Unstable (4 page)

I waver on my feet, her hands gripping my shoulders lovingly tight and keeping me upright. I don’t know what my mom would want to wear. I have no idea what to say in an obituary. I’m unsure if I could, or should, receive guests at a memorial service.

I
do
know I suddenly feel as though I’m undeserving of any sympathy, or to stand as her daughter. I didn’t think anything could
ever
make me feel more ashamed than the first tragedy in our family.

I was wrong.

None of those worries are what I speak aloud though. Instead, “Can I see her?” is what somehow, of its own volition, comes out of my mouth. Small and quiet, telling of the doubts I harbor that I even have the right to ask.

“Oh honey,” Donna’s eyes glisten with moisture and she pulls my head against her bosom, “I think it’d be better if you wait on that. Drowning victims, um, well, wouldn’t you rather remember her the way she was, or see her once we have everything in order?”

“I suppose you’re right.” My tongue is heavy with nausea, thinking of my mother’s body and her watery death. “And Jack?”

I have no idea why I ask this. I never met the man, didn’t even know he existed until I got the call from the Sheriff, who I’m still unsure how he tracked me down. But it just kind of feels their…endings…should be together.

Since they were.

“All taken care of by his family. Cremated, no service.” She frowns, as though disheartened. Does seem impersonal, and makes my heart ache a bit for him…a complete stranger.

This town doesn’t
do
impersonal, that much I remember. Doesn’t matter if you liked or hated the person—someone passes away in Ashfall—everyone attends the funeral and service. So his arrangements…
very odd.
But what do I know of him? Maybe he hadn’t been in town long enough to embed himself in its traditions?

“Okay, guess I’ll just sign whatever you need and, uh, be back then, with an outfit.” I swallow hard. “Anything else?”

“That’ll do for now, dear. Take your time. And call me if you have any questions. Or need anything.”

It can’t possibly be this simple. And intuition looms heavy in my gut, knowing it’s not. Donna’s just trying her best to calm the storm I can practically smell moving in.

I take one last look around, my eyes stopping themselves at the back of the room where one, black foreboding door calls out to me hauntingly. I know somewhere beyond its depths, lies my mother’s lifeless, cold body. Feels so strange being back in Ashfall, but beyond measure, it feels abhorrently wrong walking out of here and leaving her all alone.

Again.

MY TRUCK TIRES RUMBLE
over the cattle guard as I drive through the gates of Double H Ranch. Probably need to take that sign down, surprised no one thought to do so before now… since it stopped being accurate over eight years ago.

I put my pickup in park and get out to go back and close the gates, hating that in order to shut everyone else
out
, I have to trap myself
in
.

And then I feel it. I scan every direction as far as I can see, searching for the set of eyes I can sense watching me. Seeing no-one, but doubtless they’re there, I climb back in and drive up to the two-story ranch house of my childhood.

There it is again. I’m not imagining it, the unmistakable weight of a scrutinizing stare thrums along my skin, and I quickly lock my doors. I glance up to investigate every window of the house, only to find them empty. No movement of curtains or suspicious shadows.

After long moments of rationalizing and waiting for my erratic heartbeat to find its natural rhythm, I finally decide I’m just hypersensitive after the enormity of this day and dump the key from the envelope Merrick gave me into my sweaty palm. I reach down and grab my bag off the floorboard, clutch the key tighter in my hand until I can feel its notches making impressions in my skin, and slowly creak open the door of my old truck.

No sooner than I’m out and standing, I’m not.

“Oomph,” I grimace as my back meets the hard, rocky driveway. What the…

“Bourbon?” I laugh in delighted, wistful surprise, the laugh I’d forgotten I possessed having not forgotten itself. I reach up to pet the shaggy, tan head of the sheepdog that just pummeled me to the ground. It’s Bourbon alright; older, patches of whitening hair surrounding his eyes and chin, but his licks all over my face feel exactly the same as they used to. “You poor boy, how long have you been wandering around here all alone? If you let me up you beast, we’ll see about getting you fed.”

“He’s been fed.”

I scream and roll to my side, jumping to my feet and whirling toward the deep voice that just scared the shit out of me.

“Who the hell are you?” I fume, darting my eyes around wildly, looking for anything I can use as a weapon…since my dog obviously isn’t going to save me. Bourbon hasn’t so much as growled at the stranger.

“Gatlin Holt.” The stealthy trespasser steps forward with his hand extended. “And you must be Henley. Been expecting you.”

I refuse his handshake and take him in far too slowly to still seem off-put by his unexpected presence. He’s at least six-foot tall, wearing indecently fitting Wranglers, a long-sleeved gray thermal that showcases his “seen plenty of hard work” torso, and scuffed cowboy boots. Dark brown hair, late for a trim, sticks out from under the edges of his cowboy hat and deep brown eyes finish the package.

He’s certainly not
unattractive
, but there’s also nothing overly exceptional about him… except every single damn thing about him.

Even standing still, he exudes an intensity that makes you want to know all his stats, his every detail…especially the things he doesn’t want you to know. And despite the fact that he’s a stranger,
on my property
, who may possibly be about to kill me…my stomach isn’t quivering with fear from any of those factors.

No, what’s going on inside my tummy would much more accurately be described as someone having just opened a jar of fireflies in it and those suckers are finally free— buzzing with new life.

