Page 112 of Deacon

“Why?” I whisper.

He shrugs. “Because I’d been kicked in the teeth from day one. I kicked back once, and that motherfucker never put a hand on me again. There’s only so much beating a dog can take before it bites.”

He has such an inelegant but effective way of describing his pain.

“That’s how I got the ranch,” he says, voice dropping until it’s a soft rumble. “It belonged to that man’s father. Now, it’s mine.”

The sickness in my chest is overwhelming. I wrench myself back, heart thumping for a different reason than before. His hands are still on me, hands capable of so much hurt.

And yet, hands that have never hurt me.

BEFORE

I’m twelve. Not a woman, not a baby anymore.

But God, do I know about grief. It aches in my chest like a wound as I sit, hunched on the porch steps. Behind me, in the depths of the house, a door slams. Aiden is yelling, and I know I should make myself scarce. Bittern says something back. Somebody hits the tabletop, the coffee table that used to belong to my mother’s mother.

I never met her, but I know she was young too.

A tear slips out. I wipe it back instantly.

The hot summer wind makes the goldenrod in the field ripple. I see it through the trees—a net of yellow, like a little bit of heaven just out of reach.

The screen door slams open, and Aiden appears. I turn, getting to my feet. I’m in one of Bittern’s t-shirts, tied at my hip, and my feet are bare. My legs, bruised from God knows what, stick out like bird feet from under my shorts.

Lady Hatfield had big, tall children. Laurel Rose had me, short and inconspicuous. The advantage is, nobody would be tempted to send me to the factory or the mine. The disadvantage is, I’m no use to Aiden, and that makes me his favorite target.

He pauses in the doorway, glistening with sweat. His t-shirt is off, shoved into his belt. The beer swinging from his hand is empty. I don’t know if he notices because he’s so high, his pupils fill up his bright blue eyes.

For the first time, I can’t blame him.

His son is down at the coroner’s office. Not just any son, but Wayland, the big, strong firstborn.

Behind him, the door jiggles and swings open again. Aiden steps out of the way to let Bittern edge sideways around him. He slumps onto the bench, back against the house, and digs in his jeans for a pack of cigarettes.

I hope he’s out. Then, I hope he isn’t, because they’ll send me down to the gas station for more. But maybe that would be better than being here.

He finds a wrinkled pack, takes one to give to his father and another for himself, and tries to light it. His hand shakes so bad, it hurts my heart.

I skirt around Aiden and take the lighter. Bittern gives me a soft look from the depths of his haunted russet eyes.

“Thanks, Frey,” he says.

I flick the lighter, and he inhales. I wish he’d quit the cigarettes now that his lungs aren’t working right, but I get it. He just spent a week trapped in a mine. I know he needs something to take the edge off.

Especially because they pulled him out of that prison with his heart still beating, but Wayland came out dead. The guilt from that must be eating him alive.

The days since we got the call about the collapse have been horrifying. Every night, I laid on my back in a cold sweat, thinking about Bittern down under the ground, all alone with nobody to hold his hand. When they let us know he’d been found, I went out into the goldenrod field and sobbed.

Aiden wishes it was Wayland who lived. I’m so grateful it was sweet Bittern, who doesn’t say much but calls me Frey and brings me butterflies and beetles for my collection.

I glance over at him. He puts the cigarette to his lips, and his eyes focus through the trees. Smoke slips out. His eyes stay where they’re at, locked into the distance.

He looks, but he doesn’t see anymore.

“I’m gonna kill them both,” Aiden says.

He keeps saying that about the two managers up at the mine who sent Bittern and Wayland underground that day. Maybe he’s rightand they were negligent. Maybe they were just doing their job and couldn’t have predicted the collapse. It’s hard to say, but it doesn’t matter, because Aiden’s made up his mind.

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