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But on the other… those bastards, if they even dared to try and take it away from me. I feel my pulse quicken and entire body starts to tense as if in a fight.
“You’re right, Mathilda,” I say in a low voice. She turns around to face me, her expression expectant. “That farm ismine. Pa left it to me, and me alone. It’s my name on the deed, myhusbandbe damned. It’s mine and one day it’ll belong to my child. And no one else.”
“Good, Darcy. Go get it back then.”
I will, I vow to myself as I hold my growing baby bump.I’ll do whatever it takes, for me and for my family.
14
DARCY
The bus is absolutely awful.Guess I just blocked out that last trip deliberately.The oversized vehicle hits a pothole and bounces wildly. I feel my stomach heave with the motion.
Nope, it’s worse than my trip here.
I’m finally on my way back to the farm.Myfarm,I correct myself. Although I didn’t have much in the way of packing, I took a couple of days to wrap up my Montana life and prepare myself for what I might encounter back home.
Outside, the sky is gray and cloudy, matching my mood. I’m sad to leave Mathilda – she is such a kind woman – but I know I’m doing the right thing.
Before I left yesterday, Mathilda had handed me an envelope filled with cash. When I protested, she had merely shushed me and handed me a knitted blanket with a smile. “It’s for the baby,” she said, brooking no dissent.
Now, the cash is carefully divided between my purse, suitcase, and person, and the baby blanket wrapped with equal care between shirts so as not to snag. It’s the first gift for my little one, and I cherish it more than I can say.
I close my eyes to try and rest, but different scenarios of what’s to come keep playing across my mind. In one scene, I imagine the entire farm has been burned to bits, razed by the McLaughlins until nothing is left. The crops are darkened husks, the house smoldering remains, and even the vegetable garden lost to their vile antics.
I shiver at my apocalyptic thoughts and pull my jacket closer around me. Outside, the rain starts to fall even harder.
Scenario two is almost worse, I admit.Probably because it’d be my fault. In this imagined situation, the farm is gone to shit, but not because of the McLaughlin brothers. No, it’s becauseIabandoned it. The windows are broken from summer storms, the furniture molding, and the fence completely fallen down.
I don’t even want to think about the poor animals.
I’d been smart enough to let the mare and Miss Bethy loose in the pasture before I left, and to open up the chicken coop as well, but now, thinking about how they might have suffered because of my recklessness, I’m heartbroken all over again.
Those chickens don’t know their asses from their heads,I think gloomily. Miss Bethy was going lame too.I try again to sleep but my dreams are full of despair, making for a terrible ride on the bumpy bus.
Close to dusk, the Greyhound finally pulls into the bus station near my home.It’s eerie to be back.Although it’s only been six months, the town feels different than before. I resolve to not think too much about how I’ll reestablish myself within the community, but instead call for a taxi using my phone.
It’smyfarm, I repeat fiercely. No one can take it from me.
It’s a short ride in the cab, just a few miles, but it feels like forever. Eventually, the driver pulls up to the wire gate. It’s open, just as I had left it before, and steeling myself for whatever may happen next, I take a deep breath as we trundle down the driveway to my home.
I gasp audibly.
The house looks amazing!
Quickly I pay the driver, grab my things, and hop out of the cab. As the car pulls away, I stand stock-still and stare at my house.
The entire exterior has been repainted and the glossy, clean, cream color is brilliant in the fading sunset. Every window is gleaming and the shutters are all freshly repainted too in a homey forest green. The porch has obviously been pressure-washed and newly stained, its dark wood shiny and swept clean. All along the porch, the bushes have been trimmed, and wildflowers grow in pots and baskets along its sides.
As I walk closer, I see that the front door has been replaced and a hearty oak one stands in its place. The screen door, too, is new: a glossy, sleek black metal with delicate metalwork of flowers and leaves. Further down the porch, in the shadows, I see the glider hanging from the rafters above, repainted and looking like new.
Much to my surprise, the front porch light – which has never in my life worked properly – clicks on as I slowly approach the house, illuminating the entire porch and surrounding yard. I pause on the bottom step, unsure what to make of all of these improvements.Who did this?
As if in answer to my silent question, the front door opens suddenly. Backlit by the lights blazing inside the house, the huge shadow of a man fills up the doorway.
Immediately, I catch my breath.
Ranger.
