Okay, they like the Gatlins. That didn’t work in my favor. “Sorry, pick another.”
Lark chews on her lower lip for a second. “Okay, the Yateses.”
This game is not working well. “You have two families in the town that do like you. All right, here’s a name. The Powells.”
She gasps. “Mrs. Powell loves me. She says I’m an absolute delight.”
“She doesn’t say that about your dad or your brothers.”
“Well, she’s old and crotchety,” Lark says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Anyway, you named one, and I named two. I win.”
Dear God. “What do you win?”
“The knowledge that other people in this town dislike us enough to cut fence lines that don’t even touch their property.”
Yes, when we settled here, the generational gods were not smiling upon us when they put us next to the Gatlins.
“I bet your brothers are doing it,” I say with disdain. “They’re probably going out there, cutting the lines just to have some reason to come after my family. Also, how the hell could I have cut your fence when I was in Wyoming for the last day and a half?”
Lark bristles, shifting in her seat as she digests that one. I can’t wait to hear this rebuttal. “We don’t know when it was done, just that we found it yesterday.”
“Right.”
Her head falls back, and she groans. “I don’t want to argue. Truly. I just…it’s tense at the house, so it’s better for all of us if you drop me off here. I promise I’ll sing you as the hero you are.”
I want to argue. I want to make sure she gets home safe and doesn’t break an ankle or have some other horrible thing happen as she tries to make it back to her house, but I’m exhausted and we’re getting nowhere.
“All right. I’ll let you out here. Under one condition,” I say quickly.
“What condition?”
“That you’ll at least text me when you get in, so I know you made it.”
Lark takes a moment before sighing heavily. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Her hand rests on the handle, and then she stops, turning back to me. “Thank you, Tristan. I really appreciate you stopping and helping. I just wanted you to know that it means a lot to me.”
The way each word feels like a shock to my heart, jolting it to come back to life, has me reeling.
I clear my throat. “You’re welcome.”
She smiles, and I resist the pull to say something else, but she does it anyway. “I’ll let you know when I get to the house.”
I nod, and she opens the door, hopping out into the rain. For some stupid reason, I speak: “Hey, Lark?”
“Yeah?”
“You should be with a man who would swim through a flood to get to you.”
Her lips part, and she blinks a few times. “Right.” She pauses and then forces a smile. “Thanks again.” She closes the door, and I see her jog down the drive, disappearing into the pouring darkness as I sit here, waiting for my chest to not feel like someone is sitting on it.
It’s been nine years. Nine years since my wife died. Nine years since I’ve felt alive, and it took one hour around Lark to suddenly feel something again.
It’s not right.
It can’t be her.
