Raylan is out in that pen for hours.
I find myself drawn back to the window again and again to watch him.
I have Bo’s laptop, and I was able to access my personal files. Not the ones for all of Griffin, Briar, Weiss, because they don’t allow remote access from unknown IP addresses. But anything I scanned in myself I can still open, read, and edit.
So there should be plenty for me to do. Plenty to hold my attention.
Instead, I’m back at the kitchen window, watching Raylan gallop around and around that pen with infinite patience.
He doesn’t seem to be trying to calm the horse. Actually, it looks like he’s urging it to run faster. I guess that tires it out sooner.
I don’t know why I feel so agitated, watching him.
I’m impressed by his patience, and by his skill in riding the horse bareback, balancing flawlessly, barely even shifting when the horse abruptly startles or turns, trying to throw him off.
And yet . . . I feel a sort of anxiousness, too. Almost an antipathy toward Raylan. I look at that beautiful, wild horse, and I almost want it to fling him off, so it can kick its way out of the pen and go thundering off across the field again.
That’s an immature impulse, I know.
It’s just a horse. It was bred and raised for work.
But there’s a stubbornness in me, a contentiousness, that wants to see that horse rebel. I hate to see it broken.
I force myself to sit down at the kitchen table again, to return to the endless rows of data in my purchase agreement spreadsheet. There’s a couple of numbers that aren’t adding up in the deposit column, and I’m trying to figure out which figures are causing the discrepancy.
I’ve always been good at spotting patterns, especially in numbers. I wouldn’t like to admit this out loud, but I have a burning passion for Excel spreadsheets. I love the formulas, the neat tables of data, the way that the cells can be manipulated to provide answers to all sorts of questions.
Finally, I spot the issue that’s disrupting my perfect structure.
There are two properties with almost the same name—one is listed as Benloch Commercial Lot 29, and the other as Benloch Commercial Lt 29. At first I think it’s just a typo, but then I see there really is a purchase agreement for both, and two separate wire transfers for the payments.
It’s odd. We had to purchase almost a hundred properties for the South Shore Development. Still, I’m surprised that two had such similar names. Especially with a numerical signifier at the end. I’ll have to get the original documents from the office to see if this is accurate.
I send a quick email to Lucy, asking her to scan the documents and send them to me.
With that done, I find myself wandering back to the window again to check on Raylan’s progress.
The horse has finally slowed down its gallop. It’s trotting around the pen now, clearly exhausted. It still holds its head high, though. And I see that Raylan is only gripping the rope loosely, letting the horse think that it has control of its own motion.
It doesn’t, though. It’s trapped in that pen. And it couldn’t throw Raylan off no matter how hard it tried. It’s broken, whether it knows it or not.
I shift, pressing my hand into the small of my back. I’m going to be sore tomorrow when I wake up. All that riding around today will catch up with me.
Bo comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing an oversized man’s shirt—probably a hand-me-down from Raylan or Grady. Her black hair is in a loose plait. I can’t help noticing how beautiful she is. She has Raylan’s striking, wolfish features, but in feminine form. Her eyes are narrow and slightly tilted up at the outer corners, her lips fuller.
“That laptop work for you?” she asks.
“It did. Thank you.”
She acknowledges the thanks with a nod. “You going to the dance tonight?” she says.
She has an abrupt way of speaking, without any of Raylan’s laid-back charm. She seems impatient, like the rest of the world is moving too slowly for her.
I understand that. I often feel like people are thinking and speaking at half-speed. It’s a constant struggle to maintain the appearance of patience.
“I don’t know,” I say. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
“You can borrow clothes,” Bo tells me. “I know you don’t have any. Raylan said your whole apartment burned up.”
There’s a hint of sympathy in her tone. Not much, but enough to prove that Bo isn’t totally unfeeling. She’s certainly been generous with her clothes and toiletries. I get the impression she doesn’t give a shit about “stuff,” but I still appreciate it. It’s hard for me to accept kindness. I wouldn’t be able to stand it, if she made a big deal out of the favor.
“Thank you,” I say again. “I know this whole thing is weird. Us showing up here.”
Bo shrugs. “Raylan likes trouble. He always has.”
“Is that why he didn’t stay here?” I ask her. “It wasn’t enough adventure for him?”
Bo narrows her eyes at me, looking me up and down like she’s analyzing the motive behind my question.
“He had his reasons for leaving,” she says at last.
Then she turns abruptly and leaves the kitchen.
I feel like I offended her, but I have no idea how. Or maybe she wasn’t offended—she just didn’t want to leave space for any more questions.
I look out the window again, my eyes irresistibly drawn back to Raylan.
I feel a pull toward him unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
I don’t know what the fuck happened between us down by the river. I’ve never felt anything like that. I was completely out of control. And usually I hate that sensation. Hate it more than anything.
But in this particular instance . . .
It was almost worth the trade. Giving up my sense of security and dignity, in return for the most transcendent sexual experience of my life.
I’ve never felt pleasure like that.
I can feel my face flaming, just remembering it.
I don’t understand how it happened. I’ve never been so wildly attracted to someone. Never felt my body respond like that . . .
And now I want to shut it off again. I want to turn it off like a faucet, because I don’t know where this will take me. I don’t know what will happen if I give in to that impulse again.
I want to leave and go back to Chicago.
I’m overwhelmed by Raylan’s ranch, his family, his personal life. Overwhelmed by seeing him here in his element, where he’s most comfortable, most himself.
He’s at his most powerful here, and I’m at my most confused and off-kilter. I don’t have any of the trappings of my normal life—my clothes, my routine, my career, my own family. Those are the core elements of my identity. What am I, stripped down to nothing and brought to this strange place?
Raylan and I missed lunch when we were riding around all morning. I made myself a sandwich while I was working, but he stayed out in the pen, probably getting hungrier by the minute.
He spends so long with the horse that he almost misses dinner, too.
