(Braden)
“In short, all good things are wild and free.”
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU, “WALKING”
Finding a redneck on your doorstep at seven in the morning is a bit like discovering a door-to-door salesman there. The same persistence and determination, the same sensation they’re about to shove their way inside with or without a proper invitation. The only difference here is that instead of hawking goods I won’t buy, Garrett comes bearing a shopping bag full of junk food he knows I won’t eat: Hostess Fruit Pies, Honey Buns, and those little powdered sugar–covered donuts that are the same size as the tumors they’ll eventually find in your liver if you eat too many of them.
The junk-food offerings are symbolic, anyway. The guy equivalent of announcing that he needed to talk, and since it’s too early for beer, he went with what he could find at the local gas station convenience store, where he consumes far too many of his meals. As Garrett knows, I’m an early riser, so he could count on finding me up and around after finishing my morning workout.
“This field is planted with milo, and this one with wheat. The rest of it’s corn.”
Garrett taps a finger on the plat map he spread out on my kitchen table almost immediately after announcing he’d brought breakfast and then worming his way into my house.
“There are two houses on the property. He’d keep the mineral rights, but one share of ditch water would come with the deal.”
I nod, despite the way Garrett’s position prevents him from seeing it. He’s hunched over the table, his eyes still fixed on the map in front of him, speaking to it as much as he is to me. The map is of some Kansas farmland owned by an old farmer without heirs, who apparently isn’t going to be able to work much longer and is looking for the right guy to sell it to. And Garrett is likely that guy. Despite having had to sell his dad’s farm and finding himself working a dead-end job at the local co-op, Garrett remains a farmer at heart—he just happens to be a farmer without a farm.
The coffeepot on the counter hisses when it finishes percolating, and I push myself up from my chair to fill two mugs, setting one in front of Garrett.
He mutters a thank-you and grabs the mug, finally leaning back in his chair. His eyes are red, and the dark hollows beneath make him look twice his age this morning. But between being dumb enough to let Cara move back to Chicago without so much as putting up a fight and the marathon trip he’s just made to Kansas and back, looking like shit is to be expected.
Garrett sighs, pushes up his ball cap to scratch his forehead before yanking it back down.
“It’s too good to be true, right? A full section. For a fucking song, price-wise. And he’s willing to take basically nil as a down payment and carry the rest.”
He looks uneasy, more so than I’ve ever seen him in all the time we’ve known each other. I give a casual shrug.
“Either that or it’s just the right deal at the right time. Maybe he knows guys like you don’t come along every day. Not a lot of folks out there champing at the bit to farm, and even fewer who actually know what they’re doing.”
Garrett mumbles something in agreement, but it’s obvious he’s not convinced. Why? I have no clue. The kid has the brains and the heart for the life of a farmer, and not many people do these days. Not when farm profits are in a downturn, land costs more than it ever has, and most people would rather see a shopping mall where a cornfield should be. But Garrett’s carrying around the knowledge of a fifty-year-old farmer in his head, on the back of a twenty-five-year-old—and this is his chance to put it all to use. So other than bullshit fear, I don’t know what’s stopping him.
“The soil is good, right?”
What I know about farming could fit in a beer can, but asking about the soil seems like an obvious place to start. Garrett gives a nod.
“Yeah, no worries there. I went to the FSA office while I was there, pulled all the soil reports. And I’d transition to no-till, which is easier on your dirt in the long run.”
“No chance he’s leveraged too deep with a bank or something? Grasping at a last chance to stay out of foreclosure?”
Garrett grinds his jaw and shakes his head. “I had my dad’s old estate attorney check on that before I even went out there. It’s free and clear.”
I hit a sore spot—intentionally—but Garrett knows why I went there. After his dad died of a heart attack, he dropped out of college thinking he’d come home and take over the farm, only to find out the property was entirely upside down because his dad had too many loans out, leaving Garrett with no choice but to sell. The last thing Garrett needs is to find himself in another situation like that.
With that out of the way, it’s time to poke at his other open wound. This one I’m a little more familiar with. I know how much your heart smarts when it’s been stomped on. I also know that no matter how broken your heart might once have been, when there’s an urge to put it out there again, all those old hurts can feel like ancient history.
I take another sip of my coffee before digging in, knowing that no matter how hard he flinches, this is for his own good.
“And are you thinking with your stupid, lonely dick? Because Cara might have made it clear she thinks this is what’s best for you, but that doesn’t fucking matter. Not really. She can’t be the reason you do this.” I jab a finger at the plat map. “You have to do this because it’s what you want. You can’t hang this deal on getting her back.”
Garrett, surprisingly, doesn’t flinch at all. “My dick has an opinion, but he’s not running the show. This? Owning a farm for myself? It’s my whole life’s plan. I’ve just spent the last three years trying to pretend it wasn’t.”
“Good.”
Garrett does his best to keep his expression neutral, but his eyes widen, when I don’t say more.
“What?” I furrow my brow. “You want to know what I think?”
He groans. “Yes, asshole. That’s why I’m here. Come on, you’re the one guy I can count on to tell me exactly what he thinks. Don’t fail me now.”
