Great and Precious Things

by Rebecca Yarros

  His eyes flickered with something I was too smart to call regret.

  “Look, Dad. I’m here because you asked me to be.”

  “Bullshit,” he spat. “You’re the last person I’d ask for help.”

  I shoved that little insult into the don’t-ever-think-about-it pile and gave him a mocking smile. “Well, you did. And maybe when you’re done being an asshole, I’ll give you the proof.”

  “Get. Off. My. Land.”

  “Okay,” I agreed and headed back to the Jeep, zipping up my coat as I went.

  By the time I opened my tailgate, he’d slammed the front door. “Stubborn ass,” I muttered, grabbing my camping chair.

  After setting up next to the Jeep, I settled into the chair with my water bottle and the copy of East of Eden I’d brought from the house. I cracked the well-loved spine and fell into Steinbeck’s description of living between two mountain ranges.

  “I told you to get off my land!” Dad shouted from the porch, Dorothy looking on from the doorway.

  “I am off your land,” I replied, already back in my book.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “According to the property survey, this little stretch of land is part of the easement you sold to Uncle Cal so he could access his house.” My eyes traced the letters on the page before me, but nothing registered with every other sense concentrating on Dad.

  “You… He… Go to hell.”

  I expected the slam of the door, but it still made me flinch when it happened. An hour later, Dorothy appeared, a steaming cup in her hands.

  “To keep you warm. Temps are going to drop soon.”

  “Thank you,” I told her, taking the offered coffee.

  “He’s…” She rubbed her fingers at the skin between her eyebrows.

  “He’s him,” I offered. “Don’t worry. He fathered the only man more stubborn than he is.”

  She blew out a long, exasperated breath. “Xander said he’s not paying for the at-home care. Says it’s cheaper and safer to take him down to the home in Buena Vista, where he can get around-the-clock care.”

  Fuck me, did I have to fight Xander on every front?

  “I’ll talk to him again,” I promised.

  She nodded, her lips pressed in a flat line, and gave me a look so full of pity, I almost cringed. “I wish Art didn’t let his heart fill with all this misplaced hatred. I know you’ve never been perfect, Cam, but you don’t deserve this.”

  I glanced toward the east end of the property, where Sullivan lay beneath a stone I’d never seen. “I earned it.”

  The coffee was hot and bitter, rich with memories of rushed mornings and zipping backpacks.

  “Thank you,” I told her, handing back the mug after I’d downed its contents.

  “You’re welcome. He’ll come around.” She gave me a little nod, then headed back into the house.

  I returned to my book until another hour passed and the sun slipped behind the Collegiates, sending shadows across the pages.

  His eyes stayed on me, just as they had been for the majority of the time, as I packed up my chair and put it into the Jeep.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after that and so forth,” I called up to where he watched at the window. “You are the reason I’m here, and I have nothing better to do.”

  The curtain closed, and I almost laughed at the insults he was no doubt muttering in the house.

  “As long as he doesn’t get the shotgun,” I mumbled.

  …

  I began my reading session earlier the next day, not even bothering to knock on the door before setting up in the driveway in front of Dad’s house.

  The day after, I did the same.

  By Wednesday, I thought about bringing a more comfortable chair.

  An hour after I opened my book, Dad stood on the front porch, arms folded in front of his chest as he watched me. It was an odd thing, seeing Dad, not knowing who he would really be today.

  I put my book in my lap as he came down the steps, his footsteps heavy on the creaking wood.

  “You came to help.” Condescension clung to every word.

  “I came because you asked me to.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What exactly did I ask you to help with?”

  He’s probably not even lucid in that message. For the first time, I wondered if Xander was right.

  “Death.”

  Shock flashed across his features, and I cursed inwardly.

  “Dorothy made lunch.” With those words, he walked back to the house.

  “Awesome,” I muttered, opening the book again.

  “If you’re hungry, get in here. She’s too old to be hauling your food outside,” he called back from the porch.

  My eyes shot to his, just to make sure he was actually talking to me.

  “I’m not waiting all day,” he said, answering my silent question, holding the door.

  I lurched to my feet, abandoning the paperback on the canvas chair, and followed him inside.

  “Take off your damned shoes,” he ordered, and I did just that before joining him in the kitchen, where Dorothy sat at the table with lunch, watching us like hawks.

  “Rabbit food,” Dad groaned as he sat in front of his salad.

  “It’s good for you,” Dorothy argued.

  “Thank you,” I told her before digging into the grilled chicken that topped the greens.

  “What’s your proof?” Dad asked. “You said you had proof.”

  Guess we weren’t beating around the bush.

  Still chewing, I put my phone on the table and cued up the voicemail. Then I watched him as it played. As usual, he gave nothing away. Heaven forbid he let anyone know how he was feeling.

  The message ended, and I put my phone back in my pocket.

  “Where’s the rest?” he asked, his eyes boring into mine.

  “That’s it. You didn’t leave another one.”

  He nodded slowly, then turned his attention to his salad, spearing hunks of cheese with his fork.