I’m alone in the kitchen with Celia when she starts the evening meal. I’m working away on Bo’s laptop, but I feel guilty watching her peel potatoes and chop carrots, knowing I’ll be eating the food when it’s finished. Especially considering she’s doing all this work with a clunky boot on her right foot.
“Can I help?” I ask her.
“No need,” she says. “You’re already working.”
Her tone is genuine—she’s not trying to nudge me into offering again. But I close the laptop and stand up anyway, feeling like I should contribute, since I’m staying in her house, wearing her daughter’s clothes, and eating her food.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” I tell her honestly. “But I’d like to help.”
“Do onions make you cry?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Try cutting these up,” she says.
She gives me a couple of yellow onions, plus a worn cutting board and a large chef’s knife that has clearly been sharpened again and again over time. The blade is honed to fragile thinness.
I take the counter space next to her, and I try cutting and peeling the onions.
I can tell I’m wasting too much—it’s hard to get the skin off, without taking a ring or two off the onion as well. Then my pieces are all different shapes and sizes, not uniform like when I’ve seen Raylan do this. I try to use the grip on the knife that he showed me, and the rocking motion. That helps a little.
The onions are stinging the hell out of my eyes. I blink hard, sending tears running down my cheeks. I swipe my eyes with the back of my hand, but that only makes it worse.
“Some people seem immune to onions,” Celia says. “Not me, that’s for sure.”
“My pieces are wonky,” I point out.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll taste the same regardless.”
Celia uses the knife to scrape the onions into a cast-iron frypan, which is already sizzling with butter. She sautés carrot, onion, and celery pieces all together, filling the kitchen with their savory scent.
“How did you like riding this morning?” Celia asks me.
For a second I can feel myself blushing, as if Celia might guess what happened at the river. Then I remember that nobody knows that—all they saw was me trying out a horse for the very first time. So I say, truthfully, “It was much better than I expected. Really incredible, actually.”
“Most people are scared of horses if they haven’t ridden before.”
“I was scared, at first,” I admit. “I would have been more afraid if I was on Brutus instead of Penny.”
Celia looks over at me, her blue eyes searching my face.
“I can see why Raylan likes you,” she says. “You’re honest. That’s important to him. He can’t stand being lied to.”
“We don’t . . . we’re not . . . ” I trail off. I want to tell Celia that we’re not dating, but I can’t exactly say there’s nothing between us.
“I know, I know,” she says, stirring the contents of the frypan. “He told me you weren’t together. But he’s never brought a girl home before.”
Despite the fact that I don’t want Celia getting the wrong idea, her statement gives me a warm flush of pleasure. I would have been jealous at the thought of Raylan bringing another woman here. Introducing her to his family, taking her on horseback for the first time. Even though I don’t particularly want the distinction, I’m enjoying it anyway. Knowing this is all as new to him as it is to me.
“Here, cut this up in bite-sized pieces,” Celia instructs me, handing over some cold chicken out of the fridge.
While I’m working on that, she flours the countertop and rolls out a large lump of pastry. She lines two pie pans with the dough, while also making some kind of white sauce on the stove that smells buttery and delicious.
“What will this be?” I ask her.
“Chicken pot pie,” she says.
I’ve never tried that before. Possibly my expression betrays that, because Celia says, “Don’t worry, it’s good.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say hastily. “I’m not picky.”
As I watch her assemble the pies with the chopped chicken, the sautéed vegetables, and the gravy-like sauce, it reminds me of an Irish dish.
“My family makes something like this,” I tell her. “Chicken and dumplings.”
“Sure,” Celia says. “That’s similar.”
Celia shows me how to top the pie pans with another circle of pastry, then crimp the edges to seal the top and bottom of the pie. Then she makes little slashes across the top of each pie.
“What does that do?” I ask her.
“Lets the steam out.” She slides the pies into the oven. “There. Those’ll be done in an hour.”
I know I should probably use that time to shower and change my clothes, but I find myself lingering in the kitchen, which is warm and cozy and smells like sage and browned butter. I want to talk to Celia longer.
So I say, “Raylan is so good with horses.”
“One of the best I’ve ever seen,” Celia agrees. She wipes a strand of hair away from her forehead with the back of her flour-dusted hand, giving me a little smile. “And I’m not just saying that because he’s my son.”
I hesitate, hoping I’m not about to offend her.
“Why did he enlist?” I ask. “He seems to love it here . . . ”
Celia sighs. “He does,” she agrees. “I think . . . I think he felt he had to leave. For a while, at least.”
I frown, not understanding.
“Has Raylan told you anything about his father?” Celia asks me.
“No.” I shake my head. “Nothing at all.”
An omission I noticed immediately, since he talked openly about all the rest of his family.
Celia hesitates a moment, as if she’s deciding how much to tell me. I’ve seen this before in depositions—the human desire to share information, battling against the endless unknowable consequences of our own words. I can see that she wants to explain but doesn’t want to anger Raylan.
At last, she says, “I didn’t grow up in a house like this—big and beautiful, with every amenity. I was the kind of dirt poor you only see in the south. I had one pair of shoes, and when they got too small for me, I slit the front of them so my toes could poke out. I had seven brothers and sisters. I was the oldest, so most of the care for them fell on my shoulders. Getting food for them was a constant battle. I’d get a loaf of Wonderbread and make margarine and brown sugar sandwiches, if we had margarine or brown sugar. And then the whole loaf was gone, and I had to find something else.”
She presses her lips together, as if wincing from the memory of hunger pains. And I realize that the massive meals she cooks that fill the table might stem from a long-ago desperate desire to be able to feed the people she loved with as much delicious food as they could stomach.
“I left school in the tenth grade, and I got a job. I was working as a waitress at a roadside bar. I wasn’t supposed to be serving drinks—I wasn’t anything close to twenty-one. But the owners knew my situation, and they needed the help.
