Sue had tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and nodded. Then her expression became stern as she looked from Elle to me. “Next time anything happens, you call me. Got it? I don’t care if it’s 3 o’clock in the morning, I don’t care if you’re drunk and I don’t care how far I have to drive. You call me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elle and I said in unison, lowering our eyes with shame at the disappointment in her voice.
“Are you going to tell Tessa’s dad?” Elle asked, biting her lip.
Her mother sighed heavily and gave me a small, sad smile. “I’m sure that’d cause more trouble than it’s worth.”
* * *
Half an hour later, I finally headed home. After the intense heart to heart in Elle’s room, Sue had forced me to eat breakfast at the Thompson house. She wouldn’t let me leave until she saw that I’d eaten. I pulled into my long driveway and immediately caught sight of my dad’s red F-450 Super Duty parked near the barn. The horse trailer was hitched up to it, but my dad was nowhere in sight.
I exhaled and slammed the driver’s door before I cautiously walked into the barn. The scent of horses, hay and leather greeted me. To me, it smelled like home, like comfort.
The barn had eight stalls on either side. Twelve were empty and had been for a long time. When my mother was alive, each stall had a horse. She was a champion show jumper, but her passion was rehabilitating and rescuing mistreated thoroughbreds. I was told that she had a way with horses; that she knew how to fix their broken spirits and mend their tattered hearts. She could make them trust humans again.
Sue had told me these stories, and the rest of the stories I knew about my mom. My father very rarely spoke about her; he almost never walked down memory lane. It used to make me angry, my father’s reluctance to share anything about my mother with me. Now, I was old enough to understand just how much he missed her. I was old enough to realize that nothing had filled the void that she’d left when she died, and talking about her was painful for my dad.
When Scared Spirit caught sight of me approaching, he put his face over the stall door and whinnied. I stroked his velvety nose and rested my head against his, my nerves instantly easing in his presence.
Spirit was an eight year old palomino thoroughbred, the son of Artic Wind, who was my mother’s competition horse. They had been champion show jumpers. Spirit was the last foal sired by Artic Wind before he died. Spirit was the last thing and closest connection I had to my mother. He was also an incredibly intuitive horse. When I rode him…I felt as if he was an extension of me, or maybe that I was an extension of him.
Sometimes when I was jumping, I could almost feel my mother watching and smiling down on me. I wondered if she and I would have had the kind of relationship where I could tell her anything, like Elle and Sue.
I couldn’t help the tear that escaped, trailing down my cheek and absorbing into Spirit’s silky coat. Now was one of those times where I could really use my mother. All I had were pictures and the stories that Sue had told me.
“Everything okay, Tessa?” Dad asked, setting a bucket of grain down and effectively startling me. I blinked away the tears, conscious of the makeup on my face.
“Yeah…I was just thinking about Mom,” I responded quietly, knowing that my father wouldn’t push or pry if I was at least partially honest.
He exhaled deeply, nodding and turning his gaze to Spirit. He put his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. “Your mother would have been so proud of you, Tessa,” he told me, his voice heavy with emotion that I could tell he was desperately trying to keep in check.
“Yeah, well…” I said, straightening my shoulders and pasting on what I hoped was a convincing smile. I didn’t want to make my dad sad anymore by forcing him to open up about the woman I never really got a chance to know. “We’ve got to get Spirit to the track,” I said instead.
My dad wasn’t the only one that had difficulty opening up.
* * *
On my drive home from Elle’s house, I worried that I would give a lousy performance during the show. My mind was so occupied by everything that had happened during the past eighteen hours. Seeing Brock, my reaction to him, the party, Chris, and finally my thoughts came full circle and landed on Brock again. Even with Brock nowhere near me, the butterflies fluttered around in my stomach at every thought of him. My skin remembered every subtle brush of his, and my lungs still fought for air just as desperately as they struggled when he was actually standing in front of me. It was ridiculous.
