Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  I lay my head on the edge of his bed, finally giving in to the exhaustion.

  No one but Brooke knows I’m here. Busy is by the door. My knife’s in my boot. My phone is off until tomorrow.

  I’m as safe as I’ll ever be.

  I fall asleep to the beep and whir of the oxygen machine.

  The next thing I know, a hand’s on my shoulder, shaking me awake. I’m slumped over the bed, my head pillowed in my arms, my butt half out of the chair. My throat’s so dry I can hardly swallow, there’s a crick in my neck and dried spit on my cheek, and I jerk up, blinking a few times before Brooke’s face comes into focus.

  “You look awful,” she says. “Jesus.”

  I stand up, still groggy, my head pounding, and stumble over to the mirror above the sink. My right eye is purple and my nose is swollen so badly it’s hard to breathe.

  “Here.” She holds out a travel mug and four pills. “It’s aspirin.”

  “What time is it?” I mumble, taking the coffee and pills. I down half of it in one gulp, soothed by the bitter heat. Brooke did a number on me; my face is aching all over.

  “Almost six. How was the night shift?” Brooke pulls up the rolling chair on the other side of Duke’s bed, setting her bag on the floor next to the oxygen machine.

  “Okay, I think,” I say. “Doesn’t seem like he was in much pain at all.”

  I can barely make out the curve of Brooke’s small smile in the early morning light seeping in through the blinds. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” I stretch slowly, muscles stiff. Busy snaps to attention, trotting over to me from her place next to the door. I fasten the leash onto her collar. “I’ve gotta go.” My hand strokes Duke’s shoulder compulsively, and it takes more effort than I’d like to pull away.

  “The doctors want to talk to you this afternoon,” Brooke reminds me. “Three o’clock.”

  “I know. I’ll be back by then.”

  I tug on the leash, and I’m almost at the door when it gets the better of me. “Brooke,” I turn around. “What do you do all day in here with him?”

  “Mostly I play the music you left me,” Brooke says. “I think he likes the Johnny Cash and Townes best. And I remembered you saying once that your momma loved Loretta Lynn, so I downloaded her greatest hits. I thought maybe if he heard it, it’d remind him of her.”

  I hold back a smile—I’m afraid if I move any part of my face, I’ll break completely. I’ll be across the room in a few steps, hugging the life out of her, and I can’t handle that right now. Also, it’d hurt like a bitch.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I say again, hoping she knows all the things I’m not saying, all the thank-yous and the apologies I owe her. She hates him. She always will, with good reason. But she’s doing this for me, and I’m so grateful for it, for her, that it chokes me.

  “Remember, three o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here.” I look over at him. He’s still breathing, still being stubborn, still hanging on.

  You could never say Duke McKenna didn’t go down fighting. Even if he’s just fighting himself now.

  Every time I leave I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see him alive. If he’ll finally give up and I’ll be alone.

  “I have to go,” I say. But my feet won’t move. I keep looking at his chest, rising and falling. It’s a slow up and down, but it’s there.

  He’s still here.

  But I have to go.

  “Harley, do you need to stay?” Brooke asks gently.

  “No,” I say. “No…I can’t. I have a plan.”

  I force myself to walk out the door and down the hall, nearly plowing down the early-morning nurse. Busy barks, and I don’t even stop to say sorry.

  Twenty-Three

  I’m fifteen when I find the box of Momma’s old dresses in the attic. I’m looking for Christmas decorations, and I discover it stuffed in a far corner, dusty and forgotten. I recognize her handwriting on the side, so I bring it down to my room.

  When I tear off the tape and push up the cardboard flaps, I’m flooded with the smell of lilies. Unexpected, not forgotten, but missed, and it makes my fingers curl, my nails press into my palms.

  I lift out the dresses, one by one: the mustard-yellow fringed one she used to wear with cowboy boots, the white cotton sundress with black buttons running down the front, the purple stretchy one with long sleeves that fell to her ankles, but probably would only reach my knees.

