As I listen to them play, Tiramisu joining in with an excited whinny as the water laps at his hooves, I finally start to realize what it means to fill that silence. Hating the quiet. Needing something to take away the loneliness with your thoughts when it went on for too long. To forget the silence when Charlotte left for the first time, and my mom would look after Tali, and the house was devoid of sound. Just the dull rattle of the weak wall in the master bedroom when wind came around, the faucet on and off every so often, flush of a toilet, feet briefly padding on carpet and then tile. I think of that conversation I’d had with Jordan, of how she went on, and on, and on. I cherish my silence, but if she’d been there, she would have filled it, and maybe, my life would have played out far differently. Maybe, today, I would know how to trust. How to love.
Yet it’s as the dogs wade back out, and we walk beneath the trees once more, the shade rippling with the gaps in the leaves, that I remember something she’d said offhandedly during that exchange. Throwing words into the air until it was completely saturated with sound, not a shred of quiet to be had.
Three hundred head of cattle. Montana.
Is this delirium? Did I get a tick this time?
My heart thuds against my rib cage, and I press on down the trail, a little faster. I urge Tiramisu onward to the farm. ‘Go!’ I call to the dogs, who arc around us and take the lead down the path.
No way. There’s no way it could be true. It was just a notion, I think. Just something she’d said, just to say it. I might be completely delirious. Too far gone from Lyme disease or something. But I swear, I swear there’s truth to it. The way Jordan had said every word of what anyone would have dismissed as fluff with so much weight, the desire to get away from all of her responsibilities and stress so clear in her eyes. Montana. It couldn’t be.
Once I’ve led Tiramisu and the dogs into the paddock and come to a stop, I get down out of the saddle, then pat my arms and legs down. No ticks.
My sister is waiting at the gate to help get all the gear from Tiramisu. She leans against the post expectantly, probably wondering why I’m frisking myself. I open my mouth to explain, but wordlessly, she lifts her right hand, and what she’s holding in it: a ridiculously oversized pink tumbler with orange polka dots. Slightly ugly, fairly bright, and fully belonging to one Jordan Gutierrez-Hawkins.
It’s not that I have a particular need to get tumblers back to their owners. It’s not that I’m searching for an excuse to take that potentially dangerous step forward and go on a manhunt for the woman of my dreams – but that second one, at least, I am.
Because in that moment, I know I’m never going to enjoy any creek, any trail, anything of the sort, if I don’t go after her while I have the chance.
Chapter Forty-Five
Scarcer Than Hen’s Teeth
Jordan
Water runs in the sink, and dishes clatter at the wooden table – the good porcelain, not the plastic stuff. The smell of steak and mashed potatoes is thick in the air of Margot’s kitchen. Julius and I have been up since about five a.m., and it has not been as easy as I thought it would be. My first few days were off to a rough start, considering I showed up on Saturday with a few luggage bags and no idea what I was doing, but after a week, we’ve developed a rhythm.
I toss my hat on one of the numerous hooks hanging down the side of the door. My braids are frizzy like nothing else, my forehead sticky with sweat where the band of the hat meets my skin. It’s the grossest feeling, possibly worse than the time I was dared to kiss a frog in the fifth grade, but more possibly not quite worse than that. Ranch work isgenerally disgusting; things stop registering as nasty at some point.
Margot, who’s already had enough of my bullshit in the last three days alone, yells, ‘You’d better be taking your shoes off at my door, Jordan!’
With a chuckle, I kick my boots off at the threshold and push them aside onto the plastic tray, beside Julius’s worn, dark brown ones. Gross and disgusting, maybe. Ironic that I find my peace in the very thing that has bogged me down all these years, definitely. Except here, I get to throw myself into chores without having to worry about Mom, myself, lacrosse, tuition, whether tomorrow is going to be a breakdown or a work-till-we-break kind.
The scraping of dishes gets louder when I enter the small dining room, connected to the kitchen by a convenient half-wall. Margot is bustling around with her ridiculous frilly orange apron, and sooner rather than later, very full bowls of said mashed potatoes hit the table. I practically run to the sink to wash up. ‘Dinner smells real good.’
‘What’d you expect?’ Margot smiles slyly, patting my cheek as she walks past. ‘Lord, girl, you’re filthy!’
‘I’m working on it!’ I holler as I dry my hands on the chicken towel. ‘Let me get over there.’
I beat Julius to dinner, and just as he’s thundering down the stairs, I collapse into my chair. Julius – technically myTíoJulius – has a way better cut of the bargain than I do. He’s got people to do the dirty work around his ranch, including myself, so he’s freshened up in comparison, wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans. He reaches around and gives Margot a hug and a kiss on the cheek before sitting down across from me.
Julius is about five years older than my mother, stocky,crooked-nosed, with the same hair as both of us, nearly black, except streaked with grey. He’s tan and weathered from spending years and years out on the ranch, as is Margot. Margot, though, doesn’t have the greys he does, except I know that this is only because of her brown box dye, which I found left out on Sunday. Nevertheless, she is basically my mother’s one true role model, the person who helped my mom back on her feet after Benjamin Hawkins upped and made a mess of everything.
‘Tell me you haven’t been working my niece up the walls.’ Margot serves me a healthy helping of mashed potatoes, rushing right back to the kitchen to check on the steak. She glances back with kindly grey eyes, dimples etching themselves in her round face.
‘Maybe a little,’ Julius fibs, although it’s technically true. He hasn’t been the one working me up the walls. Breaking the horses is a nice distraction from everything. I’ve started throwing myself into that because it takes time, attention, effort. When I do that, I don’t have to think about all the shit that happened back in Massachusetts.
‘Go easy on yourself, honey.’ Margot returns with my steak, and Julius throws his hands up in mock surprise.
‘Her before me?’ he whines. ‘Seriously?’
We all laugh at that one. It’s kind of nice to be around here, even after a couple of years. Last time, I was in high school – technically, coming off of my senior year, looking to make a break before I headed to college. Margot and Julius were more than happy to have me for the summer. So when I called them earlier last week, suddenly shaken, abruptly confused, Margot convinced Julius to take me in, at least until training camp starts. This has always been one of the places where I leave myguilt about hoping for something more than what I have had behind, where I let myself absorb what a regular old nuclear family must feel like.
In record time, all three of us are happily working at our dinners, chatter exchanged round the table. One of the heifers, now a cow, just had her first calf this afternoon, something I was fortunate enough to help with, so that’s the primary highlight of supper. The Reapers also come up, what with the draft having just wrapped up, and a couple of new girls joining the team this fall. One is from Texas State, which is fairly exciting. The meat of the conversation, however, comes when Julius uses his gift of gab to casually weave in my least favourite topic.
‘But Jordan,’ he says, reaching for a scoop of broccoli, ‘how was Boston?’
He knows I wasn’t in Boston. I raise an eyebrow. He raises one right back. My mother’s brother, alright. ‘It was good,’ I snip, pulling at a loose strand of hair starting to poke out from my braid.
