Page 16 of The Rookie
Austen chuckles when I finally catch up with him. “We oughta get you some new boots with better grip. That is, if you’re sticking around.”
Unsure of how to respond, I focus on the firepit, then the neat stack of wood a few yards away. “How can I help?”
He waves off my offer. “I’ve got it. You just grab a seat and try to stay warm till I get this thing roaring.”
I do as I’m told, settling on the edge of one of the worn wooden benches.
Austen gets all the wood he needs in one trip and goes to work arranging the firewood how he wants it. He’s quiet as he works, and I figure now is as good a time as any to do a little more client research. I got a taste of the Tate family history from Logan last night, but now I want to hear Austen’s thoughts.
“So, how did you guys end up all the way out here?”
Not as tactful of a question as I might ask one of my clients, but Austen isn’t a client. He’s my client’s brother. And something tells me he might be an easier nut to crack than Logan.
“Dad bought the land about ten years ago. He had big plans for this place. Not just for the property, but for Lost Haven too.”
“What do you mean?”
“His idea was to turn our property into some kind of tourist destination, a wilderness getaway of sorts. There’s plenty around here, but this stretch of land ...”
He trails off, his attention firmly fixed on building a teepee of logs. Once he’s got the structure sturdy, he pushes up, wiping his palms on the worn denim of his jeans.
Urging him to continue, I say, “This stretch of land ...”
“It just never got developed, I guess. So Dad took out a loan, bought up all this acreage, and we got to work building the house. The barn came next, then the garden. It was another two years before we cleared the land to get the guest cabins done.”
I nod along, adding up the years in my head. “Sounds like a lot of man hours.”
“Woman hours too,” he says, correcting me. “Mom pulled her weight. We were just finally getting to a place to scale up this operation, start turning a profit. And then, well ...” He pauses, swallowing a lump of emotion in his throat. “Well, then Dad passed. Now it’s all up to Graham. A whole lot of pressure is on him. On all of us.”
I pause for a moment, searching for the right words. But if there’s one thing I know about losing someone you love, it’s that the right words don’t exist. There’s just no way to make it better. Time and being gentle with yourself are really the only things that can help. It’s a reality I know all too well. Yesterday, when Logan learned about my mom, I saw the hard look on his face falter, but just for a second.
“Sounds like big shoes for Graham to fill,” I finally manage to say.
“Sure is,” Austen says with a grunt. “And with all that change, money has been tight.”
“I know Logan signed a nice contract.”
“Sure, but he doesn’t have most of that money yet. Besides, Graham’s too stubborn to let his baby brother sink any money into this place, no matter how much we could use it.”
Reaching into his pocket, Austen fishes out a box of matches, then crouches down again. Two or three strikes later, there’s a spark, and then it catches on to the drier bits of wood. Soon, the tiny glowing embers grow into a low, steady fire.
By the time he shoves back to his feet, I’ve finally worked up the courage to ask the same question I’m sure he’s asked himself a hundred times.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Our damnedest,” he says with a shrug, settling back onto the bench across from mine. “That’s why we started the whole craft-beer operation. We’re hoping that’s the ticket, the secret ingredient that will make this whole thing profitable.”
“Which is why Graham is so angry about Logan’s mistake.”
Austen smirks. “Now you’re getting it.”
The creak of a door interrupts our conversation, followed by the crunch of icy snow beneath furious footsteps. It’s Logan, stalking toward us wearing a mask of fury. It’s not till he gets closer that I realize his lip is split, and he’s sporting the early signs of a bruise forming on his right cheek.
I have to bite my tongue hard to keep from gasping. I remember what Austen said about arguments being normal when Logan is home, but it’s hard to believe violence is normal too. My stomach clenches into a painful knot.
“I think it’s pretty obvious I won’t be joining you tonight,” Logan says gruffly, dragging the back of his hand along his lower lip. “Just thought I’d let you know.”
With that, he turns and stomps back toward the house, and I’m right behind him. But once again, these darn boots betray me and slow me down. Logan is already halfway up the stairs by the time I step inside.