  I’m much taller than her now. It’s a startling thought, something that’s never crossed my mind. I’m always looking up at her in my memories.

  I touch the edges of the yellow dress, letting the fringe slip through my fingers.

  I haven’t worn a dress since Momma’s funeral. Back then, Miss Lissa tried her hardest to get me out of my jeans and boots, but Daddy didn’t give her much help.

  Sometimes I wonder if Daddy would’ve liked it better if I’d been born a boy. If he’d treat me any different. Or if he’d be rougher, like sometimes I catch him being with Will.

  Daddy handles me differently because I’m a girl. He’d never admit it, but as proud as he is, he underestimates me. Mo says he can’t help it. That it’s the way fathers are.

  Sometimes I think it’s just the way men are.

  It used to annoy me. But then I realized it was a weakness.

  And I’ve been taught to exploit weaknesses.

  I tug off my shirt and jeans, slip the yellow dress over my head. The fabric settles against my legs, cool against my skin, the fringe dancing above my knees. I walk over to the mirror, staring at myself.

  There’s a long scrape running up my leg from where I bark-burned it climbing, bruises dot my shins, as usual…and for some reason that comforts me.

  The girl looking back at me reminds me of Momma, but my marks make me me.

  There’s a light knock on my door. “Harley? You ready to—” Will opens the door before I can stop him. I whirl around, seconds away from diving behind the bed.

  My hands fly up defensively to my chest instead, covering myself like I’m naked.

  Will’s face splits into a smile, and my stomach twists when I realize it’s not mocking. It’s all sharp fondness that is anything but brotherly, because he’s never been my brother, and we both know that. It’s more and more obvious as we get older. I worry that Daddy will notice the way we’re becoming, what we’re becoming, and that scares me…or maybe he has already, and is making plans…that might be even scarier.

  Which is why most of the time, I pretend it’s not what it is. I pretend I don’t want to chase Will down, kiss him, do everything with him.

  Daddy loves Will, but he loves me a lot more. And he’s sliced fingers off men who looked at me the wrong way.

  So if Daddy’s making plans, I’m making them, too. I resist, and I plan, and I try not to think about what happens when I finally give in.

  Love always makes you give in.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” I hiss.

  Will shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck, still smiling. “How am I looking at you?”

  “Like you’ve never seen a girl in a dress before.”

  “I’ve never seen you in a dress before,” he points out.

  I roll my eyes. “I need to change.”

  Will frowns. “Why? You look fine.”

  I’m too focused on him to notice the footsteps in the hall, and I hear Daddy’s voice before I see him: “You two are gonna be late.”

  “We were just going,” Will calls out. “Come on, Harley.”

  “What are you wearing?” Daddy looms over Will’s shoulder, and then he’s pushing him out of the way and striding into my bedroom.

  “She looks pretty, doesn’t she?” Will asks, and I wonder if the last time he fell out of a tree he hit his head too hard, because Daddy’s face is anything but pleased.

  I back away from him.

  “Will, go wait in the truck,” Daddy says.

  Will doesn’t move.

  Dadd
y shoots him a look over his shoulder that would make most men run, but Will meets his gaze steadily for a moment before very deliberately looking at me.

  I nod, barely, and Daddy’s nostrils flare as Will nods back and only then leaves the room. Even though I can hear his footsteps, I know he won’t go downstairs. He’ll position himself somewhere in the hall, where Daddy can’t see him, but close enough to hear me call out.

  Will’s loyalty has always been to me, not him.

  “Where did you get these?” Daddy demands.

  “They were in a box in the attic.” I hate how small my voice sounds, how small I feel. The fabric that had moved free and loose against my skin feels hot and scratchy now.

  Daddy grabs the two other dresses on my bed, his fingers bunching up the material like he wants to rip it apart.

  “Don’t!” I reach for them, and he jerks backward. “Give me those!”

  “You don’t need things like this,” Daddy says. “Take that one off. Give it to me.”

  “They’re Momma’s. They should be mine.”