“It was rough. I know things look rugged around here now, but it’s nothing to how it was thirty years ago. Silver Run was the kind of place where people didn’t stick their noses in other people’s business. Which is why nobody did anything about the fact that my parents were too high to feed or clothe their kids, or make sure any of us attended school. And if something did happen that crossed a line—people were more likely to take the law into their own hands than to call the sheriff.”
I nod slowly. I know exactly how that works. In the Irish Mafia, it’s the same—each family runs their own affairs. And when there’s a conflict, you take it to one of the head bosses. Never to the police or to any other outsider.
“So,” Celia continues, “I served drinks and food to all types. Ranchers and truck-drivers, farmers and line-workers. Most of the men were local, and reasonably respectful to me. They’d flirt or tease or maybe give me a little slap on the ass now and then. But I was relatively safe and making enough money that my next two siblings down the line could stay in school, and hopefully, graduate. Then one night, somebody I’d never seen before came in to eat.”
A shiver runs down her frame, like a cold breeze just blew on the back of her neck.
“He was about forty years old, tall and handsome. He wasn’t dressed like the men I usually saw. He had on a proper suit, and his hair was freshly cut. What I noticed most of all was how clean he was. Not a speck of dirt on his shoes or trousers. And his fingernails were spotless. I’d hardly ever seen a grown man look like that. He wasn’t tanned, either. His face and neck and hands were pale like they’d never seen the sun. So he caught my eye at once.
“I went over to his table. He was sitting with two other men I didn’t recognize, though they had on the usual Wranglers and button-ups. And they were normal-looking men. They didn’t draw the eye the way Ellis did.
“That was his name—he introduced himself as soon as I came to take his order. He had a soft, cultured voice. A northern accent, which made him sound exotic to me then. He said, ‘I’m Ellis Burr. What’s your name?’ so politely, and with such genuine interest.
“I think I was blushing redder than a stop sign. I don’t even know if I managed to say my name properly. He ordered a Gray Goose martini, which I also thought was unutterably fancy. His friends got whiskey. And he asked me what I wanted to drink.
“I said, ‘I can’t drink, I’m only sixteen.’ And he smiled, showing the most white and perfect teeth I’d ever seen. I should have realized then what a warning that smile was, but when you’re a teenager, you don’t realize you’re just a child. You don’t realize how different adults are from you. You think you’re one of them, or close to it. You don’t know that in innocence and vulnerability, you’re like a kitten padding around next to a tiger.”
I feel a sick sense of dread at where this story is going, but I don’t want to interrupt Celia, not even to encourage her. I’ve learned that when someone is in the flow of a narrative, the worst thing you can do is derail them. Not if you want to learn something.
“He asked me a few more questions about myself, as I brought their drinks and then their food. I didn’t dare ask anything about him. I found out later, from the regulars, that he was a bigshot at a building materials company in Knoxville. He’d just built some big estate thirty miles outside Silver Run.
“Ellis paid the bill for the table, which came to maybe sixty dollars. And he laid three crisp, new hundred-dollar bills on the table.
“If he would have been there when I picked them up, I would have said, ‘That’s too much,’ and refused to take it. But the men had already left. So I just picked the money up, staring at it like it was a gold nugget. Like it was something magic left by a genie in a fairytale.
“Then, a couple of hours later, when I had wiped down all the tables and we’d closed for the night, I went out behind the restaurant to get my bicycle. And there was a sleek black car, parked ten feet away from my bike. Ellis got out of that car and said, ‘Let me give you a ride home.’
“I never took rides from men at work. Not even if it was raining. But I felt like I couldn’t refuse him, because he’d given me all that money. So I got in his car.
“I’d never been in a truly luxurious space before. The gleam of the dashboard, and the scent of the leather . . . it was like I was sitting in a mobile palace. And Ellis himself seemed ten times as powerful and intimidating, now that I was in his space, sitting right next to him.
“But his voice was as soft and gentle as ever, as he asked me all about my parents and my siblings, and why I wasn’t in school.
“He drove me straight home, respectful as can be, and dropped me off in front of the house.
“When you’re poor . . . you can be incredibly practical. By the time I was eight years old, I was paying our electrical bill. I understood a lot of awful things that no child should understand. And yet . . . I lived in a fantasy world, too. I had to create these dreams for myself. Possible futures I might have someday. If I won the lottery. If I became a famous actress—never mind that I was horribly shy. If I won a trip to Paris somehow . . .
“So when I left work the next night and Ellis was waiting for me . . . I finally felt special. And chosen. As if fate had noticed me at last.
“He was so kind to me at first. He bought me gifts, and my siblings, too. Never asking anything in return. He never laid a hand on me. I almost imagined at first that he might want to adopt me, like Daddy Warbucks in Annie . . .
“Of course, that was innocent in a way that I should not have been innocent, since I knew better by then what men want from girls. I was a virgin, but only thanks to several narrow escapes.
“Eventually, Ellis did expect favors back from me. But by that point, I was so deeply in debt to him . . . thousands of dollars in gifts and dinners and even cash . . . I felt like I had to give him whatever he wanted.
“Looking back on it now, he probably spent less than three thousand on me. Which seemed like all the money in the world. Now I think how cheap I sold myself to him.”
I can’t keep quiet at that. I say, “You were a child. And you were desperate. You didn’t sell yourself. That implies that you made a choice.”
Celia sighs. “I saw the path I was on. And I never tried to leave it. I knew about birth control . . . he refused to use it. I continued on anyway. And of course I was soon pregnant. Pregnant with Raylan.
“Ellis proposed. I accepted. Though even as he slipped the shiny ring on my finger, I didn’t feel excitement. I knew I was trapped. No going back.
“The cracks in his kindness had already started to show. I knew I was never allowed to say no to him—not about anything. If he ordered dinner for me, and I wanted pasta instead of steak, I never spoke up. If I did, he’d punish me later. Not in an obvious way. But with something subtle—like closing the car door on my hand ‘accidentally.’ Or forcing me to miss my sister’s school play.
