“She hurts differently than we do,” Carly remarked quietly with unassuming wisdom as she turned to go back into the kitchen. “But she still hurts.”
Maren smiled sweetly at her youngest sister. Pulling off each shoe, she left them on the ground near the pellet stove and opened the front door to step out onto the porch. The weathered gray wood was rough and warm on her bare feet. The air smelled of horses and sunshine. Her mother’s muck boots leaned against the yellow siding of the house and though they were a size too small and pinched in the toes, she pulled them onto her feet and plodded off the deck and into the dirt.
In the distance, she could see Josie at the barn on the lowest spot on the property. Her sister rolled a wheelbarrow packed with hay over the rocky soil, guiding it steadily down the hillside. The horses knew it was feeding time and they galloped in from the pasture like a dinner bell had chimed, their racing hooves creating swells of dust that looked magical in the golden light. It rose up in swirly billows like smoke.
Josie quickly had nine snorting equines surrounding her, their hot breath and large faces close as they pushed their way toward their food. For a moment so fleeting Maren almost missed the sensation, the older sister in her wanted to race down to take charge. The horses were not allowed to crowd like this uninvited. They knew better. Maren stood there, watching all of the years of their dad’s hard training fall away in an instant with this show of disobedience. But just as Maren was about to run to her rescue, Josie had all of their horses backing up in step, giving her the room and the respect she deserved. Their heads hung low, their pawing ceased, and their ears pricked forward in attention.
Something filled Maren’s chest with a burning warmth. Years ago, Josie wouldn’t have done this. She would’ve cowered behind their father as he showed his steeds who was boss in his firm, yet kind, way. In Maren’s years on the ranch, she’d learned this necessary control, but never before had she seen it in her sister.
She sat on the last step of the porch and slipped the boots from her feet, discarding them right there in the flowerbed as she admired the woman her sister had become in her absence.
In the face of sorrow and grief, Josie had somehow found her strength.
Maren realized right then and there that she no longer had an excuse. She, too, had to search for her own.
10
Grady
“Need a hand?”
Grady hollered out the rolled down window, but with the engine roaring the angry growl of too many miles and too little maintenance, he doubted the man heard him. Killing it, he coasted to the shoulder and hopped down from the cab once the truck rocked to a full stop. The door wasn’t any quieter as it squealed on the worn hinges. All of the noise Grady made should’ve grabbed the man’s attention, but apparently his wasn’t available for grabbing.
The stranger dabbed at his brow with his paisley tie, his head low and shaking as he stared at the offending blown tire like it purposefully had it out for him. The muttered curse words were to really put that tire in its place, Grady figured. He tried not to snicker, but held it in just about as successfully as masking a sneeze.
“Can I help you?” he asked again, collecting the smirk on his face.
It was hot already, and the sun’s glare through the unfiltered sky indicated they were only creeping up on the day’s peak temperature. It would turn into what old Betty Bockin’s down at the diner called “the hottest day this side of Hades.” No wind, no promise of the stifling air dissipating after sundown, no respite from triple digit heat. One of those days where merely hoisting your legs over the side of the bed caused a sweat to break out along your brow.
But Grady was used to this heat and the fine layer of dust that stuck to him like an ugly fake tan. Nothing was more satisfying than a cold shower at the end of a blistering day, watching the brown water swirl down the drain in a dirty whirlpool. That was the mark of a good day. A productive one.
This poor man in front of him, though—the one still not aware of his presence—he was wilting under the intense summer skies.
“Sir?” Grady coughed.
“Oh, thank goodness,” the stranded man groaned as he swiped his hands on his slacks and then stretched one Grady’s way.
Grady took his proffered hand into his grip. It was a soft hand, both in texture and limpness in the shake. Walt always told Grady to never shake hands like a dead fish. One was to grip firmly, not rest it there in some noncommittal manner. Like Grady could show this stranger the ways of a proper handshake, he really gave it a good, secure grasp. He hadn’t meant to startle him, but it seemed like this guy was easily rattled. Not that the exploding tire had done much to help that.
“What are we looking at here?” After dropping his hand, Grady walked around the vehicle. The emblem on the hood alone cost more than ten head of cattle. He could see by the way the man wiped at the side mirror with the untucked hem of his shirt that this amount of dust didn’t typically cover the fine sports car.
Noticing Grady’s sidelong glance, the man pushed his dress shirt back into his waistband and straightened his spine, perking up. “I don’t know what happened. I must’ve run over something and busted the tire. I was looking for this address.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and flicked it toward Grady.
Uncurling the sheet, Grady glanced down, then back up at the stranger.
County Road 44.
“Yup.” He thrust the paper back, glad to get it out of his hands. “I know the place. Need a lift?”
“Really? That would be great.”
Grady doubted the man would still think it was great once he got a whiff of the inside of the truck, but he was glad to help out all the same. “Name’s Grady.” He tipped his hat, fingers pinching the brim.
“Adam.”
If he’d been put off by the stench that couldn’t really be pinpointed to anything in particular other than the fact that Grady’s truck was old and old things tended to stink, Adam didn’t let it show. If anything, he appeared relieved to be out of the sun. Looking over, Grady shoved the tab on one of the air vents so it hit Adam, even though the air blowing through it was warm at best. Definitely not cool air, but it took the edge off just a little.
“You from around here?” Grady knew the answer, but had to ask it. One of those polite gestures of small talk.
“Can I really pass myself off as a local?” There was an almost sad hope to his ignorance.
“Yeah, sure.” Grady found himself nodding. “Absolutely.”
Adam wouldn’t stick out completely like a sore thumb, maybe just a bruised pinky. He was tall, fit, and had longish dark hair that—if tucked under a Stetson—could make him look like he belonged out on the farm. Put him up on a horse and assuming he had any sort of balance, he’d be fine. He didn’t strike Grady as the ranch working sort, but there were all kinds of men in these parts.
“I have a feeling you’re just being nice, but I’ll take it. I’m here on business, from the Bay Area. I came up on the train a few days ago since my car had been in the shop after I was rear ended on the Bay Bridge. They delivered it yesterday, and now I’ve gone and blown a tire. My luck sure seems to be running out.”