I figured it would be impossible to disconnect from those thoughts and focus on the show, but as soon as I stepped into that ring, everything else fell away so that it was just Spirit and me.
I was dressed in my best riding attire. I wore white breeches and a white collared fitted shirt with a beautiful black coat that my brothers had bought me last year for my birthday. My black field boots were shiny and my long, honey blonde hair was tightly braided to my skull and pinned up beneath a hairnet and my equestrian helmet. The black accents complemented the golden coat of my horse.
The jump course was decorated in flowers and foliage by the Agricultural Society. They’d really outdone themselves this year, investing more money into the event than any of the years before. The stands that lined the ring looked jam-packed full of people; the entire town seemed to be there.
Stuff like that used to make me nervous. Now, it just added to the thrill. I closed my eyes, focusing my energy on the feeling of Spirit beneath me. I leaned forward, stroking his long lean neck as we waited for the previous contestant to finish jumping. It was Melanie Clayton. She was a year older than me, and she was good.
I was better though. Or maybe it was Spirit. Spirit was a better horse; he rarely ever clipped the poles.
“Remarkable jumping from Melanie Clayton and Thunder Crush! Now let’s give a warm welcome to contestant number 13, Tessa Armstrong, riding Scared Spirit!” The announcer’s voice rang throughout the track, and Spirit and I took off.
I lost myself completely to the sensation of flying over those jumps, focusing on the sound of Spirit’s hooves instead of the crowd and the announcer. I seemed to be able to control Spirit with my mind, merely thinking of the direction to change and adding the faintest touch to get him to respond.
Our timing was perfect, and Spirit’s hooves didn’t knock any poles off. The judges gave me a near perfect score, topping Melanie Clayton’s and pushing me to the number one place.
With my breathing labored, I rode Spirit out of the ring. Melanie was scowling, unimpressed with the fact that I’d beat her again. “They might as well just give you the first place ribbon,” she snarled, the distain evident in her voice.
I forced a smile. “Who knows, maybe the next contestant will knock me out of first place,” I responded, hopping down from my saddle.
“Here’s hoping.” Melanie snorted, turning around and stalking off. She passed Elle as she headed towards me, and my best friend gave her a foul look.
“God I hate her,” she said to me, rolling her eyes. She didn’t seem to care that Melanie was still within earshot. She threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly. “You did awesome out there, as always! First place for sure. When do you find out?”
“In fifteen minutes.” I shrugged. “Soon as this guy finishes and they tally up the scores to see who won.”
“You.” Elle grinned. “After you accept your sixth first place ribbon, we’re hanging out! Travis Channing is playing tonight and I’ve got tickets!”
Travis Channing was a twenty-four year old local guy who’d blown up the country music industry after winning a televised talent show. Travis had gone to school with Gordon and Brock, for that matter. I could remember him hanging around on our wraparound porch with them when I was a kid.
“With you?” I arched a brow pointedly. Elle bit her lip, looking very much like she had a secret that she was trying to keep from me. “Elle, don’t bullshit me. You know I can tell when you�
��re lying.”
“Well…” Elle exhaled, her lips spreading into an excited smile. “It may be me and just a few other people, but it’s not like we’re going together or anything!” she hurried to explain.
“Like who?” As soon as the question spilled from my lips, I knew the answer.
“Oh you know, the gang. Braden…and Brock,” Elle answered, her response sounding more like a question.
“First of all, no. My dad’s around here somewhere,” I hissed. “Second, I’m not even dressed to hang out.”
“I brought some clothes; they are in my trunk. We’re practically the same size. They’ll fit,” Elle pleaded, her eyes wide. “Please, please, please, please, please!”
“Please what?” My dad’s voice startled us both, and we glanced towards him as he approached as if we’d been caught with our hands in the cookie jar before dinner.
“I was just begging Tess to come to the Travis Channing concert tonight,” Elle responded easily. “You remember Travis Channing, don’t you, Mr. Armstrong? I already have the tickets and my mom won’t let me go alone.”
