by Kati Wilde
Muncher and Six-Point freeze, abruptly releasing me. Hand still tangled in Adam’s hair, fist poised to snap another blow at his face, I look up. Mama’s staring at me, anger and disbelief crackling in her blue eyes.
Reluctantly I let him go, then glance over my shoulder to where Anna’s sitting at the table, hands clamped over her mouth as if to stop a scream, her eyes wide with horror—and with Strawman’s fingers wrapped around her upper arm, as if he’s holding her in place. Or holding her back.
I only have to look at him and he removes his hand.
“Zachary?” Mama’s voice drags my gaze back to her. She’s shaking her head. “Adam? What in the world is this about?”
Adam sits up, wipes blood from his mouth and grins. “We were just saying hello to our little brother.”
That’s what a boy says when under fire from his mother. And we’re not boys anymore.
“No,” I say coldly. “You were disrespecting me and disrespecting this woman. It doesn’t mean a fucking thing if you call me brother if I can’t trust you to have my back and to help care for what’s mine to protect. And Anna Wall is under my protection. If you can’t respect that, if you can’t respect my obligations, then I’ll be heading right out the door with her. And I won’t be coming back again.”
Mama comes closer and I see she’s carrying a leather vest folded over her forearm—my new kutte. So she was that sure of me.
Her gaze slides past me, lingers on Anna. “This is the sister to the Marine who fought beside you for so long? The sister to the man who saved your life?”
“Several times over.”
“Then your obligation to him is ours, too. No one touches her.” She stops to lift her hand to Adam’s face, frowning at the cuts on his brow bone, his mouth. “There are plenty of other girls for you, my son.”
He winces as she prods at his jaw. “I didn’t know we were making exceptions.”
Frowning, Mama looks to Strawman. “You didn’t explain this to your brothers?”
“I did,” he says flatly. “I told everyone she was off limits. I don’t think Adam listened.”
Disappointment thins her mouth. “Your father never had any trouble making sure everyone heeded his voice. Adam has no such trouble, either.”
Strawman’s jaw whitens but he nods.
“Well. I’m sure you boys have club business to discuss.” She gives the kutte to Muncher and turns to me. “Come up to the house later, Zachary, and I’ll greet you properly. For now, your Anna can come with me. We’ll find something on the farm to keep her occupied.”
I’d rather not let Anna out of my sight, but Mama has said that no one is to touch her, and her word carries more weight than Adam’s and Strawman’s together. She’ll be safe.
And better she’s on that part of the farm than in the clubhouse when I’m patched in and the celebrations begin.
I glance over at Anna. “You all right with that?”
“Yes,” she says, her response quiet but strong. Quickly she collects her jacket and joins my mother, who watches her with a warm smile.
“Come along, then,” she says and looks to me. “It is good to see you where you belong again.”
I nod, and watch her leave with Anna, at whose side I truly belong. Strawman comes up beside me, quiet until they’re gone.
“Adam’s going to be picking pieces of that chair out of his head for a week.” His voice is low and amused. “You still going to say that girl’s not yours?”
No. I’m not going to say a thing about her. Not now. Not when I’m about to cover myself in more filth.
“We’ve got the fucking kutte,” I tell him. “So let’s get this shit done.”
23
Anna
That inevitable end is coming again. I can feel it. But that end doesn’t look like cancer this time. Instead it looks like Gunner’s brothers. It looks like his mother.
But it’s not my end. It’s Gunner’s.
I can barely breathe as I leave the clubhouse with his mother, heading past the motorcycles toward a flatbed Ford truck. A few words of small talk pass between us—Please, Anna, call me Marian. and Have you been to this part of the country before? and Are you returning home for Thanksgiving Day or are your plans not yet known?—then she has to take a call on her cell and I’m left alone to my thoughts, where I desperately try sorting out everything I just saw.
But there’s nothing to sort out. What happened was clear.
Gunner traded his life for my brother’s. He traded his future for my brother’s.
And I don’t know what Gunner wanted his future to be. But I know it wasn’t this. Not after everything he said about his family. I don’t know exactly what made him leave here in the first place—something about his brother David and the girl Adam killed—but he said that his reasons had boiled down to one: he figured out this wasn’t what life should be.
But now it’s what his life will be.
God. I can’t let it happen. I can’t.
I should call Saxon now. Tell him to order Gunner to pull out. Tell them we’ll find another way to get to Stone. There has to be another way. Because my brother wouldn’t want this for his friend, either.
I know what the response would be, though: a flat “no.” That is, if he even bothered with a response. More likely it would be “It’s club business.”
Or maybe Saxon would tell me I should respect the choice Gunner made. He basically jumped on a grenade for his friend.
Or maybe I need to trust that Gunner has a way out. Or that he’ll find a way out. There has to be another way.
So I won’t do anything but go along with what we planned. At least for now.
And that means watching every word I say, every move I make. His mother seems friendly and warm, but that’s not the woman Gunner described to me. He described someone with a will of steel and a purpose that she shapes with iron fists.
