That Galen could think such things, all without proof. All based on his gut, and the way his body reacted, half-leaning in Bede’s direction. Half-wishing it was night so they could go to Galen’s tent and pound out their differences on that solid iron cot. And maybe get in a swim. Alone. Just the two of them.
None of that could happen until he got all of this sorted out. He reached to touch Bede, then after trailing a finger along Bede’s strong jaw, he shook his head.
“I’ve got to go to the farm, take care of some business,” he said.
“Did the cows get out?” asked Bede, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin, as if to welcome the idea that any of this was a joke.
“Yeah, something like that,” said Galen. “Look. You guys have the rest of the afternoon off. I’ll be back by dinner. And then after? Maybe a swim, just the two of us?”
“Yes,” said Bede. His eyebrows flew up, and that smile widened. “I’ll keep an eye on those dimwits, no problem.”
“Dimwits?” asked Galen, trying not to laugh at this.
“Lunkheads, then,” said Bede. He spread his hands, like he was making a huge concession. “Definitely lunkheads.”
Shaking his head, Galen had to force himself to go, had to march himself to the nearest silver truck and drive up Highway 211 to the farm, which was just above where Chugwater Creek and Threemile Creek met.
The Threemile gave the farm enough water to grow lavender and support goats and bees, creating a good place, a sturdy farm that had been enough for him and his dad. But none of it was enough for the Conners family, evidently.
Chapter 33
Galen
Galen announced his arrival at the farm by beeping the horn in the truck as he rolled through the gate. Had there been goats, even secured behind good sturdy fences, they would have gotten out. Earl had always admonished his son to keep the gate closed unless it needed to be opened.
The Conners had been told this, though it didn’t seem to occur to them that rules were there for a good reason.
As Galen parked, he could see the door to the shed was open, that the lavender, which should be coming into full bloom, was drooping in the heat. Which was because, as he could easily see, the irrigation pump was, yet again, not working.
The engine was whirring because the pump was trying to go, but couldn’t.
Someone could easily make sure the system was turned off, take off the lid, and figure out why. Check the wires or the intake valve. Or call for the nearest handyman to fix it. But nobody had.
The Connors had been told how to keep the place running, but evidently Galen’s trust in them had been misplaced.
Heat simmered in the air as Galen took all of this in, fury blazing behind his eyes, his chest pumping hard.
The door on the screened-in porch flapped open. The spring mechanism to control it must have been broken, for the door slammed shut as Mr. and Mrs. Conners, baby Connie in her arms, walked over to him in a pleasant, graceful way.
As if they imagined some Instagrammer was in the bushes filming their every move. As if they did not care in the least that Galen’s world was falling apart around him.
“Thought I’d come out to see you folks,” he said, setting his cowboy hat back a bit on his forehead, in case the shadow of the brim made it seem like he was glaring. “Do some repairs. Maybe to convince you to stay.”
“That’s not going to work for us,” said Dana. “We’ve got papers for you to sign releasing us from further obligations.”
“Like damage to my farm and crops?”
Galen’s question came out clipped and hard and he didn’t care. They’d gotten a lawyer involved when a good farewell handshake, and some understanding about the deposit, would have worked just as well. On the other hand, they were out good money that they didn’t have to spend, and too bad for them.
“Come on in,” said Dana, nonchalant, waving Galen close in a friendly way. Inviting Galen inside his own home. “Everything’s ready for you to sign.”
The porch was warm, but not overly so, but the inside of the house was cool, a blessing on such a hot summer day. It was the way the house had been built, decades before, a century, maybe. With thick stone foundations, and stone halfway up the first story. The windows were thick, keeping changes in temperature out, and the whole of it had been well maintained.
Now, though, the inside of the house had been decorated and set up as though there might be a troop of lookie-loos marching through at any moment, hoping to get a glimpse of how things worked. At the little cameras on tripods. There were circle lights, just about everywhere he looked. Lace draped over the side ofthe sofa in a useless way. Dried flowers, artistic and crumbling, were strung from the ceiling.
In the kitchen, the wooden farm table was covered with a flowered tablecloth. Which didn’t look bad, just out of place.
On the table was a folder. As Dana spread the papers out and handed Galen a pen, it was easy to see, because Galen could read, that the form required Galen to release the Conners from any and all responsibility and damages, and that he would not impinge on future use of images, moving and still, that might show the farm as the Conners had used it—in perpetuity.