“I told you a thousand times, call me Bill,” my dad said, scratching at his beard as he considered the question. “Now, Tess…you’ve got some chores to do at home. You’re going to need to tend to Spirit and feed the rest of the horses…”
I perked up, thankful that my father’s sense of stern responsibility was going to save me from seeing Brock Miller again. I didn’t exactly want to be around him right now, not after last night and certainly not when I didn’t know how to act or feel around him.
“But that shouldn’t take you long, and you’re welcome to meet up with Elle again after supper,” Dad finished.
“Maybe for supper? And I’ll help Tess with the horse stuff?” Elle bartered. My dad looked at her and laughed, shaking his head. She had him wrapped around her finger. My dad was her surrogate father in the same way that her mom was my surrogate mother.
“You’re just like your mama, Elle,” he told her, putting his hand on her shoulder and squeezing briefly. “You could talk a fish into buying water.”
I swallowed my jealousy. Just once, I’d like to hear my dad say that to me with as much comfort and ease. I knew I looked like her; I had her honey blonde hair and her amber eyes. I knew we were similar in a lot of ways; Sue had made sure to tell me that, but my dad’s pain over losing her kept him from actually verbalizing the similarities. Today was the first time he’d ever mentioned she’d be proud of me. I understood it, but it still sucked.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I relented, rolling my eyes.
Brock
When I was eighteen, my grandpa on my dad’s side died and he left each of my siblings and me a fair bit of land just on the outskirts of Parry Sound. He’d owned 180 acres near a small lake. The terms of Grandpa Miller’s will were that the land would be held in trust until we each turned twenty-one. Then, we would be free to do what we wished.
I was still in jail when I turned twenty-one, and then I immediately left for Alberta to work. I was focused on helping my mom pay back the debt my legal fees had accumulated.
A year ago, I started to think about the property again. The lake was probably where the majority of my good childhood memories took place. My dad had hated it – or maybe he hated my grandpa – and refused to go anywhere near it. It was a safe haven from him. We’d spend as much time as we could there, camping and fishing with Grandpa. He had taught us about nature and the balance.
I started to daydream about going home and building something on my slice of land. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come back permanently, but building something wouldn’t hurt regardless. I’d have somewhere to stay, somewhere to escape to when I wanted to visit, but didn’t want to stay in that god forsaken town or house.
With the number of hours I worked, it hadn’t taken me long at all to pay off the debts. I’d even had a nice cushion saved up, even after sending money home every month to help my family.
They were all pressuring me to come home. This wasn’t anything new; Mom was the main supporter of the Come Home Cause, but whenever I talked to Becky and Braden, they said the same thing: You should come home. Only six months ago, those calls took on a more desperate tone.
One night a little over a month ago, after a particularly grueling day at work, I was in my tiny kitchen heating up a frozen dinner when my phone rang. There was no reception in the makeshift camp town, and I had to depend on the landline to stay in touch with my family. I didn’t mind it one bit, but the shrill sound of the phone ringing seemed ominous that night instead of welcoming.
“Hello?” I’d left my dinner abandoned on the counter.
“Brock?” It was Mom. She usually called me twice a week and this was her fifth time. Her voice sounded strange, heavy and weighted with something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?” I’d asked distractedly, heading back to the counter to resume my task at hand.
“Honey, I’m sick,” she had said, her voice breaking over the line.
“What do you mean you’re sick?” I demanded, slowly setting the frozen dinner package back down on the counter. In my heart of hearts, I knew that she wasn’t talking about having a cold or a flu.
“I have pancreatic cancer,” she replied, emotion making her choke on the words. “I’m dying, Brock.”
“No.” I shook my head indignantly, the words chilling me to the bone and cutting into my heart, like a knife twisting into the flesh. I paced the small shack of a house I’d called home for the last two years, tugging at my hair with my free hand. Hunter whimpered at my feet, reacting to the panicked energy rolling off me in waves. “You can get treatment, can’t you? You can beat this. You need to beat this…for Becky, Braden and Aiden. For me too.”
