by Peter Styles
The sink of my stomach was instantaneous. Deep, like a well you couldn’t see the bottom of, and just as hollow. I felt nervous, like I was standing on the edge of it and trying to keep my balance.
“What do you mean he left?”
“Just what I said. Seemed like he was taking off when I talked to him in the barn.” James sat himself in one of the kitchen chairs, and I must have looked shocked enough that he sighed and gave a half-shrug. “Didn’t say where he was taking off to.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “Yeah, that’s….”
Fine? It wasn’t fine.
Had he left for good? Without saying so much as a word to me? Maybe he really did hate me—
“Quinn,” James said, catching my attention again, drawing it away from the sour feeling in my chest. “I know you don’t wanna hear it, but if you start building on this land… if you give up on it,” and it was like a second punch, salt in the wound, “everyone else is gonna take off as well.”
I knew it was the truth. Deep down.
James set his lunch down. “You know I don’t wanna see that happen.”
“I know.” Saying it made me feel like a kid again somehow.
“But this place—it’s more than just a business to the rest of the ranchers. It’s a second home, and it has been for a lot of years, for a lot of people.”
I knew that, too. I felt like I was cracking as I drew out a chair and sat in it, body heavy. Elbows bent on the table, I let my face bury in my hands, feeling all the pent-up emotion buzzing around in my chest.
“I hate hearing that,” I breathed. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
I heard the creak of a chair before James was patting my shoulder. “I know that, Quinn.”
My face lifted from my hands and I sighed. “But I have to think about mama. My family, James.”
“I know that, too.” James’s hand was like an anchor.
And then it was gone. He plucked up the last bit of his lunch and stood, pushing his chair in. “Just be real careful making decisions.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I nodded, because it was advice he didn’t have to give, but it didn’t help much. As James left, with plenty of work to do now that Oliver had apparently flown the coop, I grabbed at the phone as soon as I had enough willpower to pull myself out of that chair. Dialing quickly, I leaned my weight into the wall, that depression turning heavy and making me sluggish.
“Hola.”
“Nico,” I said, and my voice must have been indicator enough.
He whistled. “Dios, Quinn, que pasa?”
“Nothing—nothing besides the usual,” I murmured, finger curling in the cord. “I was just wondering if you, um… if you’ve heard from Oliver?”
“My tío? Si, he’s downtown, meeting with Tristan.”
My eyebrows pinched together. “Tristan?”
“Si, I went and picked him up a few hours ago. You didn’t know?”
“No?”
Nico clicked his tongue. “Don’t worry. He hasn’t gone totally AWOL.”
“Wait, you said meeting—what’s the meeting for?”
“He didn’t say too much about it,” Nico said, and that was typical Oliver, the strong and silent type, I supposed, “but if it’s a meeting with Tristan, I think he’s planning on suing the state before he runs out of time.”
So, that was it then. Oliver had taken off.
I stood for a moment, really feeling the empty space where he’d been just recently—in the house, on the ranch. In my chest.
“I, ah… where is Tristan’s office?” I asked.
Nico rattled off the address. “But tío came by to change clothes, said they were meeting somewhere. Sailing Street, I think; Landon dropped him off.”
“Okay,” I muttered. “Okay, great. Thanks Nico.”
“Sure, de nad—” I hung up before he finished, and grabbed the keys to the truck to head out.
Maybe I couldn’t help losing the ranch, maybe in the long run there was nothing I could really do to keep from losing Mama. Lately, it seems like the losses were stacked up and ready to fall over and crush me.
I’d driven Oliver off. As I started the truck and spit gravel heading into town, all I could think was that this, at least, was one loss I didn’t have to endure. Not when that emptiness where he should have been hurt like it did.
19
Oliver
“So I just sign it here?”
I glanced up at Tristan, who sat watching me read the papers he’d drawn up in record time, and he nodded. Blowing air out through my nose, I readjusted the pen in my hand, reread a couple lines, let the ink hover over the signature line….
This was a big deal. Signing the papers that would bring me back to court. More scrutiny. More stories in the paper. There were plenty of people who’d think I was the murderer who got away with it and sued the state. That was a lot of trouble to go through, for me and for Nico, who couldn’t help being related. Not that Nico minded, so he said. And hell, he had Landon watching out for him.
Still, my hand shook.
“It’ll be a good thing,” Tristan said, as if sensing my hesitation.
I looked back at him, and he was kind enough to shoot me a reassuring look. The bistro wasn’t too crowded this time of day, but I had a feeling I was radiating nervous energy; maybe the whole damn restaurant could sense it.
“Yeah,” I said, more to myself than to answering him. “You’re right.”
Just do it.
I nodded to myself and touched the pen to the paper; signed my name.
Oliver Suarez.
There it was, in black and white and swooping cursive.
Sliding the papers back to Tristan, I took a necessary sip of the drinks we’d ordered. At first it was mostly so they didn’t boot us for not ordering anything, but now I was glad for the little bit of alcohol. Tristan read the papers over a second time before fixing me with a look full of optimism.
“How long does it take?” I asked.
