"We'll get through it, hon. We always do." He looks at me meaningfully. "Hayden's don't run from problems."
I glance away. Sounds like my mom told him about all my bags.
Wes is standing beside his horse when we reach him. His lips form a tense, straight line.
"Son," my dad begins, but Wes shakes his head.
"Don't, Dad. Just don't." He places a foot in Ranger's stirrup and swings his leg over. He looks down at us, and I wish I could erase the fear in my big brother's eyes. I don't think I remember seeing it there before. "I'm going to figure this out." He turns Ranger around and waits for us to untie our horses and follow him.
Once we're both on our horses, I look over to my dad. The sight of his drooping shoulders steals my breath. Like Wes with fear, I've never seen my dad dejected. The man is a legend, his presence formidable. I've watched him cock an eyebrow and cause my date to junior prom to stammer. It was a power play, through and through, and I acted embarrassed, but secretly I loved it.
There must be some way I can help Wes, and if he's too hardheaded to let me help, I'll do it my own way.
7
Jessie
This isn’twhat I was expecting. The last time I came to the vendor market with my mom was last summer when I was home from school. In eight months time, it has grown to be twice as big.
White tent canopies stretch out in long lines, row after row. The chapel where each of my brothers were married sits in the distance. A few hundred yards from that is The Orchard, and the outdoor area dotted with oversized yard games.
Dakota excuses herself to check on the sandwich stand where The Orchard sells lunch to the shoppers. She also told me about three food trucks that should arrive any minute, and not to offend my sister-in-law’s restaurant, but I’m definitely looking forward to the Native American fry bread truck.
The vendors are allowed to arrive up to two hours early to begin setting up. Some of them have taken advantage of that, their booths erected and displays organized and inviting. Others walk in double-time to their tents, arms full and pulling wagons. My mom has a fairly easy setup and she’s mostly finished, so I take off to help some people who look like there’s no way they’ll be ready in time.
I stack homemade soap for a sweet old lady, and when I leave her area my hands reek. I stop in to the restroom at The Orchard and wash off the gag-inducing mixture of scents, then head back out and help another woman hang her homemade blankets on wooden ladders. After standing on a real ladder to hang hand-painted pallet signs for someone else, I venture back to my mom.
The market has officially begun. It’s slow at first, then increases steadily as the afternoon continues.
I’m making change for a woman and her young granddaughter when, from the corner of my eye, I notice someone join the line.
The woman and her granddaughter leave with their change and their herbed goat cheese log, and I swing my gaze sideways. He’s there, at the back of the line, a head taller than the three people in front of him.
My eyebrows lift, acknowledging Sawyer, and a flurry of excitement skitters up my spine. He doesn’t smile, but his entire face softens.
“Honey with almond crust,” my mom says without looking at me.
I tear my gaze from Sawyer and retrieve the goat cheese, packaging it up in those cute boxes my mom bought. I place a circular sticker that readsHayden Goat Cheeseon the seam where the lid tucks into the box. The first time I’d seen the stickers, I’d asked her why she didn’t come up with a name that was all her own, nothing to do with the HCC, and she said it’s another way of advertising the HCC. She’s right, but I’d felt like she should’ve done it anyway. It would’ve been neat to see her have something that was her’s only.
I don’t look at Sawyer again, fearing I’ll lose my focus. But then he’s there, standing in front of my mother, and there’s nowhere to look but at him.
This is my third time seeing him, but his features still take me by surprise. He carries himself stiffly, hands tucked in his pockets in this stand-offish way, but I sense something underneath it. Like he’s waiting,hopingsomeone comes along and tells him it’s okay to be himself.
He orders a plain goat cheese, and when I step aside to gather it, he steps with me, mirroring my movement along his side of the table. I can feel my mother’s gaze on us. Nobody else was in line behind Sawyer, so there’s nothing else to capture her attention right now but he and I.
“I figured out your name,” he says, his voice low. It curls into me in a way I’m not ready for. It’s too soon. My life is a mess right now. Shouldn’t I be focusing on getting everything settled down first before I allow myself to feel attracted to somebody?
I place his order into the box and lift my chin, looking him in the eyes. The table’s width is all that separates us, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s leaning forward. And if I’m being honest, I am too.
“Oh yeah?”
“Jessamyn Hayden.”
He looks pleased with himself. “Congratulations, super sleuth,” I tease. “I go by Jessie, though.”
He snaps. “Damn. Almost.”
I take way too long to apply the sticker to the box, just for the sake of keeping this banter going. “Who was your source?”
