Then I slip into the dress, which fits quite nicely.
It’s nothing I would wear usually—too girly and too country. But I’ll admit, it’s pretty, with a ruffled skirt and a row of tiny buttons down the front.
Right as I finish dressing, I hear Celia calling, “Dinner’s ready!” from the kitchen.
I can hear footsteps hurrying from all corners of the house. Sounds like everyone else is as hungry as I am.
We all crowd in around the table, which is set with the mismatched crockery of several different generations. Grady has brought Shelby and the boys over for dinner again, and Bo is already seated, dressed up a little more than usual in torn black jeans and a sleeveless top, with beaded earrings dangling from her ears.
“How come you look so fancy?” Grady asks her.
“I don’t.” Bo scowls.
“Leave her be,” Shelby says. “You’re the last person in the world to give fashion advice.”
I go to the window, to check if Raylan is still out in the pen.
“Don’t worry, he came in a while ago,” Grady says.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“Probably cleaning up. He was a mess.”
Nobody else seems inclined to wait for Raylan—Bo starts dishing up a hearty helping of the chicken pot pie, and Celia passes around a basket of warm rolls.
“Do you always eat together?” I ask Shelby.
“Most nights,” she says cheerily. “But sometimes Celia and Bo come over to our place instead.”
Raylan pointed out their house to me—it sits about a mile away, not visible from the front yard because of the birch trees all around. From what I could see, it’s a little smaller than the ranch house, but newer.
I understand that kind of family structure—mine is similar. You grow up and start your own family, but you all stay intertwined. This ranch is too large to be run by one person or two—it’s an empire of its own type. Like my family’s web of influence in Chicago.
“Hey, save some for me,” Raylan says, coming into the kitchen. His hair looks blacker than ever, still damp from the shower. I can smell the clean scent of his soap and see the flush on his skin from the hot water. He’s actually shaved for once. It makes him look younger, and also reminds me that he’s quite startlingly handsome beneath the beard. I’ve gotten comfortable with him over the last couple of weeks. Now I feel thrown off-kilter, like he’s a stranger all over again.
He sits down right next to me. The sleeve of his flannel shirt brushes against my bare arm. It feels warm and soft and familiar. I relax just a little.
“You want pot pie?” he asks me. “I’ll get it for you.”
His voice is as low and drawling as ever—as familiar as his shirt. It’s funny to hear him talking the same, out of this face that looks leaner and sharper now that it’s shaved clean.
He dishes me up a huge serving of pie.
“Riona helped make that,” Celia says.
“Don’t give me any credit,” I say, shaking my head. “I only chopped onions.”
“That’s the hardest part,” Celia says, smiling at me.
The pot pie is delicious. It is similar to chicken and dumplings, but honestly Celia’s cooking is better than my mother’s. Celia is a master at seasoning the food so that it’s rich and flavorful, but not over the top. Just like how Raylan cooks.
She urges me to have a second helping and makes sure everyone has whatever they want to drink.
She’s been tirelessly kind to me the whole time I’ve been here, making sure I’ve got fresh towels and any toiletries I need. Bo is the same. I guess that’s southern hospitality. Specifically, the way they offer things with such warmth and genuine concern, so you’d feel worse declining the favor than accepting it.
“You look stunning,” Raylan says to me, eyeing the borrowed dress. “That one of yours, Bo?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Auntie Kel gave it to me for my birthday. I’ve never worn it.”
“Kelly’s still trying to turn you into a little lady, huh?” Raylan says. “I admire her persistence, if not her grip on reality.”
“Well, all things work out in the end,” Celia says. “Because it looks beautiful on Riona.”
I have a hard time accepting compliments, or warmth of any kind from people I don’t know well. I’m always looking for the ulterior motive, the hidden agenda. But for some reason, maybe because I know Raylan pretty well by now, or maybe just because his family all has that same attitude of honesty and practicality, I feel relaxed around them. I can enjoy their friendliness and their interest without feeling like they’re prying at me, searching me over for flaws.
“You coming to the dance, too?” Raylan asks Bo.
“I guess,” she says without much enthusiasm.
“Wish I could go,” Shelby says wistfully, resting her hand on her swollen belly.
“You could still come,” Bo says.
“Yeah, but I can’t dance, so what’s the point,” Shelby pouts.
“I’ll swing you around,” Grady says, grinning and slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Who knows, might make the baby come faster.”
“That’s true,” Shelby says, perking up a little.
“Go on,” Celia urges. “I’ll put the boys to bed.”
We all coordinate in clearing the table, rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. I participate in this as if I’ve done it a hundred times before. Nobody leaves the kitchen until the last crumb is wiped off the table. It’s clear that in the Boone family, everyone works together until the job is done. No matter how small that job might be.
Then Raylan, Grady, Shelby, Bo, and me all load into a beat-up Ford truck so we can drive to the dance.
It takes us longer than I expected to get there. I forget that everything is spread so far apart in the country. The Wagon Wheel is almost forty miles away, and that’s forty miles over winding bumpy roads where you can’t travel at nearly the same speed you would on a freeway.
I’m not sure what I thought The Wagon Wheel would look like—I guess I was picturing some pokey little rec center, with a handful of hicks in attendance.
Instead, I see a large historic building, strung with lights and already bumping from the music inside. The lot is packed with trucks of all types, from gleaming Platinum models, all the way down to rusted-up Chevys that look held together with twine.
“I didn’t think that many people lived around here,” I say in surprise.
“The dances are popular,” Raylan says. “People come from all over.”
He leads me inside the building.
The dance floor is packed with people, as is the entirety of the room. It’s a good twenty degrees hotter in here than it is outside. It smells like leather, sweat, liquor, and cigar smoke. Up on stage, a five-piece band plays at full volume. I have no idea what song they’re performing, but it’s loud, upbeat, and raucous. There’s a fiddle and a banjo mixed in with the usual bass, guitar, and drums.
I hadn’t planned to dance. For one thing, I don’t really know how. Not to country music, at least. And I’m not sure if I can look Raylan in the face after what we did this morning.