Page 5 of Naughty Secrets

Chapter Three

SAM

“Natalie?”

Puzzled, I flick on the kitchen lights. I don’t really expect Natalie to be here because her truck isn’t parked outside, but it’s dinnertime. I can’t remember a day when I’ve come in from the field to find no Natalie in the kitchen.

“Nat?” I raise my voice, although if she were here, she’d answer. Our bedroom and living room are within hearing distance of the kitchen, and Natalie never goes upstairs.

The house is silent. Cold. It feels wrong. Like its life crept away when my back was turned.

Our border collie, Rebel, follows me inside, sniffing around for his bowl. I felt a slight niggle of worry when I saw it empty by the door. Although Natalie sometimes goes out with her friends in the evening, she never ever forgets to leave us a meal.

“Looks like we’re on our own tonight.” I give him a pat and take care of his food and water before looking for my plate. I search the counters, stove, microwave, and fridge, and come up empty. No plate. No food. No note. Not even a text to let me know she’s running late.

The niggle turns into full-blown worry. Where’s my girl?

I send her a text, then stare out the kitchen window, half expecting to see our blue farm truck rumbling down the gravel driveway. Barely five feet four inches tall, Natalie insists on driving the truck to town, even though she has to use a cushion for visibility. Our hired men often smirk when they see her pull up, and more than once I’ve had to use my fists to shut down their comments about the little woman in the big-ass truck. Natalie may be small, but she is strong and brave and willing to lend a hand no matter how difficult the job, or how inclement the weather. Something that couldn’t be said for my men.

When no truck appears, I open the fridge and stare at the shelves full of bottles, containers, fruit, and vegetables. I so rarely have to prepare my own food; I have no idea what to do. Finally, I spot a container of eggs on the bottom shelf beside the raspberries I picked for Natalie on my way home yesterday evening. Natalie loves raspberries, but they didn’t grow well in her garden.

“Whaddaya think, Rebel? Should we see if I remember how to make an omelette?”

Rebel, now well into his tasty meal, doesn’t even bother to lift his head.

Driven by hunger, I pull out a bag of mushrooms, a block of cheese, and a few limp scallions, and place them on the counter with the eggs. Next, I search the cupboards for a bowl. I was a fair cook back when Natalie and I lived in Billings together, but after we moved to the farm, we unintentionally took on more traditional roles. Out in the field or in the pasture from dawn to dusk, and with a team of hired men to manage, I don’t have time for cooking. Except when we need extra hands in the field, Natalie is mostly at home. She runs the business side of the operation and the accounts, as well as the household and the garden, and has taken on the task of preparing our meals.

Finally, I locate a bowl and manage to crack four eggs into it along with a vast quantity of shells. After spending ten minutes trying and failing to fish out the little pieces, I cut a few wedges of cheese, chop them up, and throw them in along with a scallion and a handful of mushrooms. Feeling proud of my accomplishment, I carry the mixture over to the gas stove and study the multitude of dials.

“Did I buy this?”

Rebel thumps his tail, and I take it for a yes. We renovated the kitchen after my father passed away, although I had little input into the design. Unable to cope with being in the house where he and I had to make our own way after my mother returned to the city, I left everything to Natalie and she handled it all without complaint, from the financing to sourcing the materials and appliances, and from hiring the contractor to supervising his work. She got it done at half the quoted cost and at twice the speed. My Natalie is a force to be reckoned with.

“What the hell? It looks like an airline cockpit. Which dial goes with which burner?”

My now well-fed dog has no answers. He stretches and lies down on the warm spot on the floor where the sun streams in every evening. For a moment I consider just pouring myself a bowl of his food, but I decide against it. Not because I’m worried about getting ill, but because in a fight between Rebel and me, I have a feeling he might win simply because I couldn’t bear to hurt him.

Fed up with trying to figure out all the knobs and buttons, I grab a gas lighter, turn on a few burners, and flick the switch. Flames shoot up, singeing my eyebrows and the front of my hair. Rebel jumps up with a yip of warning and pushes himself between the stove and me, urging me back.

“Jesus Christ.” I turn off the burners and pour a jug of water over my head as the acrid scent of burnt hair fills the kitchen. “Where the fuck is Natalie? You think she’s still at the cemetery?”

Rebel looks up at me and tips his head to the side as if telling me he doesn’t know. He came with me early this morning to visit Ethan’s grave, when the morning light first streaked across the sky. I always go to the cemetery early so that Natalie can visit Ethan alone whenever it suits her during the day. We never visit him together. Never talk about him. Never discuss having another child. I always figured she’d come to me when the time was right, but after years passed and she didn’t bring it up, I assumed she was done. As an only child, I always dreamed of having a big family, but Natalie is everything to me, and I’ve willingly given up that dream to have her in my life.

I check my phone again. Send another text. Leave her a voice message. When I get no immediate response, I turn on the radio, hoping the music will calm me down. George Jones’s “The Grand Tour” fills the kitchen and I focus on the music as I make myself a cheese sandwich. Natalie has eclectic musical tastes, ranging from punk rock to pop songs, and metal ballads to mournful cello concertos, but she always puts on the country music station when I’m in the house because she knows it’s the only music I can listen to without thinking about Ethan and the songs I played for him on my guitar in the three short months we had together. But that’s Natalie. She shows her love through small acts of kindness, even after Ethan’s death broke her heart.

My chest tightens, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I need my Natalie, and I need her now. Where is she? Is she lost? Hurt? Sick? Injured? Has she finally run away and left me? I know I haven’t been a good husband to her over the last few years, although I’ve never stopped loving her. I’ve let my work consume me to the point we have become two ships passing in the night. Sometimes I watch her in the kitchen when her back is turned, her body so painfully familiar I ache inside. I want to tell her how beautiful she is in evening light, how I miss seeing her thick dark hair down, the soft waves tumbling down her back, how I want more than anything to take her to bed and hold her all night long, talk about the world and our dreams and the future, like we used to do. But then she turns, and I see the pain and sadness in her eyes, and suddenly, although only a few feet separate us, I feel like we’re miles apart.

Rebel whines and nuzzles my hand, calming me with warm, wet licks of his tongue.

“What are we gonna do, Rebel? Do we go look after the calves, or do we make some calls?” It is now past seven o’clock. Dusk is settling in, spreading long fingers of darkness over the fields. Revival’s shops and businesses close at five. More than enough time for Natalie to get home.

Rebel barks, paws at my phone on the table. There is work to be done before bed—equipment to be locked up, calves to be checked and fed, work rosters to be made for the hired men tomorrow—but all I can think about is Natalie.

“You want me to call someone, bud?” I pick up the phone. “Who should I call? Who would know where to find my girl?”

---