In the last hour, June’s scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain right outside of one of the stables, sweat beading at her brow and chest lightly heaving with exertion. After five minutes of observing this, Grace, already set with her own tasks and putting away her cleaning supplies, walks over. Stains around a barn are a dime a dozen—putting that much elbow grease into trying to get rid of one is a battle not worth fighting.
But June seems to have a personal vendetta against this stain.
Grace grabs a bundle of steel wool from the cleaning-supply caddy next to June, then crouches down until she’s eye level with her. “Can I help you with this?”
June’s eyes flick upward, meeting hers. “I’ve got it.”
Grace nods, tilting her head. “Doesn’t really seem like you do.”
With a frustrated grunt, June sits back on her haunches, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the crook of her arm. With a quick, impatient once-over of Grace, she says, “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?”
“I’m just trying to help,” Grace counters. “You’re using soap and water—that’s not strong enough to penetrate a stain like that—”
“As I said,” June cuts her off. “I’ve got it.”
Grace stands, throwing up her hands. “Fine.” She tosses the steel wool back into the caddy and wipes her hands on her jeans. “I need to go shower anyway.” Looking down at the stains left in the wake of her palms, Grace can’t help but regret not bringing—notowning—any nicer clothes than these. Even her cleanest outfit is the same old boring jeans and T-shirt, and she doesn’t have any shoes besides her Red Wings.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” June replies, not looking at her.
Grace’s brow pulls together. “What?”
“No one showers. They’d rather maximize the time spent drinking.”
Skeptical, Grace plants a hand on her hip. “Really? They just go to the bar smelling like sweat and horse shit?”
A humorless chuckle echoes from where June is hunched over the spot, scrubbing away. “Welcome to Halcyon,” is all she says in response.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
With this information, Grace decidesto take advantage of the free half hour before dinner once she’s done what she can to help Forty. Exhaustion has been creeping into her eyes and body for days at this point; a catnap before a fun evening on the town will do her good.
Thirty minutes seems to pass like seconds, and suddenly, the murmuring of voices and clinking of dinnerware wakes her. She sits up in her bunk, slightly disoriented, to see everyone sitting at the table, digging into their meals. Forty looks up and gives her a bright smile when he notices she’s awake. “Morning, sunshine. Didn’t want to interrupt your nap, but dinner’s ready.”
Raymond is already tipping a bowl back into his mouth, scraping the final remnants of his meal with a spoon. He sighs once he’s gulped it all down at impressive speed, then looks to Grace. “And you better hurry up. The bus leaves in twenty.”
“And bybus,” Mikey cuts in, “he means Forty’s truck.”
“She knows what I mean,” Raymond says.
“Nobody ever knows what you mean,” Caleb counters, his voice muffled by the dinner roll stuffed into his mouth.
Grace grabs a bowl, settles down into the seat Raymond vacates, and is about to tuck into her meal when she does a quick survey of the table. A sinking feeling settles in her gut. Everyone looks…clean. It occurs to her then that she’s picking up on the scent of aftershave and cologne and maybe even a little bit of hair spray. Alec’s doing, if the stiff coif of his hair is any indication. They lookpolished, like they’ve—
“You guys showered?”
Forty looks at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “We do that every now and again. Especially when we’re going out in public.”
“Gotta look presentable for the ladies,” Pierce adds.
Bryan barks out a laugh. “What ladies, exactly, P?”
“The pretty ones at the bar,” Pierce says.
“Youknowall the ladies at the bar, darlin’,” a female voice coos. Grace’s eyes flit to June, finding her with her hair done, makeup on, and a nice, new-looking hat fitted snugly atop her curls. Grace’s throat tightens at the sight, twin flames of anger and hurt flaring up in her gut. “They’re all either married, old enough to be your mama, or they charge by the hour.”
“There could be tourists,” Pierce grumbles. “People passing through.”
No one seems convinced, and the conversation pivots to who is responsible for buying the first round. An argument breaks out between Mikey and Alec, who both are convinced the other lost at pool the previous month and therefore should be liable, but Grace isn’t listening. She’s too distracted by the anxiety starting to fester in her stomach. She doesn’t want to be obvious, doesn’t want to give June even a sliver of satisfaction by looking down at what she’s wearing.
