I park in the dirt drive and step out. Gravel crunches beneath my boots. The air smells like dust and feed, heavy with the faint sweetness of molasses.
Two figures sit on the porch.
My grandparents.
Richard Masterson leans against the rail, cigarette between two fingers, his body a line of bone and sinew under a faded flannel shirt. Laurel sits in the chair beside him, a bowl of peasbalanced on her knees, the rhythmic click of shells breaking the only sound for. Long moment.
They look up when I start walking. Neither smiles.
“Morning,” I say, forcing the word out.
Laurel’s eyes narrow slightly. “You ain’t supposed to be here and you know it. That was the rules.” Her voice is dry as the dirt beneath my boots. Richard flicks ash into the wind and says nothing, his gaze looking right through me.
“I just want to talk.” My palms are slick, heartbeat loud in my ears. “About my mom.”
Laurel’s hands still. The peas stop clicking. “Ain’t nothing to talk about. We got no daughter.”
“Please. I need to understand.” I climb the porch steps, careful not to get to close. “Someone in town said some things yesterday. About what she did to John. That she was practically run out of town.”
Richard exhales a long stream of smoke. “You’d be better off lettin’ the dead rest.”
“I can’t.”
June glances toward him, then back at me. There’s something unreadable in her face, something brittle and old. “That woman left nothing but trouble behind. You did in that dirt, you’ll find more than you want.”
I stare at her and really take her in.
Laural Masterson has a grace to her that doesn’t fit with the cracked, lined skin of her face. The dress she is wearing is faded and worn but I recognize the branding. You don’t grow up in a place like Los Angeles and not recognize designer labels.
There’s more here than I realize.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I still want to know. She was my mother.”
“And she was our daughter.”
Silence stretches. A cow lows somewhere beyond the barn, the sound deep and lonely.
Another puzzle piece I don’t understand.
Where are the ranch hands working the cattle? Hell, where are most of the cattle? I’ve only seen a handful of cows and from my understanding, there are supposed to be a lot more.
Laurel sighs. “Your mama was always hungry for more. Never satisfied with what she had. From the time she could walk, she wanted to be seen, wanted the world to bend around her.
Richard grunts. Grinding out the cigarette on the porch rail. “She had John twisted around her finger since they were in diapers. They did everything together. Were best friends. Inseparable.”
The words land like slap. “What?”
“She followed him everywhere,” Laurel says, her tone flat and cold. “He was older, wild, already runnin’ with the Shaws. Everyone thought they’d end up together. That girl was obsessed. Convinced she’d marry him some day. We all were convinced.”
My stomach flips. “She was a kid.”
“Old enough to know what she was doin’.” Laurel’s eyes cut to mine, sharp and accusing. “She played sweet when she wanted something. Played helpless when she didn’t get it. And when John finally looked her way, she thought she’d won.”
Richard lets out a humorless chuckle. “Didn’t take long for that dream to turn to ash.”
I grip the railing to keep my hands from shaking. “What are you saying?”
Laurel shrugs, but it’s the kind that saysyou already know the answer. “Sadie was good twisting hearts. She made men believe things they shouldn’t. Only thing is, John didn’t want her. Not like she wanted him.”