  “I really don’t want to ask this, but Xander brought up a point,” I started.

  “You played this for your brother?” he snapped.

  “I did. I was hoping he’d already given you what you asked for.” My entire body felt tense, like I had to balance on the one cleared spot of a minefield. There was nowhere to move without getting blown up.

  “Ask your question.”

  Dorothy raised her eyebrows but didn’t say a word.

  “Do you remember leaving the message? Is this…really you asking for this?” The stem of the fork bit into my finger, I gripped it so hard.

  Dad studied me, his gaze unforgiving and harsh. Then he stabbed more of the cheese, avoiding the lettuce. “No. I don’t remember leaving it.”

  I sagged in my chair. Had I really come all this way—?

  “But it’s true. I want one. I’ve been telling him that for a while.” He shoved a forkful in his mouth and began chewing.

  “I’ll talk to Xander again.” I didn’t mention that my brother had frozen me out since I brought up the DNR in the first place.

  His posture softened. “He won’t change his mind. Once Xander thinks he’s right, that’s all there is to it.”

  “This is your choice to make. Not his.” The weight of what it would mean to fight Xander settled on my heart. “If this is what you want, I’ll fight for it.”

  He scoffed. “You willing to take on the town? Because that’s Judge Bradley sitting on that bench. Not sure if you remember, but he hates you.”

  “Don’t pull any punches, Dad.” I pushed my salad around the bowl as my mind raced.

  “You’ve never been the one who needed me to,” he replied.

  “And Judge Bradley hardly constitutes taking on the entire town. He’s one man
.” One man who wouldn’t bother pissing on me if I were on fire, but still.

  “One man who’s up for a retention vote this November,” Dorothy noted. “He’ll take public opinion into account—you can be sure of it.”

  “How is that fair? He’s a judge.”

  “Since when is politics fair? Don’t forget, your own brother is the mayor,” she countered.

  “Xander isn’t corrupt,” Dad snapped. “Don’t even think about implying that.”

  “Relax, Art. I’m just saying that Judge Bradley isn’t going to forget that it’s Mayor Daniels on the other side of that courtroom.”

  Dad grunted. “That, I believe.” He looked to me and shook his head. “Unfortunately, you really are the only person Xander will listen to. If you’ve already tried and he’s denied you, then there’s not much else you can do without getting your ass kicked in court.” He dropped the fork and leaned back in his chair.

  The pros and cons list in my head was pretty much all cons, but I knew one pro could outweigh them all.

  “Tell me your reasons. I want to hear them while you’re…you.” I kept the words soft, but there was no mistaking the demand.

  “I’m not trying to off myself, if that’s what you’re asking. I just don’t want to stay any longer than I have to. If the Lord is going to take my mind, then I sure as hell don’t want my body to hang around. The last thing I want is to wake up with no idea who or where I am, stuck in a hospital bed with a tube down my throat. I can’t imagine a life where anyone wants that…”

  Taking on Xander… Dad was right. It would mean taking on the town, and I wasn’t exactly the welcomed prodigal son. Judge Bradley despised me, Xander probably had Milton Sanders on retainer as his attorney already, and there wasn’t another lawyer in town. I would be classified as a bigger villain than I already was, the bad seed who came home from war just to kill his dad, against the perfect blond mayor of Alba who was fighting to keep his father alive.

  I’d never have peace here.

  Maybe that was my penance, living a long, battle-filled life to pay for the one I’d failed to protect.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, looking at Dad. “I’ll take it to court. I’ll fight for your right to determine your own fate. You deserve that much. But I want two things.”

  Dad’s brows lowered. “Of course you do. What are they?”

  “First, I want a truce.” I spoke every word clearly and slowly so he couldn’t possibly misunderstand.

  “A truce.”

  “I’m well aware that you share the same opinion of me as the rest of the town. I’m not stupid. But as of this moment, we have a truce. You don’t ban me from the house. You don’t attack me verbally, and you definitely don’t shoot me again.”

  “The house…” He tilted his head.

  “I’m still staying at Cal’s—at my house. It’s time, and I figure that my staying here would only make this harder.”

  Dad nodded slowly, considering my words. “And second?”

  My stomach twisted, but I knew this was my only chance.

  “You hate me because I got Sullivan killed.”

  Dad stiffened, his eyes stricken with pain and anger, but I kept on.

  “You’ve never been willing to hear what happened that day. Not past the choice I made.”

  A muscle in his jaw flexed.

  “When this is over, when I’ve given you what you want, you’ll listen. Maybe you’ll hate me even more once you know the truth of it. That’s a chance I’m going to have to take. At least I’ll know your hatred will be based on fact.” It was the most I’d said about Sullivan’s death in six years.

  I saw the rebellion in Dad—the curl of his fists and the flare of his nostrils as he struggled for control.

  “If you deserve to determine your future, then I deserve to explain my past.”

  His eyes met mine in a clash of will and grief, but finally he nodded. “Fine. But I have one caveat.”

  “Of course you do.” I used his own words on him.