  Daddy’s bushy eyebrows draw together in a pained line. “Harley Jean…” he sighs.

  I wilt beneath his broken gentleness. His voice is like it was the first nights after she died, when he wouldn’t meet my eyes in daylight but would come into my room, reeking of whiskey, when he thought I was asleep and stroke my hair. Then he’d whisper drunken apologies, to me, to Momma, that he didn’t think I could hear.

  I’m almost as old as she was when he met her. In her clothes, with my hair long and loose instead of braided like usual, the resemblance must be disturbing. Enough people tell me I look like her.

  He misses her. I can see it in his face. In the way he can’t quite look at me.

  I think I understand. Or I’m on the edge of understanding, with Will.

  McKennas love hard and fast and only once.

  “I’ll take it off,” I say, because I know what happens when he gets sad about Momma. He starts drinking and starts muttering about Springfield and then someone ends up dead, and it’s never the right person. “I won’t wear them. But, please, let me keep them.”

  Daddy looks down at the dresses in his hands and drops them hastily on the bed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Harley-girl,” he starts. “I’m sor—”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt. I grab the dresses off the bed before he changes his mind, along with my discarded jeans and T-shirt, and hurry into the bathroom.

  I stay in there a long time, pressing the dresses against my face, breathing in the lilies, staring in the mirror, looking for traces of her.

  When I finally get the nerve to go back to my room, changed into my jeans, Daddy’s long gone.

  Twenty-Four

  June 7, 7:15 a.m.

  I pull over at a gas station halfway home to fill up my tank, feed Busy, and grab another cup of coffee. I’ve long since finished off the one Brooke brought.

  I linger at the coffee area inside the empty mini-mart, my cup filling slowly. The lights flicker, and the Christian music station wails praises in His name, heavy-metal style.

  The painkillers Brooke gave me are working a little. Even though I look it, I don’t feel too busted up. I keep running my tongue over my teeth. I need to brush them. I need a shower. I need to stash the drugs somewhere safe. I need to sleep for about a month.

  I need Duke not to be dying.

  Hot liquid bubbles over my fingers, and I hiss, snatching them away from the cup. I dump out some of the coffee, snap the lid on it, and take a long sip.

  Sleep isn’t on the agenda today. Caffeine is.

  I pay for my gas, coffee, and the cinnamon roll I grab at the last minute. The sun’s rising high as I navigate the curves that hug the mountains. Sometimes I think I could drive this road in my sleep.

  Right now, I’m close to it. I take another gulp of coffee as I weave the truck back and forth along the twisty road.

  Red and blue lights flash behind me. I swear, spilling coffee on my jeans, and squint as the car behind me flashes its brights and sounds the siren.

  Fuck.

  It’s never a good idea to get pulled over. Especially when you have a shitload of meth stashed in your truck’s toolbox.

  It’s not Highway Patrol—that’d make my life easy. I slow to a crawl and drive a quarter of a mile with my turn signal on until I come across a shoulder wide enough to pull over. My heart beating faster, I get my license and registration out of the glove compartment and roll the window down, then put my hands back firmly on the wheel, in plain sight. The early morning air floods into the truck, carrying with it the damp piney smell that rises in waves off the trees this time of year.

  I look in my mirror, groaning when I see the deputy getting out of the car. “You be chill,” I tell Busy, who’s growling low in her throat at the flashing lights. I feel like growling, too. Snapping my teeth, punching the accelerator, melting into the forest.

  I stay still. Calm.

  I’m wearing sunglasses, which covers most of the black eye, but my nose is unmistakably swollen. I push my hair into my face, trying to mask it.

  Deputy Daniels strolls up to the driver’s side and leans against my window. Her blond ponytail is deceptively bouncy—the woman’s tougher than a pack of wild pigs. Her khaki uniform is wrinkled—she’s coming off shift, probably. They always give her the shit ones—graveyards no one else wants.

  Frankie Daniels has been on my ass since I was sixteen. Always pulling me over, messing with me, trying to get me to talk. It’s never worked. But she keeps trying.