“These things can take some time,” he breathed, sliding the papers into a neat little folder. “The state always fights these things, but….” There was confidence in his shoulders and his smile. He looked at me like we had a real shot. “With this conviction and the ruling on your sentence, I’m sure we can win.”
He set a reassuring, friendly hand over mine. “We just have to be patient, Oliver. Stick with it.”
He was right. That’s all I had to keep telling myself. It would be worth it.
After all, it wouldn’t be just me who would benefit from winning a suit worth that much. Keeping that in the forefront of my mind, thinking about the long-term, made it easier to weather the nerves.
“Thanks, Tristan,” I said, stirring my drink as I gave a small grateful smile. “This means a lot that you’re helping me out.”
Tristan seemed proud of that somehow. I didn’t ask much of it, but went along happily as he raised his glass in a little toast, and I met it with a clink.
“To a bright fucking future,” he proposed. “And a nice, short case.”
Stepping out of Sailing Street, the wind had picked up, a little bit of rain sprinkling down from the clouds. It wasn’t the oppressive kind of rain that beat down on you. It was cool; refreshing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt something like it.
“You done for the day?” I asked, making polite conversation with the guy about to save my skin again.
Tristan made a noise and shook his head. “Alas, no. Justice never rests. Gotta get back to the office and get as much done as I can. Upton’s making lasagna for the first time tonight, so—have to be home in time to either eat a delicious Italian dinner or, you know, order pizza.”
We shook hands, and it felt significant. No bullshitting here, this would be a partnership. I had a good feeling about this, as nerve-racking as it was; I could trust Tristan with this.
“Oliver!”
My name cutting across the street caught my attention instantly, like a whi
p. I turned to it, heart squeezing hard like a vice at the sight: Quinn, leaping out of that monstrous truck of his, bolting across the street without thinking twice about the traffic.
“Hey, uh, I’ll talk to you later,” I told Tristan, knowing what was most likely coming was some kind of misunderstanding or arguing.
And Tristan seemed to pick up on it—whatever would be happening was a private matter. “Yeah. Later.”
“Let me know what happens next,” I told him as he headed off towards his car. “When it’s time.”
He shot me a thumbs-up in terms of a final goodbye before it was just me and Quinn on the edge of the street. The light rain kept most people inside for now, so while we were standing in public, having him in front of me again made the street feel like an empty room, just the two of us.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing at all.
He fixed his shirt collar like he was nervous. Maybe he was nervous.
“So what?” he asked finally, looking me square and good in the eye. “You’re bailing, then?”
For that, I didn’t have a straight answer. “Have you signed a lease with those pesticide folks?”
The question surprised him. I watched his tongue flicker out over his lips to wet them.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Don’t.”
I had no business telling him how to run his business, but….
“Don’t,” I said again, softer when he rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue. It was now or never. “Look, I… I know it’s a gamble, but I was talking to Tristan. Going to court on my wrongful conviction it could… Quinn, I could be awarded up to three million from the state.”
His eyes went wide. He shook the dollar signs away. “Jesus, that’s—three million?”
“I didn’t want to drag it out. At first,” I told him. “I’ve always lived like I do now, and spending another minute in court, in the papers dealing with…” I shook my head. “I didn’t want to go through the trouble of that.”
I looked at the man in front of me. Why had he come to find me? Had he run all the way downtown in his crappy pickup, driven all over town, just to ask if I was leaving for good?
The thought brought a warmth to my chest.
“Money like that,” I said, feeling a bit bashful at proposing it. “It could bring the farm back to life. You could take care of your mother.”
“What? Oliver, I—” I watched the emotion change in Quinn, his face expressive: surprise, and then an even deeper surprise, one of understanding as he processed what it was I was offering. He did a good job surprising me back when he sputtered something and shoved me once in the chest, not sure whether to laugh or what.
“It’s something you can think about,” I said, stumbling back a step or two. The push hadn’t hurt or been one of malice, but the guy had more muscle than I expected.
He huffed, amused and shocked. “Oliver—what the fuck?” But he wasn’t mad, he was smiling.
“Think about it,” I told him, grinning a little myself.
“This isn’t—” Quinn shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Is this because you want to… take me back?”
I looked him over. Was it possible to take him back? He was beautiful and independent and hardworking. Looking at him now, cheeks a little flushed with his surprise, I could have kissed him.
I gave a light shrug. “I’m not sure I ever had you to begin with.”
Quinn blinked at me and nodded once, like he wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“No,” I finally told him, straight-talking. “This isn’t to manipulate you into some sort of relationship. You’re good people. You, James. Your mom, the other ranchers. It’s family.” That was all. That should have been it. “But I do love you.”
I was surprised how easily the words came out of my mouth. I felt the twist of nervousness at them, but what was he going to do? Break up with me twice? “Whether that’s returned or not, I just want to do something meaningful and useful with this money.”
Quinn shook his head like he didn’t think any of it was deserved. “Why?”
“Because I can,” I told him. “So I will. Beside, it’s three million. What’s a guy like me going to do with three million?”
Quinn nearly snorted, which was criminally cute, but bit back on it.
