by Mia Sheridan
There were some ornery backwoods mountain folk in these parts. And none of them would tell you any different. But they were strong, and they were brave. And mostly, they were good-hearted people who did the best they could and worried about each other. How had I forgotten about that when it was right in front of me all this time? And maybe I was one of them, too. Maybe I'd helped a few along the way as well for no other reason than they were my people.
Tenleigh and I brought a picnic lunch and ate on the edge of the meadow where I'd first made love to her and where I'd realized I would sacrifice everything I had for her: my dreams, my heart, my soul. It was the place that had forever changed me. And now we'd come full circle.
We sat in the grass at the edge of a small stream, the water rolling and splashing by, as we made plans for the future. I'd spend the small amount of money I had put away to fix the roof on my house and buy some furniture. We'd live there until I was done working at the mine and Tenleigh's school was built and running. We'd set up a nice room for her mama and I'd go through the process of applying to colleges for the second time in my life. When the time came, and when I knew what schools I'd gotten into, we'd all decide what we wanted to do. I knew I couldn't work underground for the rest of my life. I did it now, and I had gotten somewhat used to it, but it was still a challenge for me. Every day I went down into that dark mountain, but I still had to force myself to do it.
"How did it feel the first time?" Tenleigh whispered, her head on my lap, those gentle green eyes staring up at me. With the light shining down on her, I could see the blue and gold around the outer rim, her eyelashes a dark frame.
"What?" I asked, my mind calm as I appreciated the texture of my girl's skin under my fingertips, the glossiness of her hair spread out on my thighs as she gazed up at me.
"The mine," she said, as if she'd been reading my thoughts from a few moments before. "How did you do it, Ky? How did you go down there?" She reached up and cupped my cheek in her palm. I turned to it and kissed the warm skin of her hand.
I closed my eyes briefly, moving my mind from all things open and filled with happiness, back to the small dark spaces I moved through every day. "It was truly like taking a trip down to hell the first time," I said. "I put a few sprigs of lavender in my pocket and when I thought I couldn't do it, when I felt like I'd lose my mind, I took them out and smelled them. I closed my eyes and felt you with me; I pictured those lavender fields blowing in the breeze. It got me through those moments." I shrugged. "I did it because I had to. I did it because me going down there meant your freedom. And eventually, like most things, even terrible things, you learn to live with it."
Her eyes were filled with love. "What's it like?" she asked. There was a hitch in her voice.
"It's dark. So pitch dark, there should be a different word to describe that kind of dark. And it's hot—at first I could hardly catch my breath."
She turned slightly toward my stomach and wrapped her arms around me in comfort. I leaned down and kissed her temple.
"And you'd think it'd be quiet, you know, so far beneath the earth, but it's not. You hear it shift and groan, like it's unhappy with our invasion. Like humans have no place down there and it's reminding us that it wants to fill the spaces we've carved out. Those noises sound like some kind of warning most days."
"But you've gotten used to it?" she asked as if she couldn't quite believe it.
I paused. "Yeah . . . mostly. I hate the dark and I hate the hot, thick air. I hate working hunched over all day. I hate feeling enclosed and at the mercy of something that's a million times more powerful than me. But . . . there are the guys—the other miners who go down there every day to do a job most people have no clue about. They do it with pride and with honor. They come out with blackened faces and dust in their lungs, and they do it because they have families, and because their fathers before them did it. They do it because it's an honest day's work. They do it despite the fact that most people have no clue that coal is how they get their electricity."
"Each time you flip a switch, thank a coal miner." She smiled. "I'm so proud of you."
I smiled back down at her. "I do the same thing thousands of other men do, too. But being down there, it's brought me a pride in my father and my brother that I didn't have before. It's given me some peace about the way they died. In some ways it's a hell for me, but in others, it's been a gift."
"I love you," she whispered. It was in her expression. She understood me. She understood the anguish I had felt. She understood the sacrifice, and she understood the pride, too. I hadn't thought it was possible to love her more, but I did.
This girl.
My girl.
"I love you, too."
On Sunday, we went to breakfast at a small diner up the highway. She told me all about San Diego, about the ocean, about classes, about applying for the grants, about the coffee shop she'd hung out in almost every day. I soaked her in, her enthusiasm, her beauty, her pride, her intelligence. And I was so proud she was mine.
"I worried all the time," I said, not making eye contact.
She grabbed my hand and I focused my eyes on our linked fingers. "About my safety?" she asked.
I shook my head. "That, a little bit, but more so I worried . . . I worried that you'd meet someone else. Fall in love." I raised my eyes to hers and I could feel the vulnerability that must have been in them. Her lips parted and her expression turned sad. She shook her head.
"It's always been you. No one else. I didn't want to admit to myself that building the school . . . well, as much as it's for the kids here, a way to give back to my hometown," she looked down and then back up into my eyes, "I wanted to be close to you again. Even though I knew it'd hurt. I couldn't let go of you. I never did—all that time, I never did. Even when I thought you'd betrayed me. Or maybe somewhere inside, I knew you couldn't have."
I leaned across the table and kissed her.