It’s tacky, and
very
ill-timed, for me to not only be unconcerned with my safety, but ogling this intruder. I should be focused on the fact I’ve just set foot back on the farm I don’t deserve, but he’s…quite distracting.

“You’re not too bad to look at yourself,” he calls me out on my perusal, his pleased grin causing a dimple to make an appearance in his left cheek, toying with my sense of reason. The reason that says “grab a big stick and knock out the knockout before he attacks you first.”

I ignore his smug compliment. “Just your name won’t cut it with me, cowboy. Who are you, why are you here, and why isn’t my dog attacking you?” I fist both my hands and prop them on my hips, spreading my feet apart in hopes of amplifying my intimidation factor.

“I’m Jack’s son, the man who—”

“I know who Jack was,” I interrupt. Should’ve connected the last name, but I’m a little off my game at the moment. Regardless, this charismatic stranger did, in fact, just also lose a parent, so I make a mental note to adjust my callous tone when I next speak.

“Then you must also know, he worked for your mom, as did I. I live right over there,” he points to the small log cabin behind us in the distance, “in the farmhand house. And Bourbon isn’t attacking me because we’re buddies. He’s been sleeping inside with me at night until you got here.”

“Well then,” I bend down to grab my bag and the key I dropped, but Gatlin beats me to it.

“Let me help you with that,” he offers, but I decline his chivalry and quickly snatch up my own things. “Ah, a lady who can take care of herself, I see. I like that.” He smiles, his gaze sliding over the length of me, before he hurriedly regains control and looks me in my eyes. “Maybe we’ll just go inside, have a bite to eat, discuss things.” He lets me walk ahead of him, toward the house.

Is it pure insanity that I, who trusts absolutely no one, is about to just waltz right into the house I was dreading having to enter with this guy I’ve known a minute? Yes, absolutely. But I can’t seem to find an ounce of fear within me. And if you think about it, he’s the more familiar here…making
me
the real intruder. So I go with it.

Honestly, what more do I possibly have to lose at this point?

“I’m sorry about your father.” I attempt polite condolence that instead comes out sounding robotically insincere. I clear my throat and make another attempt at basic human decency. “Were you two, close?” I ask as I open the door. I don’t know if he answers me, I’m too busy wobbling on my feet, bombarded with the aroma rushing out from inside the house.

“Easy there,” Gatlin grabs my elbow with one hand, my hip with the other to keep me from toppling over. “You okay?”

“Yes, fine,” I snip, instinctually jerking away from his touch. “It’s just… how can it smell
exactly the same
after all this time?” I mumble to myself in wonderment. Every home has its own signature scent, but you’d think it would change when everything else does. Apparently not though, because while I remain frozen on the porch, I continue to be assailed with a mixture of my mom’s favorite body powder, last I knew sold by Ashfall’s one and only Avon lady, Madge Hurley, and Sandalwood potpourri.

She still used potpourri?
I didn’t even know they made that stuff anymore what with all the candle warmers and such these days.

“Why don’t we go inside?” Gatlin gently suggests from behind me. “I think you’ll find not much at all has changed in this house.”

How would he know that? He didn’t grow up here. He didn’t even show up until after all that made this house a home was gone.

The door we use is actually a side entrance that comes in from the carport, so you enter through the mud porch. That way, you can strip off anything you picked up around the ranch that mom wouldn’t want tracked through the house.

Off to the right is what we always called the “country kitchen.” It’s where meals were eaten, leaving room in the much smaller kitchen for food prep and dish washing. And in it, still sits the same large table that was there the day I left.

A few more steps and we’re in the actual kitchen.

Okay, so maybe he was right about these first two rooms not changing, but really, how much would you possibly modify in them? Old moss green countertops work the same no matter their color and chicken-themed drapes and wallpaper border, although as tacky today as the day they were hung,
are
appropriate for a farmhouse.

“The fridge is new.” I spin to face him and boast, crossing my arms and jutting out my chin in triumph.

“Old one finally gave out.” He takes off his hat and hangs it on the wall hook- also a chicken. It would appear the “no hats in the house” rule stood the test of time. “So you got me there, the fridge
is
new,” he chuckles.

I wander farther into the living room and find, that sadly, pitifully so in fact, he’s right again—same brown couches with pink and white flowers, same shag carpet, the color of wet clay…and on the very coffee table whose corner gifted me with my first black eye sits that infamous white porcelain bowl filled with none other than—potpourri.

Guess everyone and everything here stood still, pretending nothing ever happened and moving on wasn’t necessary. Whatever…I didn’t have to live here anymore, in stagnant denial.

“I assume you’ll be staying in your old room? Want me to take your bag up?” Gatlin invades my thoughts with his presumptuous offer.

I whirl on him, my eyes tapered to piercing slits. “Listen, I’m not sure how much or how little you
think
you know about me, my life or what happened to the family that once lived in this house, but I can assure you, it’s not the whole story. And I know
that
because every story has at least two sides, and since today is the first time I’ve ever met you, you sure as hell haven’t heard mine.”

I still haven’t ruled out the possibility he
may
be lying and about to kill me, so it’s probably best not to provoke him—but he doesn’t get to
assume
anything about me.

My chest is heaving from my outburst, but his stoic demeanor doesn’t shift an inch. Nor does his expression, which is expressionless—no hint of pity, anger, curiosity…a beautiful blank slate.