Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
2
"I'm sorry." I scramble into a seating position, grasping the edge of my blanket and fumbling for the handle of my bag. With so few possessions, hanging on to what I have seems to hold a new urgency. "I'll leave now. I won't be any trouble."
Nothing about the man's expression is changing, except for a slight tick in his jaw. With his hat drawn low, and face shaded, all I know is he's one of the Bradford triplets, but which one? What does it matter? I just need to get out of here before he calls the cops.
I being to roll my blanket, focusing on the methodical action of making it as small as possible. I wait for him to say something, shout angrily about this being his land, tell me