We drove to a craft fair a couple hours away across a covered bridge where Tenleigh took out her cell phone and snapped pictures of me, laughing when I offered up a tense, unnatural smile, finally making me laugh a genuine laugh with some ridiculous, goofy faces. She seemed pleased with the picture of me looking to the side, my teeth flashing in a grin, the bridge a quaint backdrop. She made it her screen saver. "You really want to look at that every time you turn on your phone?" I asked, even though it made me happy and I hoped she'd keep it there.
"Yup," she said. "I like to look at my handsome boyfriend, especially when he's not around."
I pulled her into me and kissed the top of her fragrant hair. Boyfriend. The word didn't seem big enough to describe the extent to which I belonged to her.
I bought her homemade ice cream churned by an old woman with rosy cheeks, who wore a brightly colored calico skirt. She looked at us and smiled a warm knowing smile as if she understood something we hadn't told her in words.
We walked hand in hand as Tenleigh looked at the arts and crafts made by local artisans, listening to their lyrical mountain speak—a language mixed with simplicity and poetry. I knew some of the local people on our mountain growing lavender had gone to one of these a few weeks before. Just seeing the many Appalachian entrepreneurs filled my lungs with pride.
We sat under a giant buckeye tree and listened to a bluegrass band, the music filling the air, every note singing home.
I leaned in to Tenleigh and whispered in her ear, "I'm going to marry you."
She leaned her head back and gazed at me. "I want babies," she said. "Lots and lots of them."
I laughed. "As many as you want. I'm going to make all your dreams come true. All my life."
Her eyes filled with tenderness. "And I'm going to make all your dreams come true. All my life."
I smiled, and leaned in to kiss her. You already have. You are my dream.
When the sun was setting over the mountains, we drove back to my house, hand in hand in the cab of my truck.
We ended the day making love under my open
window, the floor familiar now, the fit of our bodies bringing the joy I'd lived without for too long. I drifted off to sleep, happy, content, and filled with peace.
EPILOGUE
Six Years Later
Kyland
My wife stood at the big picture window, gazing out at the golden, sunlit mountains—the view that would never cease to take my breath away. It was early, just past sunrise, but the air inside the house was already still and humid, the distant noise of the cicadas filling the trees outside. It was going to be another hot one. Tenleigh lifted her hair off the back of her neck and rolled it forward, as if she was working out the kinks.
I walked to her, wrapping my arms around her swollen middle, putting my palms against her belly where I could feel our baby moving inside. "Hey, beautiful," I said, my voice raspy with sleep. She gripped my hands at her waist as I laid my chin on her shoulder, breathing in her scent. "Baby keeping you awake?" I asked.
"Hmm," she hummed. "He's a strong little sucker." She massaged a spot on the lower side of her belly as if she'd been kicked. "I've been telling him to go to sleep since four a.m. He's as stubborn as they come."
I smiled against her skin, running my nose along it and letting my lips linger there. She shivered and pulled me closer. "He?" I asked. "Sounds like a she."
She turned her head, laughing softly, nuzzling her cheek against mine.
"I didn't want to wake you . . . or Silas."
"Silas will be asleep for a while. That kid played for hours at the creek yesterday." I had taken him fishing with me for his first lesson. My boy. I kissed Tenleigh's neck again. "Plumb tuckered himself out."
She grinned. "Careful with that kind of talk now. That's how this baby got in here." She rubbed her belly again.
I made a soft growling sound. "Come to bed, I'm fixin' to give you a back rub."
She smiled and then hummed a sound of contentment. After turning, she took my hand and I led her back to the queen-sized bed in our room.
Four years ago, we had moved into this old, drafty farmhouse on the outskirts of Dennville. When we'd first walked into it, we could clearly see it was a fixer upper, but when we'd entered the family room with the high, cedar-beamed ceilings and the huge window with the breathtaking view of our mountains beyond, we'd known it was exactly where we wanted to be. It was simple, but it was beautiful, and it was ours.
It was the place we worked tirelessly to make our own. It was the place where we began our life together. It was the place where I touched Tenleigh often and with love, never taking for granted that she was in my arms. It was the place where I brought my wife small grocery store cakes with perfect pink flowers on the edges instead of bouquets because I knew what brought her joy.
This was the home where I'd carried my bride over the threshold after she'd taken my name in a small, but beautiful wedding ceremony on the edge of our lavender field, our closest friends and family in attendance. It was where we'd brought our now three-year-old son, Silas, home, and where she'd told me she was expecting again. It was the home where Jamie visited, knowing he was welcomed with friendship and love, where Marlo and Sam along with their little boy, Elijah, and Tenleigh's mama, came to dinner every week, where we all sat at the impressive hand-carved table Buster had given us as a wedding gift—the one that needed to be covered with a tablecloth when children were present.
We had talked about me going away to college, maybe even just commuting somewhere while Tenleigh worked, but in the end, I'd decided that my life, my heart, was here. And so I'd completed my civil engineering degree online at the University of Kentucky. I had worked my way up—literally—at the mine, moving to an above ground management position shortly after Tenleigh's mama came home, and then being promoted to engineer after I earned my degree.