“But, uh….” I looked at our feet for a flicker of a second. So close. “It is because I have feelings for you.”
There was no lying about that, and there was a part of me that needed to know for certain that he didn’t feel the same. Needed to hear it plain and clear so I could start moving on.
Instead, Quinn sniffled quietly and nodded. “You did have me, Ollie. You still do.”
He said it without so much as batting an eyelash, and I saw a drop of rain touch his cheek like it was a goddamn movie. He looked at me square, like there was nowhere else he wanted to look.
“Look, you don’t have to say that just because of the money,” I told him, offering a way out of whatever hole he was about to dig, but he shut me up real quick.
“I love you, I do,” he said, and wasn’t that the icing on today’s cake, the taste of it sweet as he kept talking.
A little weaker this time: “Don’t say it just because you think I wanna hear it—”
“I love you,” Quinn repeated, smiling this time, like he was realizing it for the first time.
I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I was nervous I’d break whatever spell or dream this was. Three million dollars and an I love you. I touched the hair above his ear, just a brush of my fingertips. Definitely real.
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner,” he said. This time it was Quinn being bashful. It was a new, good look on him; did him about as much justice as being sexy and confident did. “I know you just offered my family a lot of money, but… would you be willing to give me and you another chance?”
He touched a hand to my chest like he did every time we kissed. “Just to see what we could have together?”
My heart swelled to a dangerous size in my chest, like it’d burst and take the rest of me with it. How could I possibly say no to that?
Hand on his cheek, I brought him in for a kiss, and he melted into it, lips pliant as we kissed in the street without a care as to who was watching. I could taste the familiarity of his body in it, along with the fresh rain; I could be put in prison a second time and be content the rest of my life knowing I’d tasted him one more time.
“Oliver,” he sighed, the kiss breaking. He looked at me through his lashes, the sweetest thing I’d ever seen.
My thumb brushed just shy of his lips. “I missed you.”
I said it once, then said it again because I could, before he was wrapping a hand in my damp shirt and pulling me in for one good kiss, and it felt like coming home after years in a cell.
It was my idea to go see Tilly as soon as we were able to pry ourselves off of each other.
I wanted for Quinn to deliver the news himself, to see the look of satisfaction and the probable I told you so she would dole out. Not that Quinn cared about being told that when it meant the ranch being saved.
When we stepped out of the truck, it was in Quinn’s eyes as well: was holding hands in public all right? The thought still made me a touch nervous; I remembered a time when I was a kid and I had done the same thing with a boy on the playground, not even knowing any better. I had kissed him then, the boy, and for it I had gotten a whooping from my foster father I wouldn’t ever forget. Not even now as I made the choice and brushed my fingers against Quinn’s.
The light touched his eyes. He wove our hands together.
“Tilly Dyer,” Quinn said to the nurse at her station, watching as she flipped through the clipboard to look for her room, as if Quinn didn’t know the number by heart already.
“I’m not seeing her….”
“She’s in room 240,” Quinn told her. “She’s been here for weeks
almost. Heart issues?”
The nurse frowned, scanning her records twice, three times. Something was wrong or off.
I felt it. Quinn could feel it, too, by the sound of his nails drumming on the counter.
“What was the last name?”
“Dyer,” Quinn said, even going so far as to spell it.
“Dyer…. Oh!” The nurse shook her head, rolling her eyes at herself. “Yes, Tilly. I’m sorry, you can see her for just a minute.”
“Why only a minute?” I asked.
“She’s being prepped for surgery.”
Quinn knocked on her door gently before opening the door, not waiting for her to say anything. Hand in hand, we found her in her hospital bed, waiting to be wheeled into a life-saving surgery.
No pressure.
“Hey, mama,” Quinn said, smiling gently at her.
Old Tilly smiled back, tired as she was, and reached her hand out for him. Quinn slid in next to her, our hands unfolding so that he could take hers.
“Hey, dumplin’,” she said, worn and teasing, before those strong eyes were turning on me. “And that tall drink of water.”
I nearly flushed as Quinn laughed and said, “He is, isn’t he?”
Tilly hummed and gestured. “Take a seat. There’s a chair right—” She tried finishing the sentence, but the coughing started, raspy and ragged, and I grabbed the nearest chair as Quinn got her a cup of water, just a sip to soothe her throat.
“How’re you feeling?” Quinn asked. I sat close to his side but let him and his mother have their space.
“Oh, just peachy,” she said, and I understood where Quinn got his sass from. “I’m good. Still here. About to get cut up pretty good here in a few minutes but ain’t that all for the best.”
“Well, mama,” Quinn said, voice brimming with a barely contained enthusiasm. He looked at me and I gave a little nod. It was his news to give her. “Oliver and I were talking. He’s going to take the state to court for the money they owe him. You know, over the false conviction.”
Her eyes turned to me. “Uh-huh.”
Quinn shook his head and nudged my arm with his. “You go on and tell her.”
“I—” There was no use fighting in front of Tilly. If Quinn decided it was my place to tell her, then I would. “I could get three million in a settlement. The odds are good. Real good. I….” I took a good breath. “Mrs. Dyer—”