CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Eli stood on the front porch of Cross Creek’s main house with his keys in his hand and his heart in his windpipe. The sun, which should have been smack in the center of the sky at this point in the day, hid behind a bank of thick gray clouds that finally matched the cooler October weather.
He sank a little deeper into his blue-and-green flannel shirt, fiddling with the bottom button as he stared at the whitewashed porch boards extending out from beneath the welcome mat. Both Hunter’s and Owen’s trucks were lined up in the drive beside the house, which meant everyone was already here.
The irony of being last in yet again sure as hell wasn’t lost on him.
“Eli.”
Scarlett turned from the spot where she’d stood next to him for the last five minutes. Her tone didn’t push, although he heard the unspoken “it’s time” in her voice, and he blew out a rickety breath.
“I know,” he said quietly, because Christ, he really did. “Telling them is the right thing to do, and now is the right time to do it. But no one’s called a family meeting since . . . well, ever. They’ve got to know something major is up.”
“They probably do,” Scarlett agreed. “But just because something big is happening doesn’t mean that thing is bad. This trip to Brazil is a great thing. Look”—she stared up at him, her gaze warm and sweet and so fucking sure—“I’m right here with you. Show your family who you are, Eli. It’s time.”
He dropped his chin just a fraction before nodding. She was right. Yeah, he was ten pounds of nerves stuffed into a five-pound sack, but he wasn’t going to get more ready by standing out here on the porch boards.
He was a writer. And for as much loyalty as he owed the family who stood by him no matter what, it was time to tell them the truth.
“Okay.” Sliding a deep breath into his lungs, Eli reached out for the doorknob, ushering Scarlett over the threshold before following her into the house. The telltale clink and clank of kitchenware filtered in from the back of the house, punctuated by strains of laughter and the low, smooth cadence of voices volleying in conversation. Before, it might have struck him as exclusionary that such easy happiness could happen without him being a part of it. But he was a part of it.
He didn’t have to be at Cross Creek to belong.
“Hey! We were starting to think you two got lost.” Emerson grinned out a greeting from the spot where she stood, sweetening her cup of coffee at the butcher-block island.
“Or waylaid,” Hunter added with a good-natured smirk, dropping his voice low enough to keep the comment out of the earshot of their old man, who stood over by the pantry with Owen.
“Hunter,” Emerson chided at the exact moment Scarlett coughed out a laugh, and Eli offered his brother a smile to go with his single-fingered salute.
“Okay, okay. Pardon my manners.” Hunter reached out to shake Eli’s hand, then turned to give Scarlett a big hug. “It’s good to see you guys. Even if the invite to meet up on a Sunday was a surprise.”
Eli’s pulse stuttered, doubly so when Owen made his way to the island to add, “Yeah, it was. We just saw you last night.”
Concern flickered through the unspoken question in his brothers’ stares, mirrored by both Emerson and his old man, and looked like now or never had turned into just plain now.
“Yeah. About that. I asked you all to come out here because there’s, ah, something you should know.” The air threatened to leave the room, so Eli hauled in a big ol’ lungful of the stuff and blurted, “I wrote all the extended articles on Cross Creek’s website, and I’ve written all the ads and copy, too. Everything that’s ever been put to paper for the farm for the last ten years . . . is mine. I spent four and a half years getting my bachelor’s degree online in journalism, and I did it because I want to be a writer.”
No, that wasn’t quite right.
He planted his boots into the kitchen tiles and stood as tall as he could. “I am a writer.”
For a minute that lasted easily a month, the room was filled with nothing but silence and stunned stares. Eli gripped Scarlett’s hand, and although he had no memory whatsoever of reaching for her, she held him back just as tightly.
Hunter broke the excruciating quiet first. “So all those friends of yours, people you knew who were freelance writers . . . for the last decade, that’s all been you?”
Eli’s brain hit fast-forward, his thoughts moving almost too fast for his mouth. “Yes, but I never took any money from Cross Creek for my writing,” he said, his gaze moving from Hunter to Owen to their father. He’d had to be downright cloak-and-dagger about rerouting payments back to the farm more than once, but he’d always been meticulous about not taking a dime for his work.
“That’s why you insisted on dealing with your contacts personally,” Owen said, realization trickling over his expression. “The whole time, it was you doing the writing.”
“Yeah. I . . .” Eli swallowed past his sandpaper throat. “Yeah.”
“Can I ask why you never said anything?” Emerson looked at him from across the butcher-block island, her voice soft and her coppery brows knit in question. “I mean, the work is excellent, Eli. You’ve written dozens of in-depth articles and earned a college degree. You should be proud.”
“I am,” he said, the answer as automatic as the rapid-fire heartbeat that accompanied it. “I’m proud of the writing. The rest is kind of, ah. Complicated.”
Here, Eli paused. Complicated was the world’s biggest understatement, and hell if—despite having run through this no less than a billion times in his head—he had any clue how to properly explain how he felt.