I hadn't been able to save my father and my brother, then, but now, I was in charge of the safety of all the men who hung up a metal tag and bravely went beneath the ground day after day, risking their lives to bring power to America. No one took it more seriously than I did. And when we were in Evansly and saw those coal-filled trains roll out of town, I would grip my wife's hand tightly and stand tall.
As for Edward Kearney, he passed away from a heart attack a short time before Tenleigh and I were married. He never reconciled with his son, and his wife had left him a few months before. I couldn't say I was too sorry to hear the news of his passing—he'd never shown himself to be anything other than a cold, self-serving man, and it helped me make my decision to stay at the mine. Edward Kearney died with every material possession money could buy, and yet, to my mind, he died with nothing at all.
Tenleigh and I had left Dennville a few times—once, to go to New York City for a two-week honeymoon, once to attend my graduation, and once for a weekend trip to Louisville. I'd wanted to leave Kentucky once upon a time, I'd planned on never looking back, but now I felt the pull of home when we were away, the pull that told me I'd had a fun vacation, but I was ready to get back to where I belonged. I was a Kentucky boy at heart, and I always would be. Someday, our sons and daughters would know and love the wild beauty of these hills just like we did.
The hill folk, and a few others in town were still growing lavender and had made quite a business out of it. A year after Tenleigh and I got married, they organized a large lavender festival and a Kentucky paper wrote an article about how a small, impoverished coal town with a tragic past had started growing flowers that brought hope. The national news picked it up and people came from all over to learn about Appalachian culture, purchase wares from local craftsmen, and enjoy the beauty of the area. It brought business to the town and now we looked forward to it every summer. Poverty is never a simple problem, but for a few, those flowers had provided hope, and for that, I was proud.
Tenleigh's mama lived in Evansly with Marlo and Sam. She worked part-time at Sam's practice and helped out with Elijah. She was doing great, and was better at recognizing the signs when she felt overwhelmed, and knew when to reach out to those there to help her. She stayed with us in the summers when Tenleigh wasn't teaching at the Dennville school, and they took long walks in the hills, finally getting to know each other as mother and daughter.
"Comfortable?" I asked as Tenleigh lay down on our bed, putting her pillow between her legs. The fan at the end of our bed made a soothing whirring sound as it blew cool air in our direction. Someday we'd save up and wire this old house for AC.
"As comfortable as I'm going to get with this big belly," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. I moved my hands over the skin at the base of her spine. She sighed, her body relaxing.
"I love you," I said simply.
"I love you, too," she whispered back.
As I massaged my wife's back, my mind wandered, my heart full. I had thought once, that I had lost myself because of love. But the opposite was true. I'd found myself when I'd given my heart to Tenleigh, found what was important to me, what really mattered. And now, running my hands over her smooth skin, there was nowhere on earth I'd rather be than here in this bed, living the life I led. The truth was, we didn't live a complicated life nor a fancy one. But we knew the simple joy of a warm night at home watching TV, the deep thankfulness of a refrigerator filled with food, the love of family and friends, and the quiet grace of white mist rising over the mountains outside our window on a cool, fall morning.
And suddenly, lying right there, I knew something. No, I didn't know it. I felt it, felt it in my gut, coursing through my blood.
"Ten," I said, laying my hand on her belly, "you know that something?"
"What something?" she asked sleepily.
"That something I felt like I was meant to do."
She turned her head and her eyes met mine. My heart skipped a beat. "Yes," she said softly.
"I'm doing it."
Tenderness filled her expression and she brought her hand up to my cheek as I leaned in to her caress and she ran her thumb over my cheekbone. "Is it enough?" she whispered.
I
leaned forward and kissed her, never in my life feeling more sure about anything. I whispered against her lips, "It's more than enough . . . it's so much more than I ever dreamed."
We had everything we needed. None of it was big. Most of it was simple. But what I knew in that moment was that the size of your home, your car, your wallet, doesn't have one single thing to do with the size of your life. And my life . . . my life felt big, filled with love and with meaning.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to my storyline editors: Angela Smith and Larissa Kahle, for the hours and hours of time you put into this book. You both are like sisters to me, and your guidance is invaluable. Thank you for loving me, and loving my characters, and for wanting to make us all look our very best.
Thank you to my developmental and line editor, Marion Archer. Not only do you make my work better—so much better, but it is such a joy to work with you. (And I hate that you didn't edit this page because I know, left to my own devices, it is surely riddled with grammatical errors).
Thank you to Karen Lawson who polished my book even further. Your down-to-the wire editing was so appreciated and helped make Kyland that much better.
Gratitude to my beta readers who put up with my tight timeline on this book and read as I wrote; Cat Bracht, Natasha Gentile, and Elena Eckmeyer (who selflessly read through my manuscript twice). To Karin Hoffpauir Klein, my friend and mental health expert, and, Nikki Larazo, my forever cheer leader. And once again to my author beta, A.L. Jackson—your willingness to read my story when it was still eighty thousand rambling, non-spell-checked words is so very, very appreciated.