“He’s a creep!” Owen was exasperated now.
“Yeah,” Hank said. “And you’re a vandal. Everyone looks real bad in this! Except that I know you, and you aren’t this kind of guy. Not normally. But if you start doing stuff to impress this girl, I’m telling you, it isn’t gonna end well. You aren’t her hero. She’s just manipulating you.”
“You don’t know her.”
Hank laughed softly. “Owen, there are some people who haven’t gotten their act together yet. It doesn’t mean that they’re bad human beings, it just means that they aren’t good at the relationship thing, at least not yet. And nothing good comes from trying to fix them. You just need to keep walking and find someone who doesn’t leave drama in their wake.”
Vickie had been the damaged one in their relationship, but after the divorce he’d realized that he wasn’t quite so fresh and unbroken himself anymore. He was scarred and carried a whole lot of baggage. Compared to a woman like Avery, he was the wrecked one. So he wasn’t without sympathy, either.
“It isn’t her fault, though,” Owen said.
“Are you happy right now?” Hank asked, changing tack.
“What?” Owen frowned.
“Are you happy?” Hank asked. “Right now. What are you feeling?”
“Kind of stressed out, I guess.”
“Well, if she doesn’t make you happy, walk away before you’re any more invested. Cut your losses. Nice girls don’t need the drama—they’ll actually like you for you.”
Owen didn’t answer, but Hank didn’t really expect him to. Owen would think it through over the next few days. It was how he worked. Teenage boys couldn’t be rushed in their mental processes.
“So nice girls—like that cook.” A small smile turned up one corner of Owen’s lips. Was Owen seriously setting his sights on a grown woman?
“What?” Hank demanded. “She’s way too old for you, kid.”
She was also very likely his sister—not that he could tell him that...
“Not for me, man.” Owen grinned—he’d found Hank’s button. “But I’ve seen you with her.”
That jarred him. When? And what exactly had he seen? Hank had thought he’d kept things under control. If Owen mentioned this to his father—
“In that scenario, I’m the one who’s no good for her,” Hank retorted. He was the guy who hadn’t figured out relationships yet, who did everything he could to keep his wife and still failed. He was the one with a soured outlook, and she was the innocent who still saw beauty and possibility, who still believed in love. Owen was looking at him skeptically, and Hank heaved a sigh. “Besides, there are rules around here that I take pretty seriously. I’m not getting involved with another employee. There’s right and there’s wrong, Owen. Now go pay for that window.”
“Yeah, yeah...” Owen turned toward the door. “Thanks, Uncle Hank.”
Hank stood there in the hay-scented air, a bag of ranch supplies still in his hand. Some lessons were more painful than others, and Owen was going to learn his fair share of them. The kid was feeling things for this girl that were only going to lead him in the wrong direction. Hank had been there before, and now he was on the other end of that equation...
An image of Avery was stuck in his mind—that fair skin, the direct green gaze... She was an untainted woman who wanted a fairy tale that he couldn’t deliver. There was no way this could end well for him...so why was he still thinking about her? Some advice was easier dished out than taken.
Chapter Nine
The following day, after breakfast was finished and the dining room had emptied, Avery stood in the middle of the kitchen. Everything had changed for her since she’d arrived in this little Montana town. While this new insight into her mother’s early life didn’t alter how much she loved her mom or her respect for her, it did change the story that she’d grown up with, and stories mattered.
Every family had a story, one that shaped their collective identity. She couldn’t count how many times her mother had said to her, Avery, we are Southerlys, and Southerlys don’t lie. Southerlys can do hard things, Avery. And when they get knocked down, they stand back up again. So don’t forget who you are and who you came from.
The Southerlys—they had a story, and that story began with a single mother intent on giving her daughter more than she’d had growing up. Her mother had been raised by a maiden aunt, but Winona wanted Avery to have more than that—a real mother. Winona stood strong when it came to right and wrong. She’d march right back to the grocery store if she’d been undercharged for something. We’re Southerlys, Avery. We’re nothing if we’re not honest.
That identity had been a bedrock for Avery. She knew who she was, what it meant to be a Southerly. When Avery was faced with a moral dilemma, her mother’s voice would ring in the back of her mind—We’re Southerlys, Avery... She always knew what she had to do, and it was never the easy way out.
Except the Southerlys weren’t exactly an honorable lineage. Winona’s mother gave her up at birth to a distant aunt. When Avery looked into it before her mother’s death, it actually appeared that the “aunt” wasn’t a family connection so much as a friend of the family, and there was a whole ugly story about Winona’s parents having spent some time in prison. There wasn’t a deluge of Southerlys to confirm her mother’s adamant declarations of what kind of person constituted a Southerly. It was one woman’s word against the world.
Avery plunged her rubber-gloved hands into the hot water to get started on the dishes. It was a startling thing to find out that her mother hadn’t always been the woman she’d known. When had things changed—at Avery’s birth? It was possible. Winona’d walked away from Hope, Montana, and she’d given birth in a different state, started a whole new life. She’d even walked away from the father of her baby...
