“They look delicious, Bee. The boys will love them.” I pause, glancing at the serving tray. “Where are the broken ones?”
“Oh, I didn’t think you were serious. I didn’t frost them. They’re in that container.” A circular, plastic butter tub holds the broken cookies separate from the rest.
“I told you I want all the pieces,” I remind her, and she shyly grins. I’ll take every scrap of her she’s willing to give, and something tells me Beverly is willing or at least wanting. Wanting more than what she has, more than who she is, and maybe even wanting me.
“Come outside with me so the boys can thank you properly and you can see our progress.”
She doesn’t argue but reaches for her arm crutches and stands from her seat at the table. She is getting better at maneuvering with them. She only needed more practice. She watches me as my claw hooks the tray, and my other hand grabs the opposite edge. The wheels spin, questioning my ability, and I’m ready to remind her I’m building a barn, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just follows me.
My fingers twitch as I carry the tray, the desire to touch her greater than the force of a magnet. I want to draw her close again, run my fingers through her hair, and inhale her scent. Vanilla and heat is her fragrance today. Her skin is addicting. She’s a smooth plank compared to my sandpaper touch, but she still has rough edges and potential splinters that need sanding.
“How are you paying these men for their time? You have endless funds or something?” Or something, I think as she interrupts my thoughts of caressing her neck. I decide to tell her the partial truth.
“I’m paying them with a couple of cases of beer and some pizzas.” I chuckle, but Beverly stumbles. “You okay?” I’ll be ditching this tray if I think she’ll fall over. She’s shaky at best as she walks, robotic and stiff. Just out of practice, I remind myself, but she’s improving.
“Yeah, I just...I don’t drink, so that’s a surprising payment.” Her face lowers toward the dirt at our feet.
“You don’t drink? Like ever?” She doesn’t go out, but I assumed she drank an occasional glass of wine at home, but then I realize that’s insensitive. Maybe she’s on medication that shouldn’t mix with alcohol, or maybe she isn’t much of a drinker.
“The accident,” she starts and abruptly stops. Was she hit by a drunk driver? Goddamn asshole, does he or she know what they did to her?
“I was drunk, and I drove. I could have killed a man or myself. I vowed never to drink again.”
I stop walking, stunned. What caused her to drink and drive? It’s a question I don’t ask. In fact, I take too long to respond as we’ve reached the edge of the construction. Kodiak sees me first, dropping his hammer to come assist me.
“Cookies.” He grins like an eager child instead of a twenty-something adult. He pops a cookie into his mouth before he takes the tray from me and groans in pleasure. Beverly chuckles, and the sound surprises me. Rich. Deep. Heat rushes her cheeks despite the cool November air. Her grin is lopsided but genuine, and I want to frame this image of her in my memory. Actually, I want to kiss her, and the thought stumps me again.
I’ve gone from wanting this land to wanting this woman.
“What do you say?” I nod at Kodiak, dismissing my eager lips and ogling Beverly to remind him of his manners.
“’Ank ’ew,” Kodiak mutters around a mouthful of cookie like a kid instead of a grown-up. He nods as he spins away, and I turn to Beverly. A strange desire to hold her envelops me. I want to pull her close and tell her it’s okay. We all make mistakes in life. We all bleed, and then we heal.
Instead, I swallow a lump in my throat and dismiss what she told me. “I think it’s about to get as ugly as starved cannibals finding prey,” I tease.
“It isn’t much.” A piece of hair blows across her face. The wayward tendril softens the sternness of her face, and not for the first time do I think Beverly could do with a little disheveling. She was wound too tight when her hair was bound, and her clothing wasn’t quite right for her shape. Her new haircut and color are surprisingly attractive. The white is so bright but fresh. Today, she wears new jeans and a thick sweater, and there’s a spark to her eyes as she stands in the sunshine and looks out over the land. The peaceful look reminds me of when she told me about her flowers.
“Come up with any interests yet?”
“Excuse me?” She rouses from her thoughts.
“Interests. Think of something?”
“Oh, not yet.” She squints as she looks off into the distance, and I follow her line of sight. Down this path, the trail narrows but leads to another house, another farmstead, one that no longer exists. It’s been swallowed into the Townsen property.
“Whatcha thinking about then?”
Beverly shakes her head and turns to me. “I was just recalling how when I first moved here, I thought it was a dream come true. All this land, this space, freedom to roam, but then it became a prison. I slaved on this property for Ewell and Howard. Then Ewell died, and Howard left. After the accident, it felt like solitary confinement, and I forgot how much I enjoyed the openness.” It’s the most honest thing Beverly’s said to me minus the drunk driving admission, and I’m taken aback. All the pieces, I decide. Eventually, we’ll have a complete cookie, one whole and crisp with smooth, decorative frosting, but for now, I’ll take the crumbs she gives me.
Continuing with the surprises, Beverly also made up a pot of chili, which the boys devoured. We’d finished all the foundation work, and Beverly chuckled when she noted the stable building would take more than a day with six ornery men taking breaks to eat her treats.
By nightfall, I’m exhausted from a day’s labor but rejuvenated with hope for the future. The prospect for Quarter Horses is coming along, and I have the go-ahead from my partner to purchase. The reality of my dream is taking shape even if I don’t own this land.
Hasting, I curse. What a fucking idiot. How do you lose your family’s land? Then again, Hasting had issues, gambling being one of them, and then he used his son who didn’t understand the repercussions of a big man’s game—poker. Boone liked card games, and Hasting used fifty-two pick up to teach Boone all kinds of stuff, but mainly how to cheat at high stakes. After decades of owning his family’s land, he squandered it on five cards, and I vow again that one day, I’ll reclaim what should have been mine, despite not being blood.
I’m thinking these thoughts as I work the makeshift shower I designed in the barn. Running a hose to another corner of the large open space, I linked the rubber tube over a metal rod and hooked it in place with an S-hook. A showerhead on a pull string does the trick. An old wood pallet works as a base and keeps my feet from the dirt ground. It’s rustic and cold as ice cream on the tongue, but I’m clean. I’m tired of hiking over to Grady’s office for a wash, and while I don’t love a cool shower, it works on a night full of memories like this one.
Boone. My kid brother was never a worker but a slacker, or so I thought until I realized he wasn’t quite like the rest of us. Boone could weasel his way out of hard labor like a mouse slipping through a hole the size of a pencil. He was equally as squeaky, going on and on if he was told to participate and stalling long enough for the day to end without much production from him. Mother babied him, and she was never as soft on Janice or me. I didn’t hate Boone. I understood he needed special treatment.