Even though I couldn’t see her, I knew she was shaking her head. I knew she was crying. She took a shuddering breath. “It’s too late, Brock. It’s stage four. The doctors have given me three to six months.”
“What about chemotherapy?” I pleaded, sinking into the plaid sofa as the energy and will left my limbs. I folded over, hoping to alleviate some of the pain.
“The treatments would only make what little time I have left even more unbearable. I’ll get sick, I’ll lose my hair –”
“You’re concerned with getting sick and losing your hair? Jesus Christ, Mom, you’re already sick! You’re dying! Aren’t you concerned with that?” I interrupted. My words were angry and sharp.
I heard her draw in a shaky breath. “I don’t want Aiden to remember me like that…so sick that I turn into a skeleton and all my hair falls out. He won’t recognize me, Brock. It will kill me faster to inflict that kind of pain on him.”
“So you’re just going to give up. You’re not even going to fight.” The accusation that laced my words was right there, and I knew she heard it. I knew she understood its meaning.
“I regret a lot of things in this life, Brock…but opting to live out my remaining days without worrying about hospital appointments, without fading away to nothing before my loved ones’ eyes…that’s not one of them,” Mom said heavily. “No mother wants to leave her children. I’m so goddamn angry about this, but I want to enjoy what little time I have left. I need you to come home.”
So, I took a leave of absence from work and came back.
And I still wasn’t ready to face her, to go to the house I’d grown up in, which was why I was throwing every goddamn thing I had into the cabin I was building on my land. I wasn’t really planning on staying indefinitely; I just needed to do something, anything that wasn’t watching my mom die. Building the cabin I’d been thinking about building for years, seemed like a good thing to do with my time.
Grady McDonnell was over with his portable saw mill, and we were milling all the trees we’d cut down the week before. Braden was helping, partly because I’d told him I wasn’t going to let him throw a party on my land unless he did, but also because Braden needed this distra
ction every bit as much as I needed it.
He was a lot like me. We didn’t like to face our problems or talk about the shit that was bugging us. We liked to throw ourselves into distractions, into work. Because he was so much like me, I didn’t have to worry about him asking what the fuck my deal was.
He didn’t ask because he was avoiding the house, too. He was drinking more and attempting to steel himself for the inevitable. We both were. We knew it was going to happen, and we were powerless to stop it. What else could we do?
Becky was the only one of us that actually faced her problems head on, a change that came forth after she’d nearly lost her son. I knew she was livid with me for not going to the house yet. Mom was getting sicker, deteriorating faster, and I’d been dodging her calls.
I was an asshole.
“I need a break and a beer,” Braden said, his forehead dripping with sweat. “Do you want one, Grady?”
Grady looked at the huge pile of freshly milled lumber. We’d been going at it hard all morning, my rage from not only my mom’s situation but from what had nearly happened to Tessa Armstrong under my watch fueling me.
Another three or four days at this rate and we’d be done ahead of schedule.
“I don’t normally drink on the job,” Grady said apprehensively, looking from the beautifully milled wood pile to the cold Mill Street beer Braden clenched in his hand.
“Go for it,” I told him. “This isn’t a formal job anyway,” I reminded him. Grady and I had struck a deal. I would work for free, and he would give me a wickedly cheap discount. He was also welcome to take all the leftover wood for other projects.
Braden grinned, thrusting a beer into Grady’s outstretched hand. “See? Boss man said it was fine.” Without asking, he threw one at me. I cracked the cap and took a long swig.
I was hot too, and a break sounded good. I’d long since ditched my sweat soaked t-shirt, but the sun was beating down on us all and the heat was relentless. The condensation rolling off the bottle hit my chest and it cooled me a fraction as it slid down my throat.
Rebel Soul: (Rebel Series Book 1) ((Rebel Series)) Page 6