When they arrive at the clearing, the sun is teasing the horizon with its arrival. It radiates its rays subtly, coloring the sky a muted indigo. Just light enough to see the flat land stretched out before them. It’s nondescript and unkempt, but even with the lack of visibility, there is one obvious characteristic of this piece of Braxton.
It’s covered in rocks.
An uneasy, fearful seed begins to root itself in Grace’s gut. It spreads as she slowly swivels her head from left to right, estimating the clearing’s size—about a mile long, maybe a quarter mile wide. When she spots a large bucket sitting at the edge of the clearing a few yards away, her hands fold into protective fists, like they know what is about to be asked of them, and they are prematurely recoiling from the task.
The thing is—she knows this piece of Braxton. She knows every corner of Braxton like she sowed every seed, planted every blade of grass, dug every fence post herself. She knows this part isn’t one they utilize; especially during the summer, its lack of trees and shade makes it basically unviable, and therefore, it remains overlooked and ignored.
But if the blaring alarm in her brain is correct, that is about to change.
“Gonna get some millet growing here this season,” Bellamy says. He takes a moment to spit a thick, brown loogie through his teeth and onto the ground below. “Seems like a loss to not use the space we’ve got. But we can’t till nothin’ while it looks like this.” He nods vaguely toward the field. “All them rocks…they’ll break the blades. You know that, don’t you, Gracie?”
Grace swallows, but it’s a dry, painful motion. She gives a single, curt nod in reply.
From the corner of her eye, she sees Bellamy pivot until he’s completely turned toward her, staring her down. “Clear them out,” he says, low and deep, but terrifyingly clear.
Grace’s nostrils flare. It will make no difference, this she knows without a shadow of a doubt, but she has to try—so she says, “The tractor has a rock rake.”
Bellamy’s responding laugh is a shade of familiar evil, full of spite and unhinged glee; he’s excited about what he’s about to do to her. He takes a step closer, and his rank breath hits her face as he says in a cold, deep voice, “You think, after everything you’ve done, you’re gonna get the easy way out of this? Out of anything?” He almost growls the last question, and the distance between them shrinks with every word out of his mouth. Grace’s eyes squeeze shut when she feels the shift of the air at her cheek as he nearly presses his nose into her face, ready to enact revenge in the worst, most brutal way he can conjure up. “You’re gonna clear out every goddamn rock from this field, and you’re gonna do it by hand. If I find even a pebble by the time you’re done, I’ll break one of your fingers for each rock you missed. Send you to clean out the snake pits with shattered knuckles.”
It doesn’t make sense that less than twenty-four hours ago, she was sinking into the most comfortable mattress she’d ever felt, her bare, tanned skin wrapped in soft, warm blankets, and her cheek resting atop the chest of the man she loved. Sharing secrets and confessions and whispered words of adoration, making promises through lovestruck smiles; she should’ve known she could never keep them. Keep him. Now, standing this close to her uncle, picking up waves of his familiar, horrible scent—tobacco, crème de menthe, dirty water—it physically hurts to think of Crew. It hurts the same way it does when a needle hits bone, that breath-stealing, all-encompassing kind of ache. Because when she thinks of him now, the face that flashes through her mind isn’t the one full of reverence, or the one beautifully contorted in pleasure, or the one with that devastating half smile he seemed to reserve just for her. Instead, it’s the one full of shock and disbelief, giving way quickly into regret and—worst of all—disappointment. In her, for proving his initial suspicions right, and in himself, for being so naive—for thinking she was someone worthy of his devotion. The vividness of that particular memory hits her directly in the center of her chest, knocking the wind out of her. She won’t forget his face in that moment for as long as she lives. To the grave, she’ll take with her the hardness of his eyes as he saw her finally for who she really was. Burning, golden amber, turned crystallized and gelid.
Athunkof something heavy landing at her feet pulls her back to the present, tamping down the gnawing devastation of losing Crew with something equally as horrific: reality. She looks down and finds a dented, metal canteen lying near her left boot. The only life raft she’ll receive through this trial. Food, a shower, a bed—she’s smart enough to know, been a prisoner ofthis ranch long enough to know those are luxuries afforded only to the deserving. She’ll be lucky if Bellamy lets her dine on slop with the pigs.
