Page 8 of Wind Valley

He took the tube back to its position in the corner, but in the process managed to knock over another one. Lunging toward it, he toppled a third tube, and then a fourth, which he tried to stop with his outstretched foot.

Maura rushed over to help, trying to corral the suddenly unruly mess of cascading cardboard tubes with her arms. “Ow,” she squeaked, when one of them bonked her on the head. She plopped onto her butt on the floor and rubbed her head. Where was Lachlan?

There he was—his head and shoulders popping up from under a pile of tubes, as randomly tumbled as pickup sticks. He shoved hair out of his face and blinked at her in concern. “Are you okay?”

“Uh…” She couldn’t say any more because she was so close to laughing.

He shoved aside the tubes, scrambled to his feet, and reached a hand to her. She grabbed onto it and he hauled her up to standing. They stood there, surrounded by maps, as if they’d just survived the collapse of a cardboard tube Jenga game.

She couldn’t hold back her laughter any longer, and let out a giggle. “Two advanced degrees, you said?”

He snorted. Then they both burst into laughter. She laughed so hard that her sides ached and tears streamed down her cheeks. They sank onto the floor and just laughed and laughed.

Gil poked his head through the door. “You two okay? Sounded like an earthquake in here.”

When that made them laugh even more, he fled, closing the door behind him.

Why didn’t doctors prescribe more laughing fits to their patients? By the time she was wiping her eyes, she felt a hundred, maybe a thousand times better than she had in months.

5

Ever since her life had been upended, Maura had clung to her little rituals. They gave her a feeling of security in her newly chaotic world. Every morning that she awoke in her grandfather’s house, she put on her slippers and a thick fleecy robe. She checked her hair in her grandmother’s old mirror to see if it needed any additional black hair dye. She’d dyed it when she left Colorado, and decided she might as well stick with her new Goth shade for the time being.

Then she went into the living room to stoke the fire. By morning time, it had usually burned down to a few embers buried in pillows of ash. Once it had resumed its roaring output of heat, she padded around the house to make sure all the windows were secure. She’d check the measuring stick planted in the yard to see how much snow had fallen overnight. Then the outside thermometer, which needed a new battery but still faintly displayed how many degrees above or below zero it was.

At that point, Pinky’s old Newfoundland, called Newman, would notice she was up, and heave himself to his feet for the long walk over to the food bowl. She’d feed him. Then she’d feed the three cats who were also clamoring for her attention.

Things she didn’t do—check her phone, her email, or her social media. There was no point, since Pinky got zero cell service out here.

Then she’d boil water for tea. Pinky had limited electricity—only a generator, which was too noisy to turn on while he was still sleeping. She wasn’t a fan of instant coffee, so she’d transitioned her caffeine addiction to tea. Three bags in one mug woke her up enough to function.

With her steaming mug of tea, she settled herself into Pinky’s ancient swayback couch. One arm was patched with silver duct tape, and a broken spring protruded from its underside. Miraculously, it was still comfortable.

When she’d first arrived, she’d spent a solid two weeks cleaning Pinky’s house, a process he found both mystifying and unnerving. He’d flutter nearby, riddled with anxiety that she would throw something out that he might need someday.

“Grandpa, it’s me or the cobwebs,” she’d told him. “You choose.”

So they’d made a deal: she’d stuck with dusting and mopping and organizing, and only thrown out things that were clearly useless, like moldy cardboard boxes and unlabeled jars of unidentifiable pickled things. Even those required advance clearance.

Now she found his house perfectly livable, especially if she blocked out the boxes she’d stacked in the corners. They were all carefully labeled in case Pinky really needed to find that particular capsule-maker or spindle of pink string or broken headlamp that just needed some rewiring.

Pinky was delighted with the results of her efforts and boasted proudly to his friends about his brilliant granddaughter.

As the fire crackled and the cats wolfed down their generic-brand kitty chow, she wrote in her journal. Her journal was a lifeline, a way to stay connected with herself when everything around her had changed. Into those judgement-free pages, she poured her anger, her fear, her frustration.

I don’t deserve this. NO ONE DOES. Was it something I did, because I really don’t think it was. I’ve picked over every single thing I said to him and I still can’t make sense of it. It really is him, not me. He needs professional help, but he’ll never admit it. Sometimes I think I should never have spoken up, never filed for a restraining order, never reported him. If I’d just kept quiet, maybe he would have moved on. But would anything I did or didn’t do make a difference? We only dated for a month. It’s insane. madness.

After that month, all the initial green flags had turned to bright red. Just little things at first—manipulating her into a kiss goodnight. Guilting her into going to a work event with him even though she had school the next day. Making her change her outfit to something more like what the other officers’ wives would be wearing.

So she’d broken it off, and that’s when the barrage of texts started coming in. Ignoring me? … You’re like all the rest, aren’t you? … We need to talk … Text me back asap … WHERE R U BITCH!

She shuddered at the memories, which always seemed to surface when she wrote in her journal. On the bright side, there was lots of new territory to cover—the eccentric people she was meeting in Firelight Ridge, and the highly unusual lifestyle of her grandfather.

Pinky never wakes up before light. He doesn’t have a clock or a watch or anything that tells time in his house. He doesn’t care about time at all. The only reason it matters to him is that some places are only open certain hours. But no one around here sticks to fixed hours anyway, so if something’s closed, he thinks nothing of it. He’ll just go back later. Except The Fang. If The Fang’s closed, he’ll break in and help himself. He says Bear doesn’t mind, and I’m sure that’s true. Everyone here takes care of my grandfather, it’s very sweet to see.

He’s still in good shape. Amazing, really. He can still chop wood and run a kick sled. But he looks old, the skin on his face is tanned like leather, his hair is grayer than Granny’s. No barbershops out here. A farmer named Martha cuts people’s hair. I think she might do it with her sheep shears judging by the results.

Even though she loved writing in her journal, it often brought out a lot of emotion. She missed her students. She missed her family, who didn’t even know where she was. “It’s safer if you don’t know,” she’d told them. “Safer for everyone. But don’t worry, I’ll be with someone I can trust. And it won’t be for too long.”

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