“The first time he slapped me was over something so small . . . I was carrying a pitcher of lemonade out to his deck. He had a massive house out in the middle of nowhere. I had only visited it a few times then. I tripped over the ledge leading down from the kitchen to the deck. I dropped the pitcher and it shattered, spilling lemonade everywhere.
“He slapped me across the face, hard. It hurt. But it shocked me more. My parents were addicts, but they didn’t beat us. I remember his pale blue eyes watching my face. Watching to see how I’d react.
“I stood there stunned for a second. Trying to decide whether to cry or run away. And then instead, I said, ‘I’m sorry.’ And he smiled. That’s what he wanted to hear. He wanted me to accept fault, even for an innocent mistake. And he wanted me to accept my punishment.”
Celia pauses to dampen a rag, so she can wipe down the countertops while we talk.
“Anyway,” she says, “I don’t have to tell you every detail of what happened next. I’m sure you can guess. Men like Ellis like to think that they’re unique and original, but in fact they couldn’t be more predictable if they were operating out of a literal playbook. As soon as we were married, as soon as he had me alone in his house, as soon as I was pregnant and unable to leave . . . he escalated. Day by day his restrictions tightened, and his violence increased.
“He never left marks that someone else could see. But the rest of my body . . . I was covered in burns. Cuts. Bruises. And sometimes worse. I begged him to be careful, not to hurt the baby . . . Thank god he didn’t. For his own reasons, not because he gave a damn what I wanted. He was excited about the baby. Another human completely under his control.
“Of course for me, the pregnancy was a time-bomb. A countdown to my greatest fear of all—that what was being done to me might eventually spill over onto an innocent child.
“Ellis was so excited when he found out we were having a son. I told myself that meant he would never hurt the baby. No matter how angry or violent he got, he never actually lost control. He never broke anything that mattered to him, or left a mark on me that might be visible in public. It was all so calculated.
“But then one day he truly lost his temper. One of my brothers came to the house to check on me. It was the next-oldest of my siblings, Abott. He was only fifteen, but tall. Like Grady is tall.” Celia smiles, faintly.
“Ellis had cameras set up all around inside the house and on the property so he could watch me constantly, even while he was at work. He saw Abott come to the door, and he saw me open the door. Even though I didn’t let him inside and I made him leave immediately, Ellis was already on his way home.
“I saw a rage in him that night that I’d never seen before. He hit me again and again in the face. Then he poured a glass full of bleach. He held it out to me, and he said, ‘Drink.’ I begged and pleaded, but it was like talking to a mannequin. His face was so still and blank. Only his eyes were glittering.
“He grabbed my face and brought the glass to my lips. He was going to force it down my throat.
“I said, ‘Please don’t make me. It will kill the baby.’ That was the only thing that shook him out of it. But it was close—too damned close. I didn’t know if he would listen next time.
“I ran away the next day. I was terrified, of course. I knew he’d kill me if he found out. I never would have had the courage to go, if the baby wasn’t due a month later. I was out of time. And I never would have made it out, if I didn’t have help. As I mentioned, people here will handle things themselves, if it gets bad enough. Despite all Ellis had done to isolate me, I had one friend left . . . ”
She trails off. I’m wildly curious about this part of the story, but after all she’s told me, I know I don’t have the right to push for more.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean for this story to be so long. You’re probably wondering why I even brought it up. But I’m about to get to the point.”
“I want to hear it all,” I assure her.
“I got away,” she repeats. “I had the baby. Not here—over the border in North Carolina, on Cherokee land. It was the only place that felt safe. The only place Ellis couldn’t go.
“My friend who helped me . . . his family took me in. His sisters helped me with the birth, and with the baby. I was afraid that I might not feel everything that I should for the baby after it was born. Because I thought it might remind me too much of Ellis. But from the moment I saw Raylan, I loved him like I’d never loved anything. More than my parents or siblings or my own self.
“I stayed there for six years. My friend . . . became more than a friend to me. We were married. He had always treated Raylan like his own son. After we had two more children . . . it seemed wrong to make unnatural divisions between them. I always meant to tell Raylan the truth. But the truth was so ugly.
“And they adored each other. Even though Raylan wasn’t technically his son, they were more alike than Waya and his own blood children.
“We were so happy; no day seemed like the right day to tear that happiness apart. To put such an ugly burden on Raylan. Especially because Ellis died. So there was no chance of him ever finding us.
I can see tears in the corner of Celia’s eyes. Not tears of sorrow—tears of happiness, remembering that time when she was free again, and married to a man who actually loved her, with three beautiful small children running around.
“I waited too long,” she says. “We got this ranch. We moved here, all together. The children grew up so fast. Time flew away from me.
“Raylan found my old wedding certificate in a box in the attic a week before his 18th birthday. He did the math and realized the truth. He was so, so angry at us. He felt betrayed. I think, though he’s never said this, he felt like he no longer belonged to this ranch or to our family in the same way. We promised him it didn’t matter—that all three of the children would inherit the ranch, as we’d always said.
“I don’t think he believed us. He enlisted right after.
“Waya said it was alright. Raylan would go and see more of the world, his anger would fade, and eventually he’d come back to us.
“But then . . . ” now her tears are certainly tears of sorrow. “Waya was killed in a car crash. He was driving Bo home from a party. Another car ran them off the road—we never knew who. If it was intentional, or drunk driving, or a stupid accident.
“Raylan came home for the funeral. We hoped he would stay. But . . . ”
She breaks off, pressing her fingers into her eyes and taking a moment to compose herself.
“I think the guilt was too much for him. He never had a chance to reconnect with Waya. To tell him . . . that he knew Waya was his father. Regardless of blood. And that he loved him. Waya knew all that, of course. And Raylan knows it, too. But when you don’t get to say the words . . . ”
I understand that.
I often find it hard to say out loud what I actually feel. To tell people what they mean to me.
