keaton.
Keaton’s eyes narrowed as he turned to find Doug Windley arched over a homeless man sitting between building doors, one of them Doug’s liquor store. The man was an indeterminate age, with sagging jowls and shaking hands that reached for his belongings.
Keaton threw his bags in the bed of his truck and stalked toward the disturbance with the three of us in his wake.
“There a problem here?” he asked Doug darkly.
“Yeah, there’s a problem—nobody wants to be panhandled while tryin’ to get their beer, and I want him outta my doorstep. Outta my damn town.” His face was red and splotchy, his finger pointing into the distance and jabbing for emphasis.
Keaton reached to help the man up, ignoring Doug. “You all right, sir?”
“I’ll be on my way,” he said with a sandpaper voice, hurrying to pick up his dusty bags.
Keaton grabbed one. “If you don’t have anywhere to be, I’d be happy to bring you back with me, get you a hot meal and a shower.”
Stunned, the man nodded. “Yessir.”
“And if you know your way around tools, I might just have some work for you too.”
Incensed, Doug nipped at Keaton’s heels as they walked away. “It’s y’all who’re keeping all these vagrants here. It’s like feedin’ cats—they’re just gonna keep on comin’ and bringin’ their friends. These freeloaders are gonna ruin this town.”
“We get it, Doug,” he said without looking. “Pretty sure they heard you on Third Street.”
“Damn you, Keaton. Your daddy never would have stood for it.”
At that, Keaton stopped dead. Turned slowly. Took a step toward Doug, who shrank on the realization of what he’d just summoned. “If that’s what you think, you didn’t know my father at all. And if you so much as whisper an unkind word on his name, you’ll be drinking out of a straw for a month. Now, go on back inside before I change my mind and do you that favor now.”