“Get to work,” he growls in her ear, and then he stalks off. He flicks the butt of his cigarette as he walks away, and Grace follows its arc until it lands upon the uneven, rocky terrain. Its ember glows, the orange hue brighter amid the lavender haze of dawn. The tiny speck of light begins to fade, and Grace watches, still as the thousands of stones that lie before her, until its fire has been snuffed out and all that remains is ash.
Chapter 24
The next morning, a chattering, excited family the size of a small army comes into the waiting room of the hospital with balloons in the shape of a baby bottle, a pacifier, and a giant pink heart declaringIt’s a Girl!in bubble letters. They look lost—crowding onto the ICU floor like a litter of lost puppies. Caia watches through sleepy eyes as a nurse redirects them to the elevators, a hand kneading at her neck to soothe the knot formed from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. She looks around and takes in the other people in the waiting room—an older man pacing on the phone, his voice gradually growing in volume as he argues with his insurance company; a tired-looking woman and her three young, restless children, who have declared one of the rows of seats their own personal jungle gym.
When she looks over to her own family, her heart squeezes in her chest. Her father has taken to the floor, where he lies with his head resting on a balled-up flannel shirt, one he must’ve taken from Crew, who sleeps in the chair beside her wearing a white undershirt, his legs stretched all the way out and his ankles crossed. Cooper has his head on Crew’s shoulder, and his mouth is hanging wide open, allowing him to leave a perfectcircle of drool on Crew’s shirt. She’s momentarily overcome with affection for these three men she loves so dearly—and she’s overcome just as suddenly by the terrifying possibility that this may be what their family looks like from now on. That they’ll be four instead of five—that she’ll be the only Caldwell woman left to take care of them.
Not long after she wakes, a doctor in a rumpled coat and navy scrubs walks through the swinging double doors at the end of the hall and straight toward them. Caia grabs Crew’s arm and shakes it, and he shoots up, knocking Cooper off his shoulder and waking him up in the process.
Crew follows Caia’s gaze, then leans down to shake Clint’s boot. “Dad.”
Clint’s eyes blink open, and Crew nods in the direction of the doctor. He sits up with a grunt, and for what feels like an eternity, they wait for the doctor to reach them and tell them if Renata is okay. To tell them if their lives are about to change forever.
By the time he makes it to them, they’re all standing.
“Doc.” Clint nods, and the doctor—Dr. Hannover, his coat says—returns the nod with a flat, tight-lipped smile.
His face is neutral, giving away not even a shred of evidence one way or another, no matter how hard Caia tries to decipher his every feature.
“I know you’ve been waiting a long time. I apologize that we weren’t able to update you more frequently,” Dr. Hannover says.
“Just tell us,” Cooper pleads, his voice rough with sleep, and with desperation.
Dr. Hannover nods. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this foryou—the road to recovery is going to be long and difficult. Her body endured catastrophic levels of trauma. We had an entire team of people working on her in that OR. If she was any less of a fighter, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t quick, as you know. But she pulled through.”
A breath of relief punches from Caia’s lungs, bending her over with the weight of it. Her father falls to his knees, and Crew’s hands go up to cover his crumpling face as he lets out a wrecked, loud sob. Cooper launches forward and hugs Dr. Hannover, whose eyes bulge slightly before he graciously pats him on the back. When Cooper pulls away, his eyes are red and his cheeks are splotchy.
“Thank you, Dr. Hannover,” Caia says, her hands trembling and tears sprouting in the corners of her eyes. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course,” he says. “We’ll talk later about what the next few months are going to look like. She’s going to need all of your support.”
“She has it,” Crew says, completely resolute. He’s got a hand on Clint’s shoulder, and he squeezes it reassuringly as their father cries and nods adamantly in agreement. He starts to stand, and Crew grabs his elbow, steadying him once he’s fully upright.
“When can we see her?” Clint asks.
