Immortal Mine

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “It’s tradition,” I fairly growl towards him, refusing to meet his gaze. “Which you would know about if you were from here.”

  Stunned silence greets my words, and I’m horrified at my tone. Seriously, I’m never like this—or at least, not much. I also can’t back down with him looking at me like that.

  “What she means,” Stacy tells him, looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head, before turning her attention to Sam, “is that this is a big deal for us. Every year we put on a big production. As seniors, we get to decide what show to do, and we run the whole thing. It’s a pretty big deal; if we can’t out-do last year’s show, well, we might get flogged or something, I guess.”

  I shoot her a baleful look.

  “Huh,” Sam sounds astonished; apparently I’m the only one who takes offense to it. “So, what kind of show are you talking?”

  “I think we should do Cats,” Heather pronounces enthusiastically. A chorus of groans just as enthusiastic greets her.

  “Ugh! Boring!” This is Stacy, which is somewhat ironic since she will choose to have as small a part of the production as possible. For someone so dramatic, she really isn’t into theater.

  “Seriously,” Hilary says, “who wants to watch a bunch of cats prance around the stage? I think we should do Oklahoma.”

  “Too old fashioned,” Jon, who will probably play the part of the male lead, looks pained at her suggestion.

  “Mama Mia.”

  “Absolutely no Abba,” Kevin strongly interjects.

  “Lion King.”

  “Too expensive.”

  This volley goes back and forth with suggestions and rejections from everyone—well, nearly everyone. Sam silently watches, and I keep my mouth clamped, afraid I’ll be mean again. I’m watching Sam unobtrusively, noticing that he’s eating a home lunch. I guess with all that food foisted on him and his uncle, he’ll be eating meals from home for some time.

  “What about Les Miserable?” At this suggestion, everyone falls silent—but only because of who suggested it, in perfectly accented French, I might add. Pretentious jerk. All eyes turn to Sam, and I can feel it; they’re considering it. Really, am I the only one left with a brain in my head?

  “Three years ago.” That’s all I have to say to bring them to their senses. Three years ago when we were lowly freshmen, the seniors—a rather large class at eighteen students—put on a production of Les Mis without allowing any of the younger students to be part of it. That was cause for contention enough, but when it turned out so spectacularly, the bar was raised to almost impossible heights.

  Groans and moans round the table.

  “Am I missing something?” Sam asks.

  “Long story,” Stacy tells him. “Besides, who could sing the part of Jean Valjean?”

  “Well, not to brag, but I could,” he tells her, smiling in a way that’s both charming and modest. I nearly gag, but the other girls at the table all melt and make googly eyes at him. I can tell they are considering it again.

  “Let’s do Grease,” I tell them, rolling my eyes.

  “Yes, Grease. You can play the part of Sandy, Niahm.” Hilary leans forward excitedly.

  “I don’t—”

  “You have to,” Stacy informs me. “You’re the only one with a strong enough voice. And you’re blonde. And sweet.” I glance toward Sam to see what he thinks of that assessment, but to his credit, he doesn’t roll his eyes, though his jaw tightens a little. He doesn’t even glance at me.

  “Jon, you’ll be Danny.”

  “No way,” he argues. “I wanna be Kenickie. He’s the cool one. That’s where I’m at,” he laughs, bumping fists with Kevin.

  “Well, that leaves you, then, Sam.” I sit up straight in my chair at this pronouncement by Heather. “If you can sing Jean Valjean”—she pronounces it in a very Americanized way rather than with the French inflection—“then you can surely do Danny Zuko.”

  “Wait, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea—” my protest is lost in the flurry of voices as they start choosing parts. I’m about to speak up louder when Sam does something very odd.

  He opens a small Tupperware container—then immediately slams it shut with a quick look my way, his cheeks flushed. What in the world—then it becomes clear. I know exactly what is in that container. He grabs it with the clear intention of putting it back in his bag.