  “There are days and moments when I won’t be able to keep our truce. I can’t remember who I am, let alone who you are. And those days will come when even if I do recognize you, it might not be this version of you I’m seeing.” He gestured to my torso.

  “Okay. I can handle that.” I didn’t expect the sadness that engulfed me, clogging my throat as he admitted that he was no longer himself 100 percent of the time. No longer completely sane or dependable. The man who preached that you were only as good as your word was no longer capable of keeping his.

  “Then, we have a deal.” He thrust out his hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm as always, and it was over in a heartbeat.

  “So where would you start this whole battling-the-town thing?” I asked, returning to my salad.

  Dad looked to Dorothy, who shook her head, dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me, Arthur Daniels. I can’t remember the last time you took my advice on anything.”

  “Come on, Dorothy,” Dad cajoled.

  “You already know what I’m thinking.”

  “The Historical Society,” he guessed.

  Every road around here seemed to lead back to that damn organization.

  “It’s the fastest way to remind this town who he is and where he comes from. Out of the thirty-five voting members, there are only five founders living in Alba, and your boy comes from one.” She turned to me. “But you have to start acting like you don’t hate everyone and everything this town stands for.”

  “I can do that.” I didn’t hate everyone. Just the majority of Alba.

  “And cover those up.” She motioned toward my tattoos. “Long sleeves for at least a month. You’re scaring the little kids.”

  I laughed, thinking of Rose and her absolute lack of fear as I used her unicorn ice pack. “You mean I’m offending the morning crew at Ivy’s.”

  She scoffed. “Don’t underestimate the power of gossiping old women and a morning hair routine.”

  “And how exactly do you want me to win over the Historical Society when I’m aware that Xander is already using your vote and sitting in your council seat? Plus, they already despise me.” Xander and I wouldn’t qualify for our own voting memberships until Dad passed on, and even then, I had zero personal property to contribute to the historical district. It was all owned by the mining company.

  His eyes narrowed in thought as he looked out the window, over the ridge that led to my house and beyond. “Setting fire to the bunkhouse definitely didn’t make you many friends in the society.”

  My jaw locked.

  “You have to give them something they’ve wanted for years,” he finished slowly.

  Dorothy’s eyes widened. “You said it was too dangerous.”

  Dad shrugged. “For the majority of the property, it is. But I know it better than anyone else in the county, and the only person who comes a close second is Camden.”

  I followed his line of sight and felt the blood leave my face. “You can’t be serious. That place is a damned disaster.”

  “It is. But it’s the one piece of property they’ve never been able to access, and you’re the only one who can give it to them. That’s the crown jewel in their tourist tiara.”

  “And when Xander blocks that, too? He’ll never go for it. He’s always said it was too dangerous, and you and I both know that place scares the shit out of him. Always has. I might have been given Uncle Cal’s shares in RR, but Xander controls yours.” The twists and turns of the Rose Rowan Mine were almost completely impossible to navigate unless you knew it like the back of your hand, and Xander had never bothered to try. It had been my haven. My playground. My first experience with tempting fate.

  “You ever read the paperwork when Cal died? Or was that too boring for you?” Dad challenged. “Go home and read the damn file, Camden
. Not just the will but the mining company papers. Property sales. All of it. Then offer the mine to the town and trust me.”

  “You really want me to reopen the mine.”

  “No, but it’s the only way they’ll see you as anything other than a dangerous nuisance.”

  Shit. That mine had been closed to visitors for the last thirty years, and with good reason. Some of the supports dated from the last gasp of the mine in the fifties, but other places were the original 1880 timbers. It was a maze of crumbling floors, cave-ins, bad air, and God only knew what else.

  “Do you know how much money it’s going to take to restore it?”

  “You just let me handle that,” Dorothy said with a smile. “I’m expecting a call from the State Historical Fund board, and I might be able to redirect some things.”

  “This is insane.”

  “You can design and build things all over Afghanistan and Somalia and wherever else, but you don’t think you can do it in your own backyard?” Dad challenged.

  “I thought you didn’t know where I was?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to do it or not? Because I’m expecting Xander to ship me down to the old folks’ home at any minute.”

  But then it hit me. Opening the mine would kill two birds with one stone.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Hours later, when I’d finished reading all of Uncle Cal’s documents, a chill of apprehension raced down my spine.

  The town might love me for what I was about to offer, but they could just as easily hate me for what I was about to do to my brother.

  Chapter Eight

  Willow

  “Every year we petition for caramel corn, and every year you give it to the Halversons,” Peter Mayville argued at the wooden podium, facing down the almighty Alba Historical Society Council. The town council might handle the administration of the town, but the real power was held by the council of the Historical Society.

  Usually, society meetings were held once a month, but with only seven weeks until the opening of the season, they happened weekly. Attendance skyrocketed, too, as families who didn’t winter here came back in preparation for opening weekend. Town Hall, which was pretty much the multipurpose building of modern Alba, was heating up quickly with nearly a hundred bodies straining her capacity.