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“Gracie, no,” he hisses weakly. “You can’t.”
I don’t know why I bothered to ask.
I knew who did it the second he tried to shrug it off as nothing. Still do.
The same asshole who’d always called him ‘Slick.’
The same brutish, bear-faced man who leered at me with every smile, who handwrote give my best to Gracie in a note fixed to the blood red roses he’d sent for Mom’s funeral.
The monster.
The man I wish—yes, wish—to utterly destroy.
But I’ll settle for having him gone.
Present
Dad fought tooth and nail that day in the hospital room when I could see him again.
He begged me to keep my mouth shut, don’t say anything, didn’t I understand it’d be the end of us?
The way he said it with tears in his dark eyes was scary persuasive.
But I’d won that day, to a point.
I did go along with his story that he’d been cleaning his gun and it accidentally discharged. The doctors doubted it, but eventually let it go, because I’d corroborated Dad’s tale.
I told the police where they could find Dad’s .45, the same caliber as the bullet they dug out of him.
Thank God they never followed up or asked to see the gun.
It hadn’t been recently fired.
I knew that for sure.
It was on my nightstand. I’d taken permit classes over the past year and kept it in my bedroom because I knew Clay was far from done.
He still isn’t.
Never will be.
It makes me sick.
Angry-sick at myself, mostly, as I spin around, leaving my cup in the kitchen. I grab my coat and throw the door open.
The sun is out today in force. God, I wish I could enjoy the warmth.
Relish an ounce of hope that I can end all of this, some way.
But Clay has men, loyal guns who’ll keep hunting us down for as long as he says.
I head for the barn. Despite the anger, the grief, the disgust living inside me, I have to grin at a shrieking crow that greets me.
I’d like to think that’s how Cornelius Pecker says hello.
The rooster flaps his wings, sitting on the top rail of Stern’s stall.
He belts out another heavy metal cock-a-doodle-doo! Just like he’s not sure that I’d heard him the first time.
Stern snorts and lays his ears back as he twists his long neck to shoot a dirty look at Cornelius.
“He’s just saying good morning, I think,” I tell Stern and then nod at the chicken. “Good morning to you, too, Cornelius.”
The rooster flaps his wings loudly and then struts along the rail. I’ve never seen a muscular chicken before, but this one looks like he could beat up every other bird in town.
Stern snorts again, thoroughly done with his crap, and I laugh.
This is Cornelius’ roost and apparently he’s not going to let anyone forget it.
He’s got his pride, I have to give him that.
I feed and water the horses and Cornelius, then open the wide doors leading into the corral. The snow has melted considerably. It’s actually starting to feel like what must pass for spring heat in rural North Dakota.
I walk out into the corral and around it, through the center, back and forth several times, looking for any icy patches that the horses might slip on. A broken leg would be a final straw right now.
The ground feels firm, but not slick.
So I walk back inside and let both Stern and Rosie out of their stalls. Their hooves clop the ground softly as they follow the fresh air blowing in.
As I’m following them into the corral, I look at Cornelius. “What about you, my man? Want to get a little sun?”
As if he knows exactly what I said, he flutters down off the stall and walks to the door with us, his long white tail feathers waving with each step.
Out in the bright sunshine again, I can’t help but appreciate the beauty.
Not just the sunny day, but the place itself.
It’s a gorgeous ranch.
Private, isolated, remote, and totally country despite the multimillion-dollar estate.
Anyone would feel safe out here tucked in their own little luxury island among the fields that must green up beautifully in the summer and the rolling hills in the distance. North Dakota doesn’t have the kind of sky-kissing mountains you find farther west, but it’s pretty in its own way.
A loud thud breaks my trance, staring off at the horizon.
I spin around, recognize Ridge, and try to act like he hasn’t just scared the bejeezus out of me.
He knows my cold, aloof statue thing is an act.
At least he doesn’t say it.
The look in his eyes tells me without words.
God. It’d be so easy to tell him what was truly going on when I freaked out on him in his office.
Well, maybe not easy, but it might be nice to share the weight, the burden, if only it weren’t my cross to bear.
