Page 15 of Deacon

I run a hand over my face. “So they bought the land that goes up to the McClaine’s ranch?”

Andy nods. “I never paid much attention to it because it’s not all that much acreage. It doesn’t seem to be much of a threat to you. It’s just a strip between the highway and the McClaine’s.”

I know the land. It shouldn’t bother me much to have a small farm sitting there. The only thing I need to keep an eye on is if the Hatfields start getting friendly with the McClaines.

The McClaines have been trying to turn their land into a housing development for over a year. They lacked the funds. I need to make sure they don’t get an idea to make an unholy alliance with the Hatfields.

That would provide a clear path to the main road.

“So Deacon’s Hill is the only thing between those two farms,” I say. “Means my land touches theirs a bit.”

Andy nods again, rising. Deacon’s Hill, named for my first horse, is the furthermost northern corner of Ryder Ranch. It’s a strip of land that tapers to a point where the land gets rocky. Underneath is a cave system. In the winter, the animals congregate there because it’s dry and sheltered from the wind with all the high rocks. Just below is a little valley with a stream running through it for a water source.

It’s also sandwiched right between the Hatfields and the McClaines.

“Why do you want to know?” Andy asks.

I shrug. “Just keeping stock of who’s in the neighborhood.”

The breakfast bell rings in the main housing area. To the left of my house, about a half mile down, is my employee housing. I only need a staff of about forty people full time, and they all live on site. During the branding and breeding seasons, we borrow wranglers from the surrounding ranches.

“You go on to breakfast,” I say. “I’ll feed the horses.”

He disappears, and I finish up with the barn chores. Instead of going to eat with everyone else, I head to town. Knifely is only about thirty minutes down the highway. The roads are clear, the sun is out, and it gives me time to think.

I’ve had a copious amount of sex in my life, but I’ve never dated anybody. I know it involves asking a girl out for coffee or something, but I don’t know the etiquette.

Maybe I’m scared I’ll come on too strong. I don’t want to fuck this up.

In Knifley, I park my truck across from the café. She’s inside. I see her through the window. This time, she wears a tight plaid skirt that falls to her knee. Her boots come up, and there’s a strip of fern-green tights showing. They match her green sweater—and the ribbon in my pocket.

I lean back and watch her through the window as she works.

And the next day, I do it again.

This time, I park my truck in a different spot so she doesn’t notice it two days in a row. I get a coffee in a paper cup from the diner and drink it so I have something to do with my hands.

The ribbon burns against my thigh.

My chest is tight, like my heart beats sideways.

She’s quiet but animated, a far cry from the cold, pale face in the alley where nobody could see her sadness. When she’s at work, she smiles sweetly and listens as customers talk. She’s patient, she’s kind. She’s everything I’m not.

And that makes me want her more.

My cup is empty when I finally start my truck’s engine and head back to Ryder Ranch. Once there, I go inside and start pulling my keys out of my pocket to toss them on the table. The ribbon comes out along with them.

I hold it to my face.

Warm vanilla, the way a home should smell.

Something in me breaks. Still in my boots and coat, I head up the stairs and down the hall. At the end is the attic room. I climb thesteps and walk down the center of the large room with vaulted ceilings.

When I built the blueprints of this room, I intended for it to be for the woman I married. While I laid down the floorboards, I saw her watching me, curled up on the couch in the corner, gazing at me sleepily while I worked. I swear, I felt her presence, like I knew her already.

I know it was all rooted in my loneliness, my desire to finally have a home.

But it felt like a real possibility at the time.

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