Country Nights

by Winter Renshaw

  My clean skin might be marred with teeth marks and evidence of Seth from hours ago, but with time they’ll fade.

  Returning to my room, I dress in a fresh tank top and thin cotton shorts before crawling under the covers and sliding a book off the nightstand. Under the glow of a small lamp, I scan the words on the page, mostly going through the motions and not giving the sentences a chance to make any sense before moving on to the next.

  “Leighton?” There’s a small knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door swings and River stands before me, his face covered in concern. “Just seeing if you need anything before I go to bed.”

  Closing my book, I place it aside, exhaling.

  “You doing okay?” he asks. “You still seem a little out of it.”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “Feeling a little numb? I think I’m still in shock.”

  He enters the room, standing at the foot of the bed as he studies me. “I imagine that was traumatic for you.”

  I nod, glancing down at limp hands resting in my lap. “To say the least.”

  “You let me know if I can do anything.”

  My eyes flick to his, my words catching on the tip of my tongue for a moment, trapped in hesitation.

  “Will you sit with me for a little while?” I finally manage to ask. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep too well tonight. Just sit and talk with me? Until I fall asleep?”

  He seems to mull it over, his lips pinched and brows furrowed. “I can do that.”

  Moving to the side of the queen bed, I pat the spot next to me and hand him one of the pillows. River takes a seat, his body stiff and uncomfortable, like a dog being forced to sit against his will.

  But I appreciate it nonetheless.

  Sliding under the covers, I roll to my side and prop my head against my hand, staring up at him. He’s so tall and rugged, all muscle, sun-kissed skin, and the darkest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. He’s handsome in a vintage movie star kind of way, but I don’t even think he knows it.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He peers down at me. “For what?”

  “For being so good to me.”

  He shrugs, like he doesn’t want to take credit for any of this.

  “I know you don’t think you’re a good person, River, but you are. You’re a really good man, even if you can’t see it,” I say.

  His jaw flexes, tensing at the sound of my words, and he refuses to look at me. I’ll stop gushing because I don’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he clearly already is.

  “Almost feels like someone was watching over me today,” I say, rolling to my back and staring at the ceiling. “Seth had me pressed against this door, and something inside told me to go for the knob. If it opened to the inside, I knew we’d fall back and he’d land on me, but I also knew it was the only chance I had at getting away. I twisted that knob and sure enough, we fell back, and I got away.” I pull at a thread in the white floral quilt that covers me. “It could’ve been so much worse, River.”

  “You got lucky, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ve lived through some stuff, but I don’t know how I could’ve lived through something like that,” I say, “had he … continued.” I swallow the lump lodged in my throat as my mind replays what might have been for the hundredth time tonight.

  “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.” River glances down at me again, his eyes holding mine.

  “And how would you know?”

  “Because you can’t know strong unless you’ve known weak,” he says. “And I’ve known weak. I’ve known the hell out of weak.”

  “You’re kind to say that.”

  “Not being kind, just being honest.”

  “Either way,” I say, scooting down and placing my head in the middle of my pillow. Exhaustion washes over me, but I’m almost too tired to sleep and my mind is still much too busy to allow sleep to come easily. Yawning, I start to say something, but he shushes me, reaching over me to switch off the lamp.

  “Quiet now,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. Just rest.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  River

  I stayed with her all night, leaving her room early this morning before the sun came up. She needed the sleep, and I decided she’s better off recuperating in a quiet house than feeding bucket calves and lugging pails of grain to hungry mares.

  Pulling up to the Fasthorse place, I park my truck at the side of Guy’s barn and climb out. He called me this morning asking if I could help him tag some cows since his oldest son is away at church camp for the week.

  “Morning.” I replace my hat as I approach a corral full of calves.

  “You ready?” Guy asks, securing the chute. “Shouldn’t take long. Don’t have a ton in this herd.”

  Molly comes out from the barn, work boots up to her knees and a big smile on her face.

  “Hey, stranger,” she teases. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “It’s been nice having help on hand.”

  “I bet.” She places her hands on her hips, studying me with a gleam in her eye. I know what she’s thinking. I know exactly what she’s thinking. “Where is Leighton anyway?”

  “Back at home.”

  “You keeping her busy?” Molly asks.

  “She’s sleeping. Had a long weekend.”

  Molly frowns. “She okay?”

  I nod. I don’t think Leighton would appreciate me sharing her business.

  “She’s fine. Just catching up on her rest,” I say, moving toward the chute.

  Guy climbs over the chipped metal fence and into the corral, hollering orders at a couple of his boys and whistling for their dog.

  Molly stands behind me, readying the piercing gun and stacking tags on an upside down five-gallon bucket. “I really like her, River.”

  “Who?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Leighton. Who else?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” she scoffs. “Just okay? That’s all you have to say about her?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know.” Molly shrugs. “This woman walks into your life, this beautiful, kind, sweet soul of a woman, and you don’t have anything to say about her?”