If Cal or Nessa or my mother or father died, or Uncle Oran, I would have many regrets. Things left unsaid that would eat at me.
Knowing that, you’d think I’d call them right now and let it all be said.
But that’s not so easy, either.
My sympathy for Raylan is intense. For Celia as well.
That’s another thing that’s hard to express. How can I tell her how much I appreciate her sharing this with me? How can I tell her that my heart hurts for her younger self? That I admire that she did manage to leave, and that she kept Raylan safe?
All the words that come to mind seem pithy and weak.
I swallow hard, and say only, “Thank you for telling me that, Celia. I . . . care about Raylan. And you know when you care about someone, you want to understand them.”
That doesn’t seem like quite enough, so I add, “You were so brave to leave. You’re very strong.”
Celia squeezes my shoulder gently.
“I haven’t talked about that in a long time,” she says. “But I wanted you to understand why Raylan coming home again means so much to us. And to him, too, I think. He brought you here for a reason.”
I don’t know exactly how to respond to that, so I just say again, “Thank you.”
Celia smiles. “Go on upstairs,” she says. “You’ve got just enough time to wash up before this pie is done.”
I scale the creaking staircase back up to my room.
The guest room is a beautiful space, like all the rooms in the ranch house: light, airy, and open. The walls and ceiling are white-washed wood, and the floor is dark oak, partly covered by a hand-woven rug. The pretty blue quilt on the bed, against the white walls, makes me feel like I’m inside of a cloud, way up in the sky.
I can see an article of clothing laid out on the bed—a dress. It’s light and summery, pale green with a prairie floral print. It looks too feminine to be something out of Bo’s closet. Surely she’s the one who put it here for me, though.
I take a shower, then try to battle with my hair, which is becoming less cooperative by the day. I usually straighten it with all kinds of expensive salon shampoos and serums, and an arsenal of tools. Here I don’t even have a proper blow dryer. I have to let it air dry while I borrow some of Bo’s makeup.
We don’t share the same coloring, and Bo clearly leans toward the minimalist look, with a swipe of heavy black eyeliner. Still, she’s got enough selection that I can add a little color to my pale face. I use her blush, and her lip gloss.
Then I slip into the dress, which fits quite nicely.
It’s nothing I would wear usually—too girly and too country. But I’ll admit, it’s pretty, with a ruffled skirt and a row of tiny buttons down the front.
Right as I finish dressing, I hear Celia calling, “Dinner’s ready!” from the kitchen.
I can hear footsteps hurrying from all corners of the house. Sounds like everyone else is as hungry as I am.
We all crowd in around the table, which is set with the mismatched crockery of several different generations. Grady has brought Shelby and the boys over for dinner again, and Bo is already seated, dressed up a little more than usual in torn black jeans and a sleeveless top, with beaded earrings dangling from her ears.
“How come you look so fancy?” Grady asks her.
“I don’t.” Bo scowls.
“Leave her be,” Shelby says. “You’re the last person in the world to give fashion advice.”
I go to the window, to check if Raylan is still out in the pen.
“Don’t worry, he came in a while ago,” Grady says.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“Probably cleaning up. He was a mess.”
Nobody else seems inclined to wait for Raylan—Bo starts dishing up a hearty helping of the chicken pot pie, and Celia passes around a basket of warm rolls.
“Do you always eat together?” I ask Shelby.
“Most nights,” she says cheerily. “But sometimes Celia and Bo come over to our place instead.”
Raylan pointed out their house to me—it sits about a mile away, not visible from the front yard because of the birch trees all around. From what I could see, it’s a little smaller than the ranch house, but newer.
I understand that kind of family structure—mine is similar. You grow up and start your own family, but you all stay intertwined. This ranch is too large to be run by one person or two—it’s an empire of its own type. Like my family’s web of influence in Chicago.
“Hey, save some for me,” Raylan says, coming into the kitchen. His hair looks blacker than ever, still damp from the shower. I can smell the clean scent of his soap and see the flush on his skin from the hot water. He’s actually shaved for once. It makes him look younger, and also reminds me that he’s quite startlingly handsome beneath the beard. I’ve gotten comfortable with him over the last couple of weeks. Now I feel thrown off-kilter, like he’s a stranger all over again.
He sits down right next to me. The sleeve of his flannel shirt brushes against my bare arm. It feels warm and soft and familiar. I relax just a little.
“You want pot pie?” he asks me. “I’ll get it for you.”
His voice is as low and drawling as ever—as familiar as his shirt. It’s funny to hear him talking the same, out of this face that looks leaner and sharper now that it’s shaved clean.
He dishes me up a huge serving of pie.
“Riona helped make that,” Celia says.
“Don’t give me any credit,” I say, shaking my head. “I only chopped onions.”
“That’s the hardest part,” Celia says, smiling at me.
The pot pie is delicious. It is similar to chicken and dumplings, but honestly Celia’s cooking is better than my mother’s. Celia is a master at seasoning the food so that it’s rich and flavorful, but not over the top. Just like how Raylan cooks.
She urges me to have a second helping and makes sure everyone has whatever they want to drink.
She’s been tirelessly kind to me the whole time I’ve been here, making sure I’ve got fresh towels and any toiletries I need. Bo is the same. I guess that’s southern hospitality. Specifically, the way they offer things with such warmth and genuine concern, so you’d feel worse declining the favor than accepting it.
“You look stunning,” Raylan says to me, eyeing the borrowed dress. “That one of yours, Bo?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Auntie Kel gave it to me for my birthday. I’ve never worn it.”
“Kelly’s still trying to turn you into a little lady, huh?” Raylan says. “I admire her persistence, if not her grip on reality.”
“Well, all things work out in the end,” Celia says. “Because it looks beautiful on Riona.”