And now she knew why. If Winona had stayed here, she’d have been under the weight of her reputation. And the Southerlys knew a whole lot about bad reputations, it seemed. Some fresh starts required clean breaks, and she couldn’t imagine the kind of strength it had taken for an eighteen-year-old girl to move to a new state, give birth and completely reinvent herself. Because the Winona Southerly of Hope, Montana, was a different woman from the Winona Southerly of Salina, Kansas.
We are Southerlys, Avery, and we don’t do anything we’re not willing to have the entire world know about. So think before you act, sweetheart. What you do when no one is looking defines you.
Avery wiped down a ladle, then rinsed it with the sprayer. Once the kitchen was clean, she’d have some time to herself before she started in on dinner. Tonight would be chicken legs, rice and vegetables. Nothing too complicated, but she still felt a leap in her stomach when she thought about all that could go wrong.
Last night, she’d seriously considered going back home to Kansas. Did she really want to uproot a man’s life just so she could feel better about knowing who her father was? She’d gone so far as to pull out her suitcase and start throwing in her clothes, but then she’d stopped.
Another few days wouldn’t hurt. Another chance to talk to her dad... Another view into her mother’s world... If she left now, she’d be going without completing the goal she’d set for herself. She’d come to Montana for a reason, and she’d never forgive herself if she gave up because she was afraid.
We are Southerlys, and we can do hard things. Don’t forget who you are and who you came from.
Her mother had declared who they were—without any actual ancestral support. She had decided who they would be from that point on. They were Southerlys, and Winona was choosing something better—nobility, honesty, integrity. And God help the person who contradicted that.
So staying and confronting her dad wouldn’t be easy, but since when did Southerlys choose the easy road?
Avery reached into the sudsy water again and slid her gloved hand over the bottom of t
he sink, looking for any last large utensils. At first she didn’t feel pain—it was more like a tug, and then a sting. When she pulled her hand out of the water, she saw a slice in the yellow rubber glove and a watery wash of blood.
“Blast it...” Her head spun and she leaned forward to catch her balance. She eased her hand out of the rubber, and shook off the other glove, then clamped down on her finger to stop the bleeding. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Like paper cuts that bled a lot...
She grabbed a kitchen towel and put it on top of the cut. It hurt—a lot. After a moment, blood soaked through the towel, and her stomach roiled with the pain. This was no paper cut. Was she going to need stitches?
She had no idea where the hospital was, and her head was swimming too much to be much use. She let go of the cut hand in order to grab her cell phone, and as she did, the blood started flowing again in earnest.
She selected Hank’s phone number, then pinched her phone between her shoulder and cheek so she could put the pressure back onto that cut.
“Avery?” In the background, she could hear some heavy machinery running.
“Hi, Hank.” Her voice didn’t sound as strong as she hoped.
“You okay?” She could hear his concern.
“I cut myself. You gave me your number for emergencies, and while I’m not exactly on death’s door here, I thought I should probably tell you.” She laughed weakly. “There’s probably a form for that, right?”
“How bad is the cut?” he asked.
“Well...” She pulled back the towel and grimaced at the gape of red in her flesh across the tip of her finger. “Pretty bad.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Wait—” Was this really worth calling in the boss? Toughened ranch workers probably did this sort of thing on a regular basis, and Southerlys weren’t wimps. “I mean, how far away are you? This is probably not that big of a deal. I just need to sit down for a minute.”
She could probably live without a fingertip.
“I’m not far,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there soon. I take my paperwork very seriously.”
He hung up on his end, and she let the phone drop to the countertop next to her. She felt better knowing that he was on his way.
* * *
SAYING THAT HE wasn’t far away was a lie, but Hank had heard the pain and panic in her voice the minute she’d spoken. His men knew their work, so he gave a couple of last-minute instructions to the team leader, then headed for his truck.
The day was hot and high cumulus clouds scudded across the pale blue sky. He drove with his window down, stepping on the gas so that billows of dust rose up behind him, blotting out the road in the rearview mirror.
He’d been thinking about Avery all day, going over what his cousin had said about her mother. He hated that she had to learn about her mother that way. She was embarrassed, and while he’d wanted to support her, she’d pulled away, closed off.
That was why he’d told her about Vickie and the baby—he’d wanted her to know that she mattered to her parents. Her sense of value had taken a hit, and the thought that her existence should be less of a celebration because her mother hadn’t known what she wanted as a teenager...that was just insulting, to all of them.
The drive from the far field took about fifteen minutes. It would have taken twenty-five if he’d driven at a reasonable speed. He pulled up beside the canteen and parked, then hopped out. He sincerely hoped that she wasn’t hurt too badly and he wouldn’t be driving her to the hospital, but he was ready to if needed.
He pulled open the front door and wove through the tables toward the kitchen.
“Avery?” He pushed open the swinging door and saw her leaning against the counter, an open first-aid kit in front of her and a bloody rubber glove next to it.