  Before I’m completely aware of my intention, my hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, roughly stopping him. I push the container back to the table with a thump.

  “Don’t stop eating now,” I snarl. All conversation stops, eight pairs of eyes coming to rest on me. Sure, now they hear me.

  In the silence, their eyes dart back and forth between my irate face, and his chagrined one.

  “I’m… uh, actually, I’m full,” he stammers, still avoiding eye contact.

  “What’s in the container?” I question, snarky.

  “I… um, oh, it’s… nothing,” he finishes lamely.

  “Pie?” I purr.

  “Just… it’s… um, yeah.”

  “My pie?” I clarify. His cheeks are flushed, and I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed…or angry. Both, maybe.

  “Oh, Sam, if it’s Niamh’s pie, you definitely don’t want to pass on it. She makes the best pies around. Probably the best pie you could get anywhere,” Hilary pronounces, clearly still trying to be the center of his attention.

  “I… I don’t have a fork,” he says unconvincingly, pulling his hand and the container from beneath my own, which was still in place, I realize belatedly.

  “You don’t really need one, do you?” I ask mockingly. “Just use your fingers.”

  This is met with a moment’s stunned silence at my rudeness. Not saying anything, he puts the container back in his bag. Before he can close the bag, Heather is shoving a fork at him.

  “Here, you can use mine. It’s clean. Hill isn’t kidding when she says you don’t want to miss out on it, if it’s one Niahm made.”

  Sam doesn’t have much choice now but to open the container and eat the piece of apple pie residing within. Normal conversation resumes for the most part. Sam eats the pie slowly, glaring my way momentarily then turning a charming smile on Heather. He manages to convey utter pleasure at the taste, while maintaining a distantly angry look. It becomes difficult to watch him, but I refuse to look away, even if he won’t return my look—even if I am ashamed at my stupid temper tantrum. No one seems to notice this little drama occurring in their midst—except for Stacy, who is kicking me under the table.

  Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.

  Chapter 4

  Sam

  I lower myself into one of the kitchen chairs, throwing the remainder of the apple pie on the table in front of me. I pick up the fork and dig in like a starving man.

  “How was school?” Shane smirks, and I throw him a dirty look. He laughs. “That bad, huh?”

  He takes a seat across from me, jerking his chin toward the pie.

  “Gonna share?”

  I growl at him, and he laughs again.

  “Guess not. Want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I mutter, shoving another bite in my mouth. How can someone so wicked make something so heavenly? “I mean, I really don’t know what I did to her.”

  Shane’s eyebrows shoot up, but he remains otherwise calm. “Her?”

  “Niahm…” I break off, realizing I have no idea what her last name is.

  “Eve?” Shane repeats.

  “No, Niahm. N-I-A-H-M. Niahm.”

  Shane sits up a little straighter at the spelled name.

  “Samuel…” his voice is a warning.

  “No, I know. I know it’s not her. Trust me I know how much it isn’t her.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the Niahm I knew was sweet, kind, loving. This one is…not.”

  “Well, that clears it up,” Shane’s teasing tells me he’s off guard once again, as he relaxes back against his chair back.

>   “She just… no matter what I say, she takes offense.”

  “And you care because…?”

  I’m silent as I continue devouring the pie, and Shane gives the table a little rattle.

  “I don’t, okay?” I growl at him.

  “Look, Samuel, I know you’re used to girls just throwing themselves at your feet—” his sentence ends in a grunt as I push the table with severe force into his ribcage. He lifts his hands in surrender as he tries to catch his breath. To be fair, I may have cracked a rib with the force of it, and though I know it will be healed within minutes, I feel bad about the pain that I know came with it. I gulp down the last bite and shove away from the table, tossing the empty pie pan and fork into the sink.

  “Wash those,” he says, his voice nearly back to normal.

