Page 42 of Westin

I know, but I’d like to hear the particulars. She sighs, picking the wilted lily from her hair and turning it over in her fingers.

“David’s not very happy with me most of the time,” she says quietly. “I don’t know why. I think he’s just…all messed up inside. He was really young when our parents passed. He had to do a lot.”

I’m quiet. She wipes her nose.

“I still hate him sometimes,” she says. “Just because you got dealt a bad hand doesn’t mean you have to be mean. There was a time when I did everything for him. Then, he just pushed me away.”

If I had to guess, he started hating her when he realized she was a financial burden. I know how hard David’s life has been, but I know other men who’ve been dealt far worse, and they don’t take it out on women.

I find I don’t have much sympathy for him.

She wipes her nose, but her eyes are dry. They fix out the window, her heavy lids flickering.

“Anyway, fuck David. He’s just bitter,” she says. “I tried for years. I’m not trying anymore.”

There’s a dark undercurrent to her voice.

“Do you have siblings?” she asks.

“No,” I say firmly.

She can tell by my tone that I’m not willing to talk about my family. There’s a short silence, then she shrugs and sits up.

“It’s getting on towards dinnertime,” she says. “You better go home.”

I shift up on the bed and take her face in my hand, kissing her gently. Slowly, so she remembers the way it feels after I’m gone. We don’t talk much as we go downstairs. She kisses me again on the step, her fingers hooked in my belt loops.

I light a cigarette and walk back through the field to my truck. Back at Sovereign Mountain, I finish up chores. It’s dark when I get back to the gatehouse and start undressing. In my pocket with my keys is the flower I put in her hair. She must have slipped it in when she kissed me goodbye.

That night, I sit staring out my window, the flower in my hand. The moon is big, caught in the spidery branches of the tree outside.

Under my mattress, carved into the wood is a list of names.

Clint Garrison.

Thomas Garrison.

Avery Garrison.

The first name is crossed out. The others are just biding their time. Part of me wishes I had a good enough reason to add one more, one that, once crossed off, would simplify everything.

David Carter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DIANE

It's the haying season before I realize it.

I’m stuck in the kitchen, cooking for all the men working the farm. Our busiest times are when hay comes due. David is gone from dawn to dusk, and he expects me to run everything while he’s away.

I get up early for the last full harvesting day of the summer. It’s still dark out, and the world is blessedly cool. Back and hands aching, I pull on a simple cotton sundress that reaches my ankles. It’s light and flows around my body—perfect for working in the kitchen.

The stairs creak. I make my way to the kitchen and find David sitting at the breakfast bar. He glances up from his phone, black eyes distant.

“I’m heading out,” he says. “Make sure lunch is ready by twelve.”

I stay quiet as I turn the coffee machine on and go to the fridge. Inside sits a fresh jug of orange juice I made before bed last night. I take it out, pouring a glass.

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