  Turning away from Molly, I focus on the job at hand. I came here to work, not to stand around waxing poetic about some woman I barely know.

  “I have this feeling, River,” she says, keeping a close watch on her boys. “She’s a gift. She’s a gift for you.”

  Shaking my head, I brush off her woo-woo comments. She’s always talking about her Native American grandmother and her intuition and her “feelings,” and to be honest, I don’t believe in any of that bullshit, but I care about Molly too much to tell her that.

  The first calf comes down the chute.

  “She gives me hope, River,” Molly says, positioning herself at the end of the chute. “Hope for you.”

  “Don’t go getting your hopes up now.”

  “And why not?” She flashes me a challenging smirk.

  “Don’t get attached. Don’t get your hopes up. And don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” I share my personal mantra.

  “River.” Molly sulks.

  “You two done chit-chatting so we can get to work?” Guy yells from the other side of the fence.

  “Yep,” I call back, stepping away from Molly. And away from this conversation.

  Chapter Thirty

  Leighton

  An eerie stillness blankets the house this morning, and River’s nowhere to be found. A quick check out the window tells me his truck is gone. He either ran into town or he’s out checking cattle. Either way, it was nice of him not to wake me this morning.

  It took me the longest time to fall asleep last night, but once I did, I was down for the count. I’m not sure I’ve ever slept so hard in my life.

  Changing into jeans and an old t-shirt, I fix myself a bowl of cold cereal a
nd wait for River to return to give me my list of chores for the day.

  An hour passes, then another, and another.

  By the time lunch rolls around, the farm is still void of his presence.

  Curling up on his sofa, I grab the TV remote and watch some public television show about sustainable agriculture, but the sleepy narrator does little to hold my interest. Rising, I stretch my legs and lift my arms over my head. I need to move around or I could easily find myself sleeping away the rest of the afternoon.

  Making my way around the living room, I stop next to a bookshelf filled with old cookbooks, Bibles, an encyclopedia set, and some vintage classics that look more like family heirlooms than garage sale quality hardbacks. A book with a rose-colored spine grabs my attention. It’s thicker than the rest, its jacket made of some kind of soft fabric, and I slide it out.

  Flipping the cover, I stop when I see a photograph of Allison. Quickly paging through the rest, I see the entire thing is filled with photos, hundreds of captured memories eternalized on Kodak paper sandwiched inside picture sleeves.

  There’s an entire lifetime of precious memories in this book, and I suspect I’m literally holding River’s happiness in my hands.

  Taking it to the sofa, I allow curiosity to get the better of me, and I begin to carefully page through a past that doesn’t belong to me.

  Photos of the two of them in matching college sweatshirts, young and round-faced, smiling and inseparable, fill the first several pages. Their first Christmas is showcased next, followed by Valentine’s day. Allison sits at a card table set up in the middle of a dorm room, a single red rose and one tall candle resting between plates of sliced pizza. After that is a picture of the two of them on the beach, her riding on his back, laughing, the waves lapping at his feet. The photos continue, seasons and holidays all in chronological order, and I stop when I get to their proposal.

  My eyes fill with tears, just like Allison’s in the picture. Her hand covers her mouth. Mine does the same.

  I can feel her joy radiating through every part of me.

  I can feel the love between them.

  I can feel everything, all at once.

  He’s on bended knee. She can’t stop crying. Their loved ones surrounding them in the background—Guy and Molly included. This one picture captures so much joy, so much hope.

  These two are young, madly in love … and blissfully unaware that fate had other plans for them.

  Forcing myself to turn the page, I pore over their wedding shots. Allison was stunning in a simple lacy dress with a crown of purple wildflowers in her wavy, coffee-brown hair and a bouquet to match. River wore a cream-colored suit, his hair longer, his smile unforgettable.

  He’s a handsome man, but that smile takes everything to a whole new level. How lucky she was to know that smile for all those years, and to know that smile was always for her.

  The pages that follow document Allison’s first pregnancy, the growing bump month-by-month, a photograph of her downing a pint of ice cream, a shot of her lying in a hospital bed with a swaddled baby in her arms and love-fueled exhaustion in her eyes. River is beside her, his baby girl’s hand wrapped around his pinky.

  So. Much. Love.

  A tear slides down my cheek, landing on the edge of the page, but I brush it off and keep going.

  “Her name was Allison.” River’s voice startles the album out of my hands and the air from my lungs.

  I hadn’t heard the door.

  “River.” I place my hand over my chest, readying an apology when he comes to my side and takes the seat beside me.

  Folding the album, he places it on a coffee table before resting his elbows on his knees and forming a triangle with his fingertips.

  “Her name was Allison, and she was my wife,” he says.

  Pulling in a long breath, I say, “I know.”

  He turns to me. “You knew?”

  “I found her obituary the other week,” I say, voice low.

  “I don’t like to talk about them,” he says. “About what happened.”