  “You’re not my father,” I say, but pull out the sponge and begin washing them anyway. Shane and I have lived together, moved around together for most of our lives. There are times when we grind on one another’s nerves enough that we have to be apart for a time. Shane really is my uncle—my great uncle.

  It’s more convenient to live with him in the paternal role and myself in the teen role, to keep our story more feasible. But with two men, who’ve lived as long as we have, there are bound to be some conflicts. So we might take a few decades apart, but somehow always find our way back together. Just one family member, no matter how authoritative, is better than the crushing loneliness.

  “Cheer up, Samuel. Your babies are coming today.”

  I turn at his announcement, feeling lit up inside.

  “Today?”

  “Yup,” he confirms. “I got the name of a local stable where we can board the horses until we get our own stable refurbished.”

  Shane knows me well enough to know how much this announcement can change my attitude. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to have my own horse, Autumn Star, with me, as we’ve been living in large cities. Moving to a small town was my request. Shane didn’t have to come, he could have chosen to go his own way, but loneliness doesn’t just affect me.

  “You said horses. The Irish is coming as well?” I clarify as I dry the plate and place it back in the cabinet. I haven’t seen the new stallion yet. I look forward to the distraction of breaking him.

  “Yes, he is. They weren’t supposed to be here for another week, but if we don’t take possession today, we lose the Irish.”

  “You say there’s somewhere here in town to keep them?” I ask, placing the newly cleaned glass into its place.

  “I asked around and was told the only place in town that stables for rent is the Parker farm.”

  “Shane?”

  “Mm-hm?”

  “Sorry about the ribs.”

  Chapter 5

  Niahm

  “What was with you today?”

  I plop into the recliner, tucking the phone between my cheek and shoulder, absently rubbing Bob’s head resting on my knee.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, knowing Stacy will never buy my feigned innocence for one minute.

  “C’mon, Vee. You were like a triple W”—by which I know she means the Wicked Witch of the West—“with Sam today. What did he do to you to make you hate him so much?”

  I sigh, without a good answer for her.

  “Nothing, Stace. I really don’t know why I—hold on, I’ve got a call on the other line.” I push the call-waiting button on the phone, grateful for the reprieve. “Hello?”

  “Oh,” a surprised voice answers, rich and deep. “I’m not sure I have the right—I’m looking for the Parker Stables?”

  “You’ve got them,” I answer.

  “Oh, great. I’m new in town—”

  “Let me guess—Mr. Coleman?”

  “Shane,” he corrects, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s not really hard to guess who I am when I tell you I’m new in town.”

  “Let me put it this way, Mr. Col—Shane, I’m seventeen and there hasn’t been anyone move into town for my whole lifetime.”

  “Well, that’s quite some time, isn’t it?” His voice rings with irony. Strange. “Is your father in? I’d like to speak to him about stabling my horses.”

  “No, sorry. He’s out of town. I can help you, though. How many horses?”

  “Uh… two.” He seems hesitant to deal with me.

  “That’s fine. I have four empty stalls right now. One-fifty a month for both. That includes usage of the wash bay and the arena either for exercising them yourselves, or for letting them loose in. I’ll feed and water them daily, but you’ll have to muck the stall yourself.” I use my best business woman voice. It works. When he answers, his tone turns businesslike, the hesitation gone from his voice.

  “That will be fine. My nephew and I will make sure one or the other is there daily.”

  My stomach drops. Shoot! I forgot just whose uncle I was speaking to. I should have kept my wits about me and told him the stable was full.

  “How soon will you be bringing them by?” I force myself to ask, hoping he doesn’t notice my sudden hesitancy.

  “Actually, they arrived unexpectedly today, a week early. Can I bring them now?”

  Relived by his use of the word “I,” I relax. At least I won’t have to deal with the arrogant Sam today.

  “Sure. I’ll give you directions.”

  When I’m finished, the phone buzzes, reminding me that Stacy is waiting.

