“For someone copping a squat in the attic, you seem to know a lot about Devil’s Horn Ranch.”
“I grew up not too far from here. When I was a kid, we used to sneak onto the ranch. Some of my friends drag raced on the old airstrip. Sometimes we’d sit in those rusted out cars, back when this place was abandoned. I even came inside one time and put my foot clean through one of the steps on the front porch. Some big dude named Matteo caught us when I was sixteen. Said he’d call the police and our parents if he ever saw any of us again.”
There’s a huge smile on Aaron’s face.
“What?”
“I hung out on the airstrip when I was fifteen. Got in a lot of trouble back then—that’s another story I’ll tell you sometime if you’re interested.”
“You have a lot of stories,” I say.
“Maybe we can swap a few one day.”
“I don’t have any stories to swap.”
He snorts. “Somehow I think that’s not true. You’ve pretty much been brought up to speed. Any questions?”
“Nope.”
“Since you won’t be needed until tomorrow, what are your plans for today? You know, now that you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I thought I’d walk into town.” He doesn’t need to know why, but I need tampons—one thing the lodge doesn’t seem to have.
He focuses on my foot. “Walk? It’s five miles one way.”
“I’ve done it plenty of times.”
“Not on an injured foot. I’ll drive you.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do. I won’t have you treating me like some charity case.”
“Actually, I have to go to town for supplies.” He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Just add what you need to the list. You can stay here and rest your foot.”
I scan his list.
Toilet stopper thingy
Apples for Rueben
WD-40
Coke
Protein bars
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ll come along.”
“No time like the present. Lora will be meeting the guests shortly. We’ll only be in the way.”
“Let me go fix the other beds first.” I walk away.
He taps my shoulder. “Don’t forget this.” He hands me the phone.
I stuff it into my pocket.
Ten minutes later, I’m in the kitchen, where a beautiful blonde woman with glorious spiral curls is leaning against the counter, drinking iced tea. She eyes me over the glass. I know this look. I’ve been on the receiving end of it many times. She doesn’t like me. Why, I don’t know. We’ve never met.
“Lora, I presume?” I say.
She sets down her glass and wipes her lower lip, appraising me as if I were a snake in the grass. “And you are?”
Aaron comes out of the office. “Oh, good. You’ve met.”
“Not really,” she says.
“Devyn, this is Lora Belmont, our events planner. Lora, this is Devyn, our new housekeeper.”
Lora’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “Housekeeper?”
“That’s right,” he says.
Her judgmental eyes travel all the way from my head to my feet. “You’re a maid?”
“I prefer the term housekeeper,” I say.
“Humph.”
“Are you ready?” Aaron asks.
I hold up a finger. “Let me get my purse from my room.”
“Her room?” Lora asks, aghast. “She’s sleeping here?”
“She is,” Aaron says.
I listen from the hall.
“Mrs. Garcia never did.”
“Mrs. Garcia lived with her son.”
“And Devyn doesn’t have anyone she can live with?”
“It’s no big deal, Lora. The room is empty.”
“How did you find her?” She lowers her voice. “What do you know about her?”
I step back into the kitchen. “Ready. Nice to meet you, Lora. I hope I’ll be seeing you around.” It’s a lie. I don’t want to see her. She either has a thing for Aaron, or she’s really protective of the lodge. Either way, she sees me as the enemy.
“You’re not staying to greet the guests?” she asks.
“I think you can handle it,” Aaron says. “We’re running into town. Call if you need me.”
I can feel her eyes burn into the back of my head as I leave. I climb into the passenger seat of his truck. “She doesn’t like me much.”
He chuckles. “Lora can be brusque. Give it time. She’ll warm up to you.”
“I think it’s you she might want to warm up to.”
“I don’t think so. She’s got a boyfriend.”
We don’t talk much on the way to town. We’re not going into Fort Worth—that’s the city, and the place I try to stay away from. People there might recognize me. Two years is a long time, but not long enough. Somehow, though, I can’t bring myself to go farther away. Am I torturing myself, or trying to hold on to a piece of me I’ll never get back?
I tell Aaron to stop the truck when we reach the corner where Mr. Choi’s market is. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour. Is that long enough for you to run your errands?”
“An hour it is.”
The truck pulls away, and I bypass Mr. Choi’s store and head in the other direction. This small rural town doesn’t offer much, but it has what I need. I cross the street and duck into the free clinic. I step up to the front counter. “Can I please get a care package?”
No need to explain further. They know exactly what I mean. The girl gives me an inviting smile even though she knows I’m swallowing my pride to come here. She sits behind the desk at her twelve-dollar-an-hour job, dealing with indigents like me. Am I still one, now that I have a roof over my head and a sort-of job?
She hands me a nondescript box. I know exactly what’s inside: tampons, pads, a stick of deodorant, small tubes of toothpaste and shampoo, a bar of soap, and two generic pairs of white granny underwear that are way too big for me. All things I can’t buy with my Lone Star Card. Food products only—men must have come up with that rule.
I contemplate giving everything back except the feminine hygiene products, but then think twice about it. I don’t know how long I’ll be at the lodge. What if Maddox or his dad find out about me and kick me out? I should stockpile supplies just in case. I thank the girl and leave.
I’m about to go into Mr. Choi’s store to ask him how much I have left on my card. I don’t want to use it, but it would be nice to know. Then I remember what’s in my pocket. A woman at Social Services said I could keep track of the balance online. It’s been a while since I’ve used a phone, but they haven’t changed all that much in two years. I find the website, input my card info, create an account, and voila! I’ve taken one more step toward normalcy.
I have a phone. The possibilities! I sit on the bench outside the store, open a search engine, and type Roseanne DeMaggio. Immediately, a picture of my stepdad pops up. Of course it does. He’s a congressman. My mother, on the other hand, doesn’t have much of a google-worthy history. She’s a housewife—something Ed insisted on. He also insisted on adopting me, even though I didn’t want him to. I had already been adopted once before, by a man who loved me. Ed didn’t love me. He was doing it for show, to earn him points in the political arena. He was a district attorney running for Congress. He practically based his campaign on the fact that he had adopted a teenager.