  She’d known my momma—back in Momma’s good-girl days, before she went wild. Frankie’s the sentimental type. She’s still attached to this idea of the girl she knew instead of the woman Momma grew into. Maybe she mourns both of them, or just the possibility of Momma’s life before Duke came around.

  “Harley,” she says. “What a surprise, finding you here.”

  “Huge surprise, considering I live off this road. Wanna tell me why you pulled me over, deputy?”

  She frowns. “What’s wrong with your face?”

  I sigh, taking off the sunglasses slowly and pushing my hair off my cheeks.

  Frankie’s eyes go steely and all business. “Who did that?”

  “Kickboxing class,” I say. “You know how I like to keep fit. Why did you pull me over?”

  I’ve thrown her, and she doesn’t like it.

  “There was a fire yesterday afternoon,” she says. “Out in Viola. Looks like a lab blew. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Great to know you and the sheriff’s boys are so on top of the meth problem you’re pulling over random people for questioning,” I say.

  “You and I both know who’s on top of the meth problem,” Deputy Daniels says through her teeth.

  I don’t say anything. Duke has most of the sheriff’s department and five different town councils in his pocket, but you can’t buy a woman like Frankie Daniels. Which is why she’s still doing the scut work, even though she’s the smartest person in that group of easily bought morons down at the station.

  “Someone called it in to Fire Watch. A young woman, the operator said.”

  I stare straight ahead, my hands still placed unthreateningly on the wheel. I smile blandly. “That’s nice.”

  Daniels drums her fingers on the roof of my S10, tap tap tap. “You wanna tell me where I can find your father?”

  “He’s away.”

  “Right,” Daniels says, her sharp blue eyes flashing at me. “And the fact that you’re beat up all to hell has nothing to do with that fire.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t see how my accident in kickboxing class and some fire have anything to do with each other.”

  Frankie’s fingers grip the edge of my window, flexing in frustration. “I made a promise, Harley,” she begins.

  I’ve heard this all before. How she wants to help. How she wants to whisk me away from the life I lead.

  She
’s been trying to work me since I was a teenager. It’s never stuck, and it never will. It’s not just that her meddling would get her killed; it’s that I don’t need saving. I am who I am. I’m what Duke made me. There’s no running from it. There’s only facing it.

  “My momma’s been dead for a long time,” I tell her. “I don’t think she’s gonna be rolling over in her grave ’cause of any old promise you might break.”

  “She wanted me to look out for you,” Frankie says, going for the gut. She ought to know by now it won’t work.

  “She wanted a lot of things,” I say. “I don’t think she wanted to get blown up, but she was. If I can get the hell over that, you should, too.”

  I’m so worn out, she’s rattled me; I barely manage to keep my voice from shaking. But I force myself to meet her gaze, staring her down, because I have to. It’s the only thing I know how to do.

  Frankie looks away first, shaking her head like she still can’t believe I’m such a hard-ass.

  I don’t know why she’s always so damn hopeful.

  “Drive slower, Harley,” she says quietly. “And you know you can call me anytime.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Daniels sighs and turns back to her patrol car, muttering under her breath. She’ll probably end up out at my momma’s headstone tomorrow, genuflecting and apologizing to an empty grave.

  My fingers clench the steering wheel tight as Daniels turns her patrol car around and drives back toward town. I turn the key in the ignition and pull back onto the highway. There’s a wet patch on my jeans where I spilled my coffee that’s gone cold and uncomfortable, and I shift in my seat, starting the engine.

  I speed, mostly to disobey Daniels. But when I get near home, I don’t drive all the way to the front gate. Cooper might be waiting for me outside—or worse, Buck. I’m not ready yet. I have to get the drugs out of my truck.

  Instead, I take the third dirt road before our main one. A road that’s hidden high up on the mountain. After a half mile and a few hard turns, it fades into a rough-cut path through the pines and oaks—not really even a road, steep and tricky with winter rockslides and fallen branches, but I shift the Chevy into four-wheel, and I manage.