Page 19 of Flint

He turns. “And the first time one of them mouths off at you, are you going to put your fist in their stomach?”

I swear under my breath. “You didn’t deserve that bullshit. No kid does.”

“Yeah, well, it happens. It happens every day, and no one steps in to stop it.”

“What was his name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Want to make sure I kick the right ass.”

That gets an almost smile from him. “To be a kid is to be at your most powerless, your most vulnerable. A lot of fucked up people in the world think that makes it okay to hurt them.”

I hadn’t thought about it like that, how vulnerable you are when you’re small and defenseless. I never had to think about that stuff because I had a dad who was willing to lay down his life for his family without a second thought. “Those people who hurt kids, people like your stepdad, they deserve to be put down.”

He jerks his head toward the lumber pile. “So, are we building shit or not?”

I pull my truck to a stop in Ronnie's driveway. She's been working at the ranch for the past week, but I haven't been to see her. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It took every ounce of my restraint to walk past the little barn that houses her office day after day. But I can’t scare her off before I get her into my place.

As it is, I've spent the past week preparing my cabin for her, the boys, and her grandmother.

I did all sorts of things I'd never considered before, like putting kid shampoo bottles in the bathroom, the kind with bright colors and promises of no tears on the label. Then there were the toothpaste tubes with characters on them. Even got some sheets with dinosaurs.

The truth is, I don't know much about Ronnie's kids, but I know she's a good mom. One day, I hope to be lucky enough to have a kid with her. Just the thought of Ronnie's belly swelling with my kid fills me with excitement.

I was an only child, and I always wanted to have siblings. Maybe this is my chance to build a big, beautiful family with Ronnie, her boys, and her grandmother.

When I park in her driveway, she pulls open the front door. She comes to greet me, looking a little pale but beautiful as always. There are bags under her eyes like she hasn't been sleeping well.

“Are you sure about this?” She asks, eyeing my trailer.

I pat the side of it. “Yeah, it can hold two or three houses’ worth of stuff. Your little bungalow here won’t be a problem at all, even if you have it filled to the brim on the inside.”

“Cheaper than hiring a moving company,” a silver-haired woman says. She's got a twinkle in her eye when she looks at me, almost like she knows a secret.

I tip my hat to her. “I herd cattle during the week and boxes on the weekends. Happy to help, ma’am.”

She holds out a hand with fingers gnarled from arthritis. “You must be Flint. I’m Alice.”

I take her hand very gently, feeling a strange rush of protectiveness. There’s something about the way she’s looking at me that tells me she’s spent years protecting Ronnie. I plan to prove I’m worthy of that task so she can rest easy now. “You tell me what you want moved, and I’ll get it done.”

She turns to her granddaughter. “He might do.”

Ronnie gestures me to follow her inside the living room. The first thing I note are the three buckets in various spots, each collecting water from a dripping ceiling. Some of the carpet is cut up, exposing concrete that has sidewalk chalk drawings of superheroes on it. What carpet still remains is worn and frayed.

The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling, but the place smells like a candle factory. More than that, it’s clean and boxes are packed neatly into piles and carefully labeled. The pride Ronnie takes in her home is evident in every square inch of this place.

Seeing this, it makes me all the happier to be moving her into my cabin. There, she won’t worry about a leaking roof or whatever happened to make her remove carpet. She won’t have to fret over peeling wallpaper or put up with an aging refrigerator that’s humming louder than my old truck.

She pads into the kitchen and takes a sip of her ginger ale. Loud thumping sounds come from upstairs. “No running in the house!”

Her command has no effect at all as two small blonde boys race down a carpeted set of stairs, pushing each other the entire time. “Is he here? Can we talk to him?”

I glance at Ronnie but one look at her face tells me she’s enraptured with these two. It makes sense. A woman who’s making a grocery shopping list with dinosaur nuggets on it during her own birthday weekend spends most of her time focused on her kids. “Slow down. He’s right here. Boys, this is Mr. Greene. Flint, this is Branson and Brock. They’re my twins.”

“Whoa, he’s tall!”

“Can I touch your hat?”