Iron fists in gardening gloves. They’re lying on the seat between us, covered in dirt. Mud is caked halfway up the feet of her tall green rubber boots. A flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves looks soft and warm, perfect for a mild fall day. Graying blond hair is swept back into a chignon and secured with a big claw clip. She’s beautiful, which isn’t a surprise, yet doesn’t look anything like her sons. Her finely drawn features and petite frame seem almost absurdly delicate compared to her sons’ aggressive masculinity.
“My apologies for that,” she says, ending the call. “Unfortunately life on a farm means that not everything runs according to a schedule. In this instance, that means a draft horse that’s taken sick.”
“I hope nothing serious.”
“Colic, most likely. But of course it requires additional care—and cancelling the wagon rides this afternoon. But such is life.” She smiles at me. “If everything always went according to plan there would be few pleasant surprises. So we do our best to weather the unpleasant ones.”
An unpleasant surprise like me? But I won’t assume she means the worst. Not yet.
“You have an amazing setup here,” I tell her. “I’ll admit that I pictured something smaller. More traditional. But what Zach described is incredibly forward-thinking.”
“Yes, well. The Coopers have always looked to the future. And everyone on the farm works hard, contributing as much as they can.” She slows as the farm store comes into sight ahead. “I understand that you’re a bartender?”
And I still won’t assume she means the worst by that, just because it came right after her comment that everyone on the farm contributes something—as if bartending doesn’t contribute anything. It could be a natural question to ask after mentioning the work people do.
“I am,” I tell her. “It suits me.”
“Hmm, yes. That is fortunate. We should all be so lucky to know so young what our place and our purpose is.”
My purpose isn’t bartending. It’s a job that just happens to suit me. But I don’t think I’m imagining things now. She’s very elegantly and subtly cutt
ing me down.
She can try. And when I get back home, my mom and I will have a nice long laugh over the thought of a few softballed insults finding a mark. I have to care for someone before I care about their opinion of me—and Marian Cooper just doesn’t qualify for the ‘caring’ part.
Downshifting as we approach the barn, Marian suddenly huffs out a breath, shaking her head. On the asphalt drive behind the farm store, a heavily pregnant blonde pushes a wheelbarrow piled high with golden hay toward a small paddock.
“Johanna! You put that down!” Marian calls through the open driver’s side window even before the truck is stopped. She throws me an exasperated look as she opens the door. “I swear, these boys,” she says before climbing out. “Come along.”
These boys are apparently Gunner’s nephews, who were supposed to be taking the hay out to the goats in the paddock. Instead their mother is doing it.
Johanna offers a few protests when Marian takes the wheelbarrow from her, then seems to accept the futility of arguing and looks to me with a welcoming grin. She wipes her hands on her bulging apron front before extending her palm.
“Johanna,” she introduces herself.
“This is Anna,” Marian says before I can. “Anna, Johanna is Jacob’s wife.”
Strawman’s wife. I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that this friendly woman with her sharp, curious eyes was married to that scary bastard.
I take her hand. “Hello.”
She has a warm grip and an easy smile, which turns into a laughing shake of her head as Marian begins pushing the hay toward the paddock. Johanna and I walk along beside her.
“Anna will be visiting for a little while,” Marian adds. She comes to a stop at the fence and turns to face her daughter-in-law, hands on her hips, her voice stern. “And you are taking too much on yourself. If the boys run off, ask the other wives for help. That is what family is for—to share and ease one another’s burdens.”
Johanna spreads her hands. “But they are swamped, as well. Everyone is so busy.”
“We are always busy. A little more work should be taken in stride. But you, my dear—at this stage, you should keep busy with less physical labors.” Marian looks to me. “Johanna is our resident agricultural expert and currently writing an article about increasing soil fertility through the introduction of almond trees into our olive groves.”
Ah. Not just a hay pusher or a drink slinger, but someone who contributes much more. “I see.”
Marian’s gaze turns dour. “That is, she should be writing it. Not feeding goats.”
“Yes, Mother.” Johanna’s pretty lips press together as if she’s repressing a laugh. Smoothing her hands over her huge belly, she says to me, “You might say fertility is my speciality. Oh! and there are my errant sons. Mother, leave the hay in the wheelbarrow—I’ll run the boys down.”
“You will run nowhere,” Marian tells her. “Anna and I will send them over. We are heading in that direction anyway—I’m needed at the horse barn, so will be leaving Anna in Grace’s capable hands.”
“Oh, that will be fun for you, Anna,” Johanna tells me. “Grace is lovely.”
I’m sure she is. But I also suspect Johanna is the sort who would think everyone is lovely—even her mother-in-law.
Quickly we catch up with two dark-haired boys of about eight and ten years of age, where Marian extracts a promise from them to help out their mother more often. As they scamper off, we strike out toward the front of the barn.
Marian slides me a sideways look. “I hope you did not take Johanna’s remarks about fertility in the wrong way. She meant no offense.”
What offense would there be? “I didn’t.”
“Ah, good. It struck me that her comments might have unintentionally pained you. I know some women are very sensitive if they cannot have children of their own.” She catches my quick frown. “I’m sorry, my dear. Zachary happened to mention your inability when he spoke with Jacob this past week.”
A dull pang strikes through my chest. “He said that?”