I have a hard time accepting compliments, or warmth of any kind from people I don’t know well. I’m always looking for the ulterior motive, the hidden agenda. But for some reason, maybe because I know Raylan pretty well by now, or maybe just because his family all has that same attitude of honesty and practicality, I feel relaxed around them. I can enjoy their friendliness and their interest without feeling like they’re prying at me, searching me over for flaws.
“You coming to the dance, too?” Raylan asks Bo.
“I guess,” she says without much enthusiasm.
“Wish I could go,” Shelby says wistfully, resting her hand on her swollen belly.
“You could still come,” Bo says.
“Yeah, but I can’t dance, so what’s the point,” Shelby pouts.
“I’ll swing you around,” Grady says, grinning and slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Who knows, might make the baby come faster.”
“That’s true,” Shelby says, perking up a little.
“Go on,” Celia urges. “I’ll put the boys to bed.”
We all coordinate in clearing the table, rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. I participate in this as if I’ve done it a hundred times before. Nobody leaves the kitchen until the last crumb is wiped off the table. It’s clear that in the Boone family, everyone works together until the job is done. No matter how small that job might be.
Then Raylan, Grady, Shelby, Bo, and me all load into a beat-up Ford truck so we can drive to the dance.
It takes us longer than I expected to get there. I forget that everything is spread so far apart in the country. The Wagon Wheel is almost forty miles away, and that’s forty miles over winding bumpy roads where you can’t travel at nearly the same speed you would on a freeway.
I’m not sure what I thought The Wagon Wheel would look like—I guess I was picturing some pokey little rec center, with a handful of hicks in attendance.
Instead, I see a large historic building, strung with lights and already bumping from the music inside. The lot is packed with trucks of all types, from gleaming Platinum models, all the way down to rusted-up Chevys that look held together with twine.
“I didn’t think that many people lived around here,” I say in surprise.
“The dances are popular,” Raylan says. “People come from all over.”
He leads me inside the building.
The dance floor is packed with people, as is the entirety of the room. It’s a good twenty degrees hotter in here than it is outside. It smells like leather, sweat, liquor, and cigar smoke. Up on stage, a five-piece band plays at full volume. I have no idea what song they’re performing, but it’s loud, upbeat, and raucous. There’s a fiddle and a banjo mixed in with the usual bass, guitar, and drums.
I hadn’t planned to dance. For one thing, I don’t really know how. Not to country music, at least. And I’m not sure if I can look Raylan in the face after what we did this morning.
Still, I find my foot tapping to the swinging beat.
“You want a drink?” Raylan asks me.
“Sure,” I say.
I watch Raylan head over to one of the beer stands. It’s hard for him to push his way through the crowd—partly because it’s so packed in here, and partly because he keeps bumping into people he recognizes, who want to slap him on the shoulder and ask what the hell he’s been doing the last few years. I see more than a few women greet him with particular friendliness. I feel a hot flush on my cheeks as a pretty brunette gives his arm a squeeze and tries to keep him talking as long as possible. Raylan is cordial, but he keeps moving.
He waits in line and returns a couple of minutes later, carrying two plastic cups of foamy beer.
“That’s all they had,” he says apologetically.
I take a sip. I don’t usually like beer, but there’s something about the sharp, effervescent taste that seems to pair well with the smell of leather and hay. The beer is nice and cold, refreshing in the hot, humid space.
Raylan drinks his down in a matter of seconds, then he crumples the cup and grins at me.
He always attacks his food and drink like that, as if it might disappear if he doesn’t swallow it down fast. As if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
He pulls me out on the dance floor the same way, like there isn’t a moment to lose.
Raylan has so much restless energy, so much active drive.
“I don’t really know how to—” I start, but he’s already pulling me into his arms, one hand on my waist and the other clasping my right palm.
I know some basic ballroom dancing—you pick it up going to fancy parties and events. As far as I can tell, country dancing doesn’t seem to have structured footwork in the same way as a waltz or salsa. Instead, there’s a basic rock-step and then a whole lot of twirling and spinning.
Raylan directs me with his big strong hands, sometimes resting them both on my waist to spin me one way or another, sometimes switching his grip between my hands, or holding both my hands over my head as I twirl.
I’m clumsy at first, stumbling a couple of times. But it’s a whole hell of a lot easier to dance in cowboy boots compared to the stilettos I’d usually wear. And Raylan’s lead is truly flawless—he directs me effortlessly, shifting my momentum one way and another, dipping me down over his blue-jean clad thigh and then pulling me back up again.
He makes it all looks so easy. He moves with a kind of casual grace that belies the fact that he’s really fucking good at this.
I’m not a great dancer. But I am a quick learner. Once he puts me through a particular move once or twice, I can anticipate it the next time around. Soon I’m doing a kind of three-part spin where I duck my head under his hand on the third rotation, and a move where Raylan wraps my arms around my body, walks me around, and then flings me out to the end of his reach like a yo-yo, before pulling me back and wrapping me up in his arms again.
At first I’m focused on learning the moves. But the more I can follow his lead without thought, the more I notice the heat coming off his body, and the tension of his arms when I press up against his chest. I can smell the spicy scent of his aftershave.
I find myself relaxing, melting against him like butter in a hot pan.
The dance floor is packed with people. All kinds of country boys—tanned, muscular, and charming. But none of them are as handsome as Raylan, not even close. And none can move like him. I’m not the only woman who can’t take my eyes off him. I’m sure plenty of these girls would love to cut in for a dance, but Raylan doesn’t pause for an instant between songs. He’s grinning and brimming with energy, dancing faster and harder by the minute.
I can’t believe he’s got this kind of stamina, when I know he spent all afternoon breaking that horse.
Actually . . . the way he leads me through the dances reminds me of the way he rode that horse. Directing it so subtly and gently that the horse thought it had the freedom to run, while all the time it was doing exactly what he wanted.
He’s doing the same thing now. Directing and training me, without me even noticing. He’s got the lead, and I’m totally under his control.
I stiffen up, resisting his motion.