“Hi, Hank.” She lifted a hand covered in a dish towel. “I’ve had an adventure.”
“Yeah, looks like. Let me wash my hands first.” The last thing she needed was an infection. He scrubbed his hands, then dried them and headed back to where she stood. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she looked paler than usual, her lips white.
“Alright. Let’s have a look.” He pulled back the towel and frowned. It was a pretty bad cut. The bleeding had slowed considerably, though, and clotting had started. This would definitely hurt.
“Do you want stitches?” he asked.
“Not really,” she replied. “Do you think I need them?”
“I’ve seen worse. It’s up to you,” he replied. “I can do my best to bandage you up here, or I can take you to the hospital and get a couple of stitches in that to hold it together.”
Avery shook her head, swallowed hard. “No, patch me up here.”
“Come out to a table,” he said, gathering up the first-aid kit in one hand and taking her elbow with the other. “You look ready to faint.”
“I’m not,” she said weakly, but her pallor said something different.
“Alright,” he said. “Still, let’s get you sitting down.”
Hank flicked on some lights and pulled out a chair at the nearest table for her. She sat down and Hank took a seat next to her, pulling out gauze, bandages and some ointment.
“I was talking to Mr. Harmon this morning,” Hank said. He removed the towel once more and smoothed his hand across her forearm. “Relax, okay?”
She relaxed her fingers, but winced. “What did he have to say?”
It looked like she was willing to be distracted while he worked, so he kept talking. “He still thought you might be interested in meeting Chris Mayfield. I go to church every week, and I thought you might want to come along.”
He applied some ointment to the cut flesh and then pushed it together. She grimaced but didn’t pull back. He didn’t want to hurt her, telling himself it would hurt a whole lot less once he was done and the wound wasn’t gaping in the air.
“Does Mr. Harmon go, too?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“Church with the family,” she murmured.
What was Avery picturing right now? He knew what he was thinking about—a chance to spend a day with her. Sundays were generally a day off around here, and the cook’s duties were considerably lighter. He wanted to ignore the service and just have her next to him for an hour. Stupid, maybe, but it was what he wanted. She wasn’t going to be here for long, and he just wanted a little bit of time with her before she left. Stupid? Perhaps, but honest.
“You could also see it as a chance to see Louis and the kids all together,” he added. Was he trying to convince her to go? He cut a piece of gauze and wrapped it around the cut on her finger, then reached for bandage tape.
“I don’t know if I’d get the cleanup done in time after breakfast,” she said.
“Sunday morning is cold cereal and muffins,” Hank said with a shrug. “Everyone fends for themselves for lunch. And after breakfast, I’ll give you a hand with the cleanup.”
She smiled at that, then shot him an amused look. “You want me there?”
“Sure.” He smiled, but kept his attention on bandaging up the finger. “Is that too tight?”
“No, it’s fine.” She paused, watching as he pushed down the last of the tape. “Would it be weird, though?”
“I don’t think so. You’d be with me.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Her agreement made him feel mildly victorious. He held up her hand and examined his work. “Done. What do you think?”
“It feels better. Thanks.” She pulled her hand back, then looked at him. “How often does this happen?”
“More often than you’d think.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I mean, less often in the kitchen, but...”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s harder than it looks in here, you know.”
“I know.” He had to hold himself back from reaching out and touching her. What was it about those fiery curls and the freckles scattered across her face that softened him like this? Any other cook—any other woman—and he’d be able to keep himself in check easily enough. “Look, about yesterday—”
“I should have talked to Hillary alone,” she interrupted. “Sorry to have dragged you into that.”
That wasn’t what he was getting at. He knew she’d been embarrassed, but maybe it was good that he’d seen it, because at least he understood what she was going through. Of all people in Hope, he understood...
“Here’s the thing,” Hank said. “This town has a long memory. Not much happens around here, so people gossip. It’s all they’ve got. And trust me, I know all about that. My divorce is still the subject of conversation.”
Avery pulled her unbandaged hand through her hair, tugging the waves and curls away from her face. “Mom completely reinvented herself in Kansas. Completely.”
“We all do that at some point,” Hank replied. “We change things, decide who we want to be.”
“Have you?” she asked.
“Of course.” He shrugged. “I used to be a noble guy. You don’t know my cousin, Chet Granger, but he was in love with his wife for years and wouldn’t do anything about it because his younger brother had dated her. We were raised to do the right thing—even if it hurt.”
“Chet obviously got the girl,” she observed.
“Yeah, eventually,” Hank agreed. “I stood by my girlfriend. My uncles told me they were proud of me, what a good guy I was, and I liked that. But the thing was, marrying her might have been popular in everyone else’s opinions, but it was no good for me or for Vickie. We were miserable together.”
He could still remember the glowing comments from his family. She’s lucky to have you. Any other guy might have walked away. You’re a good man, Hank. If only more men stood up and took responsibility like you do... And all those comments and back pats had made a difference. If it weren’t for the constant encouragement, he might have backed out and saved himself and Vickie a whole lot of grief.
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