  Reaching for him, I place my hand over his, pulling it toward me. “Then you don’t have to.”

  Our eyes meet.

  He says nothing.

  I say nothing.

  But in this moment, I feel everything.

  And judging by the look in his dusky eyes … he does too.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  River

  I’m halfway done baling hay when I spot one of my old pickup trucks driving in my direction. Parking the tractor, I wait, and the closer it gets, I realize Leighton’s behind the wheel.

  Climbing down, I meet her at the hood of the truck. “What’s going on?”

  She’s smiling, and when she hops out, I see she’s carrying a wrinkled grocery sack. “Thought I’d bring you lunch.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I know.” She tromps over a path of cut hay and takes a seat inside the wheel of my New Holland. Digging around in her plastic bag, she retrieves a couple of sandwiches, handing one to me. “My mom used to do this for my dad growing up. She’d pack him a lunch and take it out to him every day. They’d have what they called ‘tractor picnics.’ It was just something they did. I always thought it was sweet. They didn’t go out much, didn’t get to go on a lot of dates, so this was how they spent time together.”

  Unwrapping the sandwich, I stand before her and take a bite. It’s damn good. And it was damn sweet of her to think of me like that.

  “You can sit here. There’s room.” She pats the inside of the tire well.

  “Feels good to stand.”

  She rolls her eyes, chewing a mouthful of white bread and lunchmeat. “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

  A minute later, she tosses me a can of Coke before telling me she also packed me a bag of chips, an apple, and a homemade chocolate chip cookie—still warm.

  I don’t know why she suddenly feels the need to take care of me … but it’s kind of nice.

  Allison used to pack my lunches in the mornings on my field days. I guess we never thought to make a date out of it.

  “Molly called,” Leighton says. “She and Guy want us to come by for dinner tonight. I told her we would.”

  “All right.”

  “Also, this movie I really want to see is playing at the drive-in this week. It’s a love story, so if you don’t want to go, I can call Karly or go by myself or something.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  Her gaze snaps to mine, like she wasn’t expecting me to offer. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” It’s the least I can do after the week she’s had. “We’ll go tonight, after supper.”

  Leighton stands, flinging her arms around me. “Thank you!”

  She squeezes me tight, but I free myself, not letting her get carried away.

  “I should get back to work,” I say, grabbing the rest of my food and climbing back into the cab of the tractor.

  “Dinner’s at six,” she calls, waving as I drive away.

  Something about this feels like revisiting the past with a stranger. And for once, I don’t particularly mind it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Leighton

  “Judd, stop staring. It’s not polite.” Molly points her dinner fork at one of her boys, who quickly peels his eyes off me and places them on the heaping pile of food on his plate. “Sorry. These guys act like they’ve never been around a pretty woman before.”

  “Of course we have, Mama,” another one of her sons pipes up. “You’re a pretty woman.”

  “Brownnoser,” another boy says.

  “Wyatt, we do not use that language at the table,” Guy’s voice booms.

  Molly and Guy exchange looks. Embarrassment? Frustration? Exhaustion?

  “River, are you going to marry Leighton?” Judd asks.

  River coughs, nearly choking on his shepherd’s pie.

  “Judd.” Molly’s voice is a stern scold that does nothing to stifle the giggles that erupt fr
om that end of the table. “Don’t stick your nose in other people’s business.”

  “You do it all the time,” Wyatt says.

  “Kid doesn’t miss a thing.” Guy chuckles, winking at his wife.

  “Do as I say, not as I do.” Molly rises from the table, fishing something out of their enormous refrigerator before taking a seat. Two of the boys are kicking each other under the table and another is swirling his mashed potatoes and brown gravy into a miniature Mount Vesuvius on his plate. I only count four Fasthorse boys, so the oldest must be gone. Even still, it doesn’t seem to lighten Molly’s load. “Leighton, you need anything?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “The food is divine. We don’t have food like this back in Scottsdale … comfort food. We have a lot of amazing restaurants and world-class chefs, but all of them are trying to one-up each other, and it’s like they’ve forgotten the power of a simple, tried-and-true recipe.”

  “Why thank you, Leighton.” Molly sits up a little straighter.

  “My mom used to cook like this all the time,” I say. “Brings back happy memories.”

  “Make sure you save room for dessert,” Guy says. “Molly makes a strawberry shortcake like no other. Won first prize at the Bonesteel County fair last year.”

  A table leg is bumped and everything shifts, nearly knocking over a goblet of iced tea.

  “Cooper and Dawson, so help me!” Molly slams her silverware, her face morphing into a scowl.

  Guy shoots the boys a look that makes their shoulders shrivel and their smiles fade.

  “They’re only acting up because we have company,” Molly says. “They think they’re showing off, but really they’re fast-tracking themselves to an early bedtime with no dessert.”

  “No!” Cooper whines.

  “It’s fine,” I assure her. “We’re having a good time.” Nudging River, I ask, “Right?”