Raylan puts his hand on the small of my back and pulls me closer, trying to swing me around in his orbit. But now I’m pulling away from him, my pleasure in dancing evaporating.
I don’t want to be trained. I don’t want to be broken.
“What’s wrong?” Raylan says, standing still, but still holding onto my hands.
“I don’t want to dance anymore,” I say.
“Alright,” Raylan says easily. “Let’s get another drink.”
“Just water,” I say. I blame the beer for the warm flush that made me think I could dance. It made me think it was a good idea to let Raylan spin me and dip me any way he wanted.
Raylan goes to get us a couple bottles of water. I lean against the wooden railing that borders the dance floor, looking around the room. I see Grady and Shelby dancing as best they can with Shelby’s belly in the way. They’re mostly just swaying, Grady’s hands on his wife’s hips, and Shelby stretching up as high as she can reach to link her hands behind his neck.
I hate the idea of being pregnant—of being essentially debilitated, unable to walk or run like normal, my body stretched out and taken over by another living thing. I never get that vicarious excitement that other people seem to experience. Quite the opposite—when I see a pregnant lady, I want to wince and look away.
Even when Cal and Aida had their baby, I felt discomfited. I was happy for them, but at the same time I felt like some kind of strange spell took hold of them both, changing them forever. It wasn’t a bad thing. But my brother is a father now. He’s irrevocably a different person than he was before.
I can see Bo standing just outside the doorway, on the wraparound porch that encircles the building. I walk over to speak to her, drawn to her by the pensive set of her shoulders, and by my own desire to breathe fresh air for a moment.
Bo is looking out over the dark fields. Washed in moonlight, the fierceness has vanished from her face. Her dark eyes look wistful.
“It’s nice out here,” I say to her.
The cool breeze feels lovely after the heat of the dance floor.
“I saw you dancing,” Bo says.
“Do you like to dance?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “I don’t like crowds.” Then, with a half-smile, she admits, “But I don’t really like being alone, either. So I guess that’s why I’m standing out on the porch like an idiot.”
I laugh softly. I understand that feeling—sometimes I go to a club or a party, and the minute I get there I’m annoyed by the noise and smoke. But then as soon as I get home again I feel a kind of blank emptiness.
“I wish I could enjoy things as easily as everyone else seems to,” I say.
Bo glances over at me, her dark eyes glinting beneath her thick lashes. “Sometimes I think they’re just pretending to have fun. And other times I think it really is that simple for the rest of the world. They’re a bunch of clocks that run right, and I’m just missing a gear somewhere . . . ”
The end of her sentence is drowned out by a retro-style motorcycle roaring into the lot. It’s one of those old-school bikes that looks like it should be ridden by a mail carrier in WW2. Maybe it was—this particular bike is missing so much paint that it’s impossible to tell the original color, and the noisy engine spits out a plume of black smoke.
The rider is slim, dressed in torn jeans and a battered jacket that looks as old as the bike. When he pulls off his helmet, he shakes out a mane of black hair that falls below his shoulders. He’s got high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and dark eyes even fiercer than Bo’s.
I see Bo tense up at the sight of him. She looks like she might run inside The Wagon Wheel, but then changes her mind and stays put.
“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” the rider says, setting his helmet down on the bike seat and striding toward Bo.
“I changed my mind,” Bo says, tossing her head.
“I could have picked you up.”
“I don’t need a ride from you.”
The boy walks right up to Bo, so they’re almost nose to nose. She stands her ground, refusing to step back, arms folded in front of her chest.
The air between them crackles with tension. Even though their sentences are innocuous enough, each word carries an undercurrent of challenge and resentment.
“Who’s this?” the boy says, without actually looking at me. His eyes are fixed on Bo’s, furious and unblinking.
“Riona, this is Duke,” Bo says, introducing us in a monotone.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Duke totally ignores me, but I don’t care, because I’m fascinated by the tension between these two. I don’t want politeness, I want to know what the hell is going on.
“You promised to dance with me,” Duke says, grabbing Bo’s wrist.
She wrenches it out of his grip and shoves him hard in the chest for good measure.
“The hell I did!” she cries.
Duke makes a sharp hissing sound, like the noise you might make to correct an unruly animal. He shoves between Bo and me, stomping into The Wagon Wheel.
The silence he leaves behind him is thick and poignant.
I’m torn between my desire to ask Bo for details, and the knowledge that she probably wants me to mind my own damn business.
“There you are!” Raylan says, handing me a bottle of water. “I was looking all over for you.”
“Where’s my drink?” Bo says to him.
“I didn’t know you were out here—you can have my water.”
“Water isn’t a drink,” Bo says sullenly. She ignores the proffered water bottle and heads inside to get something more satisfactory.
I twist off the lid and gulp down the water, dehydrated from my long session of dancing.
Raylan cocks his head, watching me.
“Why’d you come out here?” he says.
I slip the question, saying instead, “What’s the deal with Bo and Duke?”
“Oh,” Raylan chuckles. “They were best friends growing up. A couple of hellions, getting into trouble constantly. Now, I don’t know exactly what they’re beefing about, since I haven’t been around lately, and I only got a few things second-hand. But I gather that Duke wants to be more than friends, and Bo is pissed about it.”
“She doesn’t like him that way?”
Raylan looks over at me, dark eyebrow cocked. “Women don’t always know what they like.”
I feel the color rising in my face. “That’s pretty sexist,” I say.
Raylan shrugs. “Okay. People don’t know what they like.” He grins. “Especially women.”
I frown at him, my temper rising. “I know what I like and don’t like,” I tell him.
He keeps smiling at me in that infuriating way. “I don’t think you do.”
I want to slap his smug face again, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
This is exactly what I suspected. He thinks he can manipulate me. He thinks he can break me.
“Let’s go back,” I say coldly. “I’m tired.”
Raylan’s expression clearly shows that he thinks I’m pouting, not tired. But all he says out loud is, “Alright, I’ll go get the others.”