What context could such a thing possibly be mentioned in?
“Hmm, yes.” She stops at the corner of the barn, her piercing gaze steady on my face. “I won’t dissemble, dear. Before you came here, I had some concerns about the nature of your relationship with my son. But Zachary assured us that, since your cancer left you barren and your birth mother was likely a drug addict, he would not consider you a suitable life partner.”
“Oh.”
It’s all I can manage. Because I don’t care about her opinion of me. But Gunner’s? God, I care so much.
And I know she’s trying to tear me down. I know it. But this information couldn’t have originally come from anyone but him—and having my guts ripped out would have been less painful than knowing he’d told his family that.
Her expression becomes a picture of remorse. “And now I’ve upset you by mentioning things you’d rather not be known. I’m sorry, my dear. You can, of course, rise above such unfortunate circumstances. I understand you were very fortunate in your adoptive parents.”
Those parents are the only reason I’m not biting her face off now. Only the thought of the agony on my mother and father’s faces if Stone doesn’t come home is keeping me from walking straight off this farm—and tossing a match behind me.
Faintly, I agree, “Yes, I was very fortunate.”
She smiles. “And you do seem a resilient sort of girl. I imagine you’ll make the best of your shortcomings. Even your infertility must seem like a blessing in disguise, since you don’t know who your birth parents are. Goodness knows what you might pass on to any children you had.”
Indeed. “They could be monstrous.”
Her smile tightens. Obviously not appreciating my light response when having unknown birth parents is so tragic—or perhaps unhappy that I’m rallying instead of bawling on the ground.
But the thought of showing this woman how much this hurts me? I’d rather crawl back to the paddock and start eating goat shit.
She starts off again and I keep pace beside her, waiting for her next lob. What’ll it be? My hair’s too brown, my skin too naturally tan? Maybe she’ll gently inquire whether I’m Latino, or maybe Italian, or perhaps mixed race?—Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. Of course you wouldn’t know.
Checking her watch, she says, “I’m sorry that I must abandon you so soon”—but hey, you’re used to being abandoned by women like your birth mother, right?—“but Erin is expecting me at the barn. She is Adam’s wife—and our resident veterinarian.”
I smile. “Very convenient.”
“We are very lucky to have her, it’s true”—because she’s so useful, unlike a lowly bartender—“and while I’m gone, Grace will take very good care of you. There she is. Grace, dear!”
Beside one of the produce stalls, a willowy blonde is chatting with a lemon vendor. Like Gunner’s mother, she’s wearing tall rubber boots and jeans, but with a puffy red vest over a long sleeved shirt to keep her warm instead of a flannel. At Marian’s call, she glances over before starting in our direction.
“Grace is a third-year medical student,” Marian says, watching the other woman with a fond smile. “She rarely has any free time available, so we’re fortunate she could be with us today. Grace, my love! Come and meet Anna.”
“Hello.” The other woman’s greeting is friendly, if slightly more wary than Johanna’s. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Yes, everything here is lovely. “You, too.”
Marian lays her hand on Grace’s arm. “Zachary is here, dear.”
Grace nods and glances at me. “So I gather.”
“Grace is Zachary’s intended bride,” Marian says to me. “And since you are familiar with him, I thought that would give you plenty to talk about while you are together today. Grace, dear—do you mind showing Anna around the farm?”
Grace’s steady blue eyes haven’t left my face. “I’d like that.”
“Of course.” With
a glance at me, Marian says, “I’ll see you both up at the house later.”
“We’ll be there,” Grace answers and she watches Marian go before turning to me. Her voice lowers in concern. “Are you all right, Anna?”
No.
And I’m trying to rally again. Desperately trying to. It was all I could do to stand upright with a pleasant look on my face after intended bride passed Marian’s lips. Everything inside me is bawling on the ground, curled up and bleeding.
Because this is also what it means for Gunner to trade his life. This is what it means for him to fall in line.
Did he know? This morning, when he kissed me. When he had me on the floor, his head between my legs and devouring me whole—did he know?
He must have. All the other brothers have brides. He must have known one was waiting for him.
And suddenly the mistake and the shouldn’t have take on a new meaning. Maybe Gunner said he shouldn’t have touched me not just because we have to draw a line between us so his family will help him get to Stone—but because Gunner knew he had a gorgeous medical student waiting for him. Someone who isn’t barren and adopted and cancer-ridden.
Just when I started to believe that he hadn’t drawn the line between us ten years ago because there was something wrong with me. But he’s always known about the cancer. I told him about it the first day.
No wonder he pushed me away. Not because his family might have come after me—that first day, I never asked for more than a hookup. Nothing different than he’d had before with other girls. And he hadn’t settled in Pine Valley yet. He didn’t until four years later.
This explains so much. I’ve never been good enough for him.
No. I draw a shuddering breath, force my soul up off the ground.
If Gunner thinks that, he’s not good enough for me.
Awkwardly, Grace shifts her weight between her feet and tucks her fingers into her pockets. “So what’s Zachary like?”
“He’s an asshole.” And I’m the stupid idiot who fell in love with him. “Just a giant, soul-sucking asshole.”