But then Scarlett leaned in from beside him to whisper a simple, “It’s okay,” and Eli opened his mouth to let loose with the truth.
“I love Cross Creek. I don’t regret a single day I’ve worked the land, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But I’ve never felt like I belong here. It’s not because of anything any of you did,” he rushed to add, and fuck, he was botching this. “It’s just that while I love Cross Creek, I don’t love farming. Not the way the three of you do.”
He looked at his father, who had been noticeably silent since Eli had dumped the writer bombshell in everyone’s laps. While he looked far from angry, there were emotions simmering in his stare that Eli couldn’t identify, which pretty much turned waiting for the old man to say something into an anvil in the center of his chest.
Owen scrubbed a hand over his five-o’clock shadow, his shock still plain as sunrise on his face. “Jesus, E. I had no idea you felt like you didn’t belong at the farm.”
“I worked real hard to keep it that way,” Eli said, and Hunter made a sound of sudden understanding.
“All that fast talk and no-big-deal attitude was a cover.”
Eli nodded. He’d blown the lid off the topic. Not going the full-disclosure route now would just be stupid. “Most of the time, yeah. I figured being a bit of a slacker was better than coming out with the truth.”
“Not feeling like farming is your passion, I get,” Owen said, although when Eli—along with nearly everyone else in the kitchen—shot him a look akin to is your ass on crooked? He shook his head and went for a lightning-fast rephrase. “Just because running Cross Creek is what I’ve always wanted doesn’t mean the farm is for everyone. I understand that. But you honestly feel like you don’t belong here? With us?”
The guilt on Owen’s face sent a corkscrew through Eli’s gut, but he firmed his voice to be sure his next words found their mark. “My feeling like the odd man out was my own doing. You’re my family, and we have a legacy. I owe it to you to be a part of this farm.”
He looked at each of them in turn, and even though it was easily the hardest thing he’d ever done, Eli held his old man’s stare as he said, “But I realize now that I owe it to myself to do what I love, too. And deep down, what I love isn’t farming. It’s writing.”
“So what does that mean, exactly?” Emerson asked. “There can’t be many jobs for writers in Millhaven. We don’t even have a newspaper. Are you going to leave?”
And here came the crux of it all. “Yes and no. I’ve been offered a short-term freelance job with Scarlett in Brazil, and we’re leaving in four days.”
Owen took a step back from the island. “You’re leaving in four days?”
“The trip is only for a week,” Eli qualified quickly. “I’d never leave you guys in the lurch here. Scarlett and I are covering one story, and then I’ll be back in Millhaven. But I’m hoping this leads to other freelance offers.”
“How long have you known about the job?” Owen asked, still clearly trying to get his head around things.
“As a possibility? For a little while. I would have told you sooner, but the actual offer just came together. I know this seems sudden—”
“‘Sudden’ is a good word for it,” Hunter said, slow and skeptical. “Don’t get me wrong, I think your wanting to write is great. But you’re not talking about a quick jump to Lockridge here. You’ve never been on a plane. Hell, you’ve never even been out of the state. There’s got to be a crazy learning curve to a profession like travel journalism. You sure it’s a good idea to go so big right out of the gate?”
For a second, Eli hesitated. Truth was, he wasn’t sure. He had no way of knowing what this trip to Brazil would bring, and he was taking a gigantic, reckless leap into the unknown by going.
Before he could get some sort of answer past his tripping pulse, Scarlett lowered his hand and stepped up to the kitchen island.
“I know a trip like this seems overwhelming,” she said. “And that’s because frankly, it is. But I’ve read Eli’s articles. I know what a job like this entails. Going on assignment in another country might seem brash. It might be brash. But he can do this job. He’s got what it takes.”
Eli’s throat knotted at hearing her conviction out loud, and finally, his voice came back online. “I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers or that any of this will be easy. I want this trip to turn into a lot more. I want a career in travel journalism. But even more, I need you to know who I am. I can’t cover it up anymore.”
“Then don’t.”
Although his old man’s reply wasn’t loud or laced with obvious emotion, it sliced through Eli all the same.
“I’m so sorry, Pop,” he started, but his father cut the rest of the apology short with a shake of his head.
“None of that, now. You’re the first Cross to earn a college degree, and you did it while working on the farm, to boot. You’ve got a lot to be proud of, but not one thing to be sorry for.”
Eli let go of a shaky breath that didn’t get any easier when Hunter, Owen, and Emerson all nodded in agreement. “But the farm is our legacy, and I owe you so much. You’re not upset I don’t want to fulfill it?”
His father paused. “If you’re askin’ whether I wish you loved Cross Creek the way I do, then I can’t lie. Of course I do,” he said, crossing the kitchen until less than an arm’s length remained between them. “But if you’re askin’ if I’m disappointed in who you are, the answer’s no. Your legacy is what you make it. What you just did, bein’ honest even though you knew the truth would make waves? That took an awful lot of guts.”