  “You’ll never believe what—” I cut myself off. If I tell her Shane Coleman is coming to my house, she’ll rush over, making a fool of herself over him. I don’t want to contribute to her going down that particular path.

  “What?” she demands impatiently when I’m silent.

  “You’ll… you’ll never believe… what Bob did,” I spout with sudden inspiration. “He got into—”

  “No, please!” Stacy wails into the phone. “Not another Bob story. I swear you love that mutt more than you love anyone else.”

  I laugh at her completely predictable response. “Not more than you, lovey.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she grumbles, somewhat appeased.

  “Gotta go, Stace. The chickens don’t feed themselves.”

  “Stupid chickens, you should train them better.”

  “Ha, ha,” I mock, hanging up.

  

  I am in the middle of the chicken coop, spreading feed when I hear the truck turn up the drive. I’m wearing one of my father’s large beat-up flannel shirts to protect my clothes, and my knee-high rubber boots, hair twisted up into a messy bun, protected by an old John Deere cap. I briefly consider running in and shedding all the “farm-girl” accessories, then realize that’s what Stacy would do for the exalted Shane Coleman.

  “C’mon, Bob,” I say, backing out of the coop. Bob is momentarily dejected at having to leave one of his favorite pastimes—torturing the chickens—but always willing to go forth with the hope that an even greater adventure awaits him.

  I hang the feed bucket on its nail, wiping my hands on my jeans. I walk around the front of the stable, where the signs direct folks to the stables—not that most people need them. I arrive to see a massive black pick-up, pulling a matching black horse trailer, clearly expensive. For the first time, I wonder what Mr. Coleman—Shane—does for a living.

  The driver’s door is open, and he’s nowhere to be seen, so I head to the rear of the trailer. Its door hanging open gives away his location. A chestnut Thoroughbred with white half-stockings of nearly the same length and a white star between his eyes is led from his other side. He’s one of the most stunning horses I’ve ever seen—feisty, if his black mane tossing is any indication. His legs lift in a spirited prance. It doesn’t take a practiced eye to see the value of this stallion.

  Shane turns the horse toward me, and stops. Because I’m staring at the horse, I don’t pay particular attention to Shane.

  “Wow, he’s a beauty.” I finally pull my gaze from the horse so that Shane can see the si
ncerity on my smiling face, considering removing my sunglasses so he will see the same emotion in my eyes. The smile drops, along with my shoulders, to be replaced by a grimace.

  It’s not Shane.

  Chapter 6

  Sam

  “Let me guess,” I say, ironically. “Niamh Parker?” I realize I never asked her last name.

  “What are you doing here?” she demands.

  I raise my brows at her, and jerk my head toward the horse. She rolls her eyes.

  “I thought your uncle was coming.”

  “He had some business to take care of so he sent me,” I mutter, wondering if he somehow knew whose stable he was sending me to.

  “Great.” I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. Almost reluctantly, she says, “Follow me, I’ll show you where to put him.”

  She stalks off, not waiting to see if I follow. She leads into the stable, opening one of the stall doors. No words, just a sweep of her hand to show me the way as she holds the door open. I narrow my eyes at her, wondering if she’ll trip me or slam the door on me, finally leading the stallion in. I turn the horse, clucking and making soothing noises to the horse that’s a little nervous in this place with strange smells. I take the halter off the horse and step out as she closes the door behind me.

  “Name?” she asks.

  “Sam Coleman, as you well know,” I respond irritably.

  “Not yours, id—” she stops herself from calling me the name, her cheeks flooding with a charming shade of pink. I’m well aware of the name she’d been about to call me. “The horse’s name?”

  “Autumn Star,” I reply, nearly smacking my forehead in consternation. Of course she meant the horse’s name. Guess I am kind of an idiot. She lifts her chin, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge her words.

  “You have another? Not name, horse I mean,” she clarifies.

  I grit my teeth at her tone, as if she were talking to an imbecile. “I knew what you meant. Where’s he going to go?”