I gather a long breath. Fuck, it’s going to suck when Garrett leaves. But I’d be a shitty friend if I did anything other than tell him the truth, which means I set my coffee mug down and give him my full attention, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean back.
“I think you’d be an idiot not to see this through. Do your due diligence, research everything, then go back out there and get belly to belly with this guy to make sure you want to be on the hook for a loan payment to him for the next twenty years. If so, then do what you can to make it happen. I’ll even help you move your shit out to Kansas.”
My phone vibrates just before Garrett can launch out of the chair and try to hug me, which doesn’t seem too far-fetched given the relief on his face. I shoot him a cautionary look as I extract my phone from my pocket.
You are so dramatic. The Empire Ambassador is NOT a dump. I’ve stayed in places way worse than this.
My face wrinkles up and I let out a confused grunt. Don’t tell me that shit-hole motel actually has a website. One that Amber might think she can use to determine its quality and condition. If so, you can be sure the photos she’s looking at online are either fake, out of focus, or taken in the dark without a flash.
“You OK there, buddy? You’re making some weird faces and even weirder noises.” Garrett asks, around a mouthful of the Hostess Fruit Pie he’s chowing down on now that he’s not quite so stressed out.
“Fucking Amber,” I mutter. “She’s looking at some website for that motel out on Highway One Thirty-three, trying to convince me it’s not as bad as I told her it was.”
Garrett chokes a little on his sugar-laden death snack. “The Empire Ambassador? Is she nuts? That place is like every bad movie about serial killers and drug deals gone wrong.”
“That’s exactly what I told her. But she’s determined to . . .”
My words trail off when another text comes through, along with a picture that’s been snapped from over Amber’s slim, golden-tanned shoulder. Half of her grinning face is in the shot, the rest showing a nasty motel room behind her. A bad painting on the wall, a gaudy table lamp with its shade askew, and two beds dressed with patterned bed coverings that would hide travesty all too well.
Look! Two QUEEN beds. Usually it’s two doubles. Can you see the ancient clock radio? The disturbingly sticky ice bucket? The fine painting of possums above the bed?
I work to process the data I have at hand as quickly as I can. A picture and two texts, both of which imply she’s not scrolling through a website, but that she’s physically here. I close my eyes to think more clearly, then open them again; still trying to determine if the conclusion I just arrived at is the truth or just another one of my daydreams involving Amber.
“She’s here,” I announce, confirming it for myself even more than I’m proclaiming it to Garrett.
“What? Are you sure?”
I flip the phone around and point the photo in Garrett’s direction. He leans forward and his face mirrors mine, screwing up into confusion. He steals the phone from my hand.
“Shit. Did you know she was coming?” His fingers start to flick across the phone face as I tell him this is all a surprise to me. His expression slackens a little. “Jesus Christ. You guys text all the time. What the—”
I grab the phone back. “Don’t look at that.”
An obnoxious smirk creeps across Garrett’s mouth—one I’m probably going to want to knock off his face in about ten seconds.
“You fucking sly dog,” he drawls. “You and she have a thing happening, don’t you?”
“No.”
My answer emerges firmly, absent of my own confusion on the topic. Is something happening between Amber and me? Maybe. But who knows if it’s more than the two of us enjoying the way we rouse each other up? Odds are, it’s not. Once she’s finished up her elk hunt out here, she’ll be off on some new adventure, and likely stirring up some other poor sap’s hopes for more with her. My lip curls at the thought. My gut sinks at the same time because I can’t help but pity that guy, whoever he is.
Garrett zeroes in on my changing expression in a way that means he’s prepared to mock my every move if I back down from the rest of his nosy fucking interrogation.
“Hold up, is this for real? I mean, have you guys . . . ?”
I shoot him the hardest look I can muster as heat crawls up my neck and threatens to color my cheeks like I’m some pathetic kid again. I steel my voice because if it cracks, I’ll never live this down. We’ll be collecting our social security checks, stocking up on pudding cups, tottering around with our canes, and he’ll still be giving me shit about it.
“No. We haven’t.”
Garrett’s jaw drops open and a barking laugh emerges. “Holy shit. But something’s happened. Maybe you haven’t banged her—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” I suck in a deep breath. “She’s . . . hell, I don’t know. I don’t even know why she’s here. Her hunt is scheduled weeks from now, and it was supposed to happen when I’m back home on my deer hunt. She knows that. I have no clue what she’s up to by showing up here now.”
Garrett doesn’t reply; instead, he surveys my face for longer than I’m totally comfortable with, casually tapping his fingers on the tabletop.
“Want to know what I think?”
“Not really,” I grumble.
He snorts. Another exasperating thrum of his fingers on the table, drawing out the moment. Unfortunately, now I do want to know what he thinks. Mostly because I’m at a fucking loss. Mercifully, Garrett doesn’t make me ask, he just chuckles.
“Too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway. I think that the very fine Miss Amber Regan wanted to see you. I think she’s here because for whatever crazy reason, she digs you and your porcupine personality. That’s why she’s been texting you constantly, and why she’s shown up here with no warning. All the way from Texas.”
Garrett slurps the last of his coffee, folds up his plat map, and then points it my way before heading for the front door.
“And I think you’d better get to the Empire Ambassador before she starts to think you don’t give a shit.”