As we step back inside The Wagon Wheel, the heat and humidity are higher than ever. The band is stomping the stage while they play, and the boots of the dancers likewise thunder against the wooden floor. It seems to shake the whole hall.
Raylan heads over toward Grady and Shelby, who are still dancing together in the corner, away from the wildness of the other dancers.
I look around for Bo. I spot Duke instead, dancing with a pretty redhead. He’s got his hands on her hips and she’s looking up at him with a flirtatious expression, obviously pleased to be this close to him.
Bo is standing at the edge of the dancefloor, likewise watching them while she gulps down half her beer. Her eyes are narrowed and two bright spots of color flame in her cheeks.
Duke is not paying much attention to the redhead. He keeps glancing back at Bo. He looks defiant, but also slightly uncomfortable, like he’s regretting his strategy.
As the song winds down, the redhead reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.
Seeing that, Bo whirls around and starts to push her way through the crowd, heading toward the exit. Duke abandons the redhead on the dance floor so he can chase after her. He catches up to Bo about five feet away from where I’m standing, so I have a full view of what happens next, though I can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise of the music and the crowd.
Duke grabs Bo’s arm. She shakes him off angrily. He shouts something at her, waving his hands in frustration. She rolls her eyes and tries to turn away from him again. He grabs her shoulder and spins her around. Then she flings the remains of her beer in his face.
This has an effect similar to throwing a match in the middle of a pool of gasoline. Duke looks ready to strangle her, his face so full of fury that even Bo looks slightly abashed.
But the beer didn’t confine itself to drenching Duke. It splashed the back of the necks of the two men standing behind him. The two cowboys whirl around, fists already raised.
The cowboys don’t seem to care that Duke got hit with more beer than they did. They’re looking for somebody to blame, and he’s the obvious culprit. After a brief exchange of insults, the bigger of the two cowboys throws a haymaker right at Duke’s face. He ducks under the punch with a speed and fluidity that shocks me, and shocks the cowboy too. The cowboy looks baffled, like he just witnessed a magic trick. His buddy reacts a little quicker, hitting Duke from the side with a sucker punch.
Even though she’d been fighting with Duke five seconds earlier, Bo shrieks with rage and runs at the two cowboys. She kicks cowboy number two right in the gut with the heel of her boot, then cracks him across the jaw with a right cross. The bigger cowboy seizes her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, and she kicks both legs out in front of her, hitting his friend again.
Now Duke is properly pissed, and he throws his arm around the big cowboy’s neck, choking him until he releases Bo. But the cowboys apparently didn’t come alone—at least six other guys are joining the fight from all sides.
I’m frozen in place, not knowing what the fuck to do. It’s a melee of people, and I’m not entirely sure who’s on which side. Especially once Raylan and Grady jump into the fray. Raylan rips one of the cowboys off Bo and flings him over the wooden railing into the dance floor. Grady is throwing punches left and right, taking a hit to the face that would knock out a grizzly bear, but simply shaking his head and coming back for more.
The brawl spreads outward like a virus. Within seconds, it seems like everyone is fighting, and I can’t tell if there’s teams or sides, or just a whole lot of people taking the opportunity to release their aggression on whoever’s standing next to them.
Somebody grabs my arm, but it’s only Shelby pulling me toward the door, her arm cradled protectively around her belly.
“Come on!” she shouts.
“What about Bo?“
“Raylan’ll bring her,” Shelby pants.
She pulls me outside to the porch, which is already crowded with the dancers who likewise wanted to flee the brawl. Some people are laughing and peeking in the windows, commenting on the riot within. Others are heading to their cars, obviously feeling like they had enough fun for one night.
I hear the wail of a single siren, distant but distinct. Somebody called the cops, though I don’t know how a single sheriff is going to break up this mess.
Raylan comes barreling through the doorway, half-carrying and half-dragging Bo along. Grady is right behind him. Together they frog-march their sister back to the truck. Raylan’s lip is swollen, and Grady has the beginning of an impressive black eye. But both are grinning.
“You said you weren’t going to fight tonight!” Shelby says, slapping her husband’s arm furiously. He seems to feel it about as much as a moose feels a mosquito. Still, he pretends to be cowed.
“I didn’t start that!” he says. “Duke did.”
Bo looks mildly guilty. She knows that if anybody started the fight, it was her. But she doesn’t pipe up, and I’m not going to rat her out.
Once Raylan has stuffed Bo in the backseat, he grabs my shoulders and looks me over.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, of course. I’m fine,” I assure him.
“Alright. Just making sure you didn’t get hit by any stray shrapnel,” he says. “You know . . . solo cups. Tobacco juice. Cowboy sweat.”
I smile, despite myself.
“No,” I say. “Nothing like that.”
“Thank god,” Raylan says. “You get a drop of cowboy sweat on you, and you’re never getting that smell out.”
“You’re a cowboy,” I say, low enough that nobody else will hear. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten your sweat on me . . . ”
Raylan grins. “That’s different . . . ”
“So how’d you like your first country dance?” Shelby calls up to me from the backseat.
“It was . . . pretty fun,” I admit.
“You got the full experience,” Grady says. “No good dance ends without a brawl.”
“There’s plenty of good dances without any fighting!” Shelby cries.
“Name one,” Grady says.
Shelby bites her lip, obviously at a loss for an immediate answer.
“Carrie’s wedding!” she blurts.
“Uh uh. Jonny White beat the shit out of Carl Oakton halfway through the reception. Right before they cut the cake.”
I can see Shelby scowling in the rear-view mirror, but she can’t seem to think of any other examples to prove her assertion.
Grady grins smugly, throwing his arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezing her tight.
Bo sits next to the pair, silent and frowning.
Raylan glances back at her.
“You okay, sis?” he says.
“Yeah, of course,” Bo says. “I’m fine.”
Raylan nods and turns back to the road, but I can see him thinking, probably piecing together what happened.