The sudden emotion welling in his old man’s eyes hit Eli like a wrecking ball, and he cleared his throat twice in an effort to give his voice the highest possible odds of not breaking.
“I know operating this place while you’re a man down isn’t going to be easy,” he finally managed.
But his father’s answer brooked no argument. “We’ll cross those bridges when we get to ’em. For now, sounds like you’ve got a trip to plan.”
“Thanks, Pop.” Christ, the words seemed far too simple for the feeling in his chest right now.
“Thank you, Eli. For not coverin’ up who you are.”
After a beat, Hunter borrowed a page from Eli’s throat-clearing playbook. “So I guess that kind of makes this your bon voyage party, huh?”
“I’m only gonna be gone for a week,” Eli pointed out, still trying to process the thoughts churning through his brain and the relief/happiness/holy-shit-did-that-just-happen churning through his gut.
Emerson sniffle-laughed, swiping at her face with the back of one hand, and Hunter slipped one arm around her before breaking into a huge grin.
“Well, yeah, but Owen was threatening to make a big ol’ pot of chili this afternoon. Seems like a waste not to raise a beer or two along with it now that we have a reason to celebrate.”
Eli snorted, and guess his cockiness hadn’t all been a cover. “You just want an excuse to throw a few back on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Possibly,” Owen allowed, stepping in to clap him on the shoulder with a grin. “But come on. You’ve gotta admit, you’re giving us a helluva good one.”
Eli sobered. “You know my leaving means more work for you, even though I’ll be back in a week.” He might be extra around Cross Creek, but that didn’t mean he didn’t bust his ass.
“Yep.” Hunter didn’t so much as blink in the gray daylight filtering through the windows behind him. “But I don’t give a lick. I’m proud of you, little brother.”
Owen chimed in. “Me, too.”
“And me,” Emerson added.
There was no help for Eli’s grin, especially when he heard Scarlett’s throaty laughter from beside him.
“Okay, okay,” he said, edging in close to give her hip a playful bump with his own. “I know you’re dying to, so go ahead and say it.”
“Say what?” She blinked, her eyes all olive-green innocence.
“I told you so,” they said in unison, and he couldn’t help himself from pulling her in close.
“I know. You did tell me. But be careful what you wish for, bumblebee, because now, you’re stuck with me.”
She pushed up on her toes to brush a kiss over his cheek. “Sounds like a plan to me, cowboy.”
They all fell into orbit around one another in the kitchen, each of them chopping or slicing or stirring in preparation for a killer lunch. True to his promise, Hunter threw a bunch of beers on ice while Scarlett and Owen had a chili cook-off, hers with beans and greenhouse veggies and his with ground beef and a blend of spices he swore he’d take to the grave. Emerson asked Eli about his degree, then some more about his writing, and everyone else joined in, both listening and voicing their curiosity. Conversation moved easily as Scarlett peppered in some knowledge about freelance writing, and finally, finally, Eli was able to breathe all the way out in relief.
He was going to Brazil with Scarlett. In four days’ time, he’d be living the dream he’d stuffed down deep for ten long years.
Just as he and Emerson got some corn bread in the oven, the doorbell sounded off from the front of the house. Eli’s chin lifted in surprise, and he gave his old man the same quizzical expression that both of his brothers currently had plastered over their kissers.
“You expectin’ anybody, Pop?” he asked, brows up. With all of them already sardined into the kitchen, he’d have been shocked as hell to hear anything resembling a yes.
“No,” his father confirmed. “But that doesn’t mean Nathan isn’t coming up with some news about the cattle.”
Ah. His father was old school, always preferring face-to-face communication with their cattle manager.
“Alright. I’ll go talk to him, then. Make sure everything’s copacetic.”
“Someone give Webster here two bits for the big word,” Hunter said, and Eli had no choice but to laugh.
“Hilarious. I’m thinking of a pair of real fancy words right now. I’ll give you three guesses as to what they are, and the first two don’t count.”
The doorbell sounded off again, prompting another laugh from Eli. “Saved by the bell. Literally,” he said, making his way out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the front door. But rather than finding Nathan on the other side of the pine as expected, Eli found himself gaze-to-gaze with a brunette wearing too much eye makeup and a defiant-as-hell frown, and whoa, talk about a shocker.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Eli kept his slow smile in place even though the woman—who come to think of it, looked younger than he’d thought now that he’d gotten a good look past all the stuff on her face—still scowled.
“You’re Eli Cross, right?”
She knotted her arms over her threadbare hoodie, her bright-blue stare tagging him in some deep part of his subconscious. Eli was certain he’d never met her—score one for small-town living. Yet something about the young woman was so familiar, he couldn’t help but feel as if he knew her, or at the very least, recognized her.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s me,” he said, and God, how did he know her? “And who might you be?”
Her scowl slipped for a split second to reveal her features more genuinely, and wait . . . this couldn’t be right . . .
“My name is Marley Rallston.” The woman slid her hand to her hips, her eyes blazing as her scowl came back in full force.
“It looks like I’m your sister.”