Page 121 of Cruelest Contract
Apparently in a low moment I’m not above using my brother-in-law’s shirt as a handkerchief. I blow my nose and throw him a look of apology. “I’ll wash it before I return it.”
He snorts. “Good.”
The ink on his upper left arm catches my eye. Identical to Julian’s. By now I’ve seen it on all of them.Family is everything.
A fat drop of rain lands on my arm. Lightning flashes above the tree line. My eyes are drawn to the hill that obscures Teresa’s lonesome gravesite. I should bring her flowers again soon.
Getty refrains from sarcastic comments as we watch the storm edge closer. A few moments later, Fort finds us out here and hunkers down for a chat.
“Dad won’t say anything to Julian. He gave me his word, Cecilia. You tell Julian on your terms and it’ll be news to us.”
I need to blow my nose on Getty’s shirt again. “Thank you.”
Fort nods. “But you need to listen up. Be careful about what you say and do in town. Everyone around here knows who you are.”
“What does that mean?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw before he answers. “It means if you’re gonna buy pregnancy tests, don’t shop at the Vigilance Drugstore.”
And here I thought I was being so clever by waiting until Fort and Getty were preoccupied and then sneaking my intended purchases to the counter. There was no self-checkout option and the sales clerk who waited on me was a cheerful blonde woman who looked to be in her early thirties. I thought nothing of it when she handed me the bag with a smile and wished me luck. Evidently she’s part of the local spy network.
Are all small towns like this? Or only the ones that need to show fealty to Cass Tempesta? I’m not sure. How disheartening.
Fort tips his head back and peers at the looming clouds. “The sky’s about to unload. There’s a flash flood warning for tonight.” He stands and extends a hand to help me up.
As I creakily rise to my feet, I’m grateful for Julian’s brothers. I really wish I had any reason to feel half as much gratitude toward my own brothers. Even Gabriel hasn’t called since that horrible visit to the vineyard.
Getty is stretched out in the grass, not budging when rain begins to fall on his face.
Fort’s boot nudges his leg. “Are you planning to hang out here and drown, dickhead?”
A grin spreads across Getty’s face. “I might.” But then he demonstrates his athletic skill by springing to his feet in one second flat.
Within the space of a few minutes the wind has accelerated from pleasantly breezy to tropical storm gusts that sends my hair in crazy directions and whips my skirt against my legs.
We’ve just stepped up to the shelter of the porch when the sky opens up and layers of rain pelt the earth. Miguel runs over, sloshing through instant puddles while holding his hat to his head.
“Big section of the western fence just went down.” He frantically gestures in a direction that I’m guessing is west. “Awful close to where most of the herd is clustered and the storm won’t let up before morning.”
Fort squints at the rain and hisses through his teeth. “By then half the herd might be scattered all over the valley. We’ll be chasing them down for a freaking month.”
“At the very least,” Miguel agrees as rain collects on the brim of his hat. “We need to scramble and get a temporary fix up before the storm gets worse, which it will. All the boys are already out there but we’ll take all the help we can get.”
“Fuck it, let’s go!” Getty jumps off the porch, still shirtless, and goes charging toward the stables.
Fort, always ready for adventure, sprints after him with no hesitation. Thunder cracks closer and the wind slants the rain in my direction. I pull my flimsy summer cardigan closed and shudder at the thought of venturing out on horseback in this mess.
“Ma’am.” Miguel tips his hat to me and takes off after the Tempesta boys.
Due to my years spent in Arizona, I’ve learned to appreciate the sight of rain. A thunderstorm in the Phoenix area is practically a holiday. Longtime residents stop what they’re doing and run outside to watch the show.
Hardly a minute passes before Getty appears on the back of an Appaloosa named Lucky. He gallops in the opposite direction, bareheaded and only half clothed, whooping like a wild animal. Fort, mounted on his dependable brown gelding, is right on his heels. They’re halfway across the meadow before Miguel appears, the only one who had the sense to throw on a jacket.
Wind keeps pushing the rain inside the porch canopy and there’s nowhere to stand without getting hit. I’m sure the unfinished pool at the back of the house is turning into a muddy lagoon.
Fort was the last one to exit the house and he must have left the front door open. It’s still halfway ajar. Raindrops are sprinkled on the hardwood floor in the foyer.
I’ve just traded the blustery outdoors for the hushed interior when I freeze at the sight of the accent table. A tall terracotta vase filled with pink and white flowers sits on the surface, undisturbed. But the cat that had been crouching beneath the table is gone.
