Page 7 of Deacon

And I dread what I don’t.

CHAPTER TWO

FREYA

The days that follow my arrival in Montana are a disappointment. Maybe I thought Aiden would calm down now that he has something more than factory work, but he’s as big and brutal a presence as ever. The only difference is, he’s got a nice truck, lots of money, and land.

The first day after I get home from job hunting, I make dinner—beef, egg noodles, fresh bread—and serve it. When I come back into the kitchen after getting dressed, he’s setting his plate in the sink. I reach for it, but my eyes fall on the countertop.

A thin line of dust. Leftovers.

Our eyes meet over the plate. My stomach sinks. Aiden isn’t really an addict. He drinks nightly, but he snorts sparingly.

That doesn’t mean, behind closed doors, high Aiden isn’t terrifying. He’s already like a landmine. One wrong move, andboom, somebody’s getting the shit beat out of them.

Luckily, he doesn’t hit me. If he did, I’d be dead.

“You got something to say?” His jaw twitches.

I shake my head. His pupils dilate, and I’m so close, I can see it. Then, he snorts and walks, leaving me standing there, shaking inside. I need to get a job so I’m out of this house. I’m always on eggshells here, and Aiden could turn on me at any moment.

The next morning, I get Bittern to drop me off in Knifley so I can submit more applications. I’m in jeans, boots, and a jacket. My hair is loose to keep my neck warm, pinned with a wool cap. The ground crunches with snow, the gutters a mess of salty ice.

It’s a bad time of year to look for work. I’ve already made my way down the street, applying to every business that will take an application. And I’ve come up with nothing but dead ends since I started.

The scent of warm vanilla hits my nose. I stop short, looking around. A few yards ahead, to my right, is a café. Right away, it draws me in like a magnet.

The door is fern-green, my favorite color. Entranced, I push it open. Inside is a tiny room with shelves lining the walls and a cash register. On either side of it are glass cases full of pastries, and behind it sits a woman with a motherly face and big, leopard print glasses.

She looks up. “Hey there.”

Her voice is soft. She reminds me a little of one of the women from church back home. I gather my courage, extending my hand over the counter.

“I’m Freya Hatfield,” I say. “I’m looking for a job. I have experience.”

The words rush out. I want to work at this café that smells like a home. The woman shakes my hand, a crease between her brows. There’s a short silence, and then she offers me a smile.

“Well, I wasn’t hiring, but my husband was just saying how I’m never home, so maybe this is a sign,” she says. “We don’t get a lot of newcomers in the dead of winter. Why’re you here?”

“My family bought a parcel of the old ranch that got divided up and sold off,” I say. “We’re doing some land development, like building, construction.”

Her brows rise.

“I wanted to stay, but I don’t…can’t,” I whisper.

Her eyes soften. “Where are you from?”

“Eastern Kentucky.” The word catches in my throat.

“Rough place,” she says.

I shake my head, defensive. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”

“No offense meant. You homesick?” She gives me a kind smile.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. There’s no way I’ll let myself tear up. Aiden taught me good and hard not to cry.

“I’m Tracy. I own the place,” she says. “I live here in town with my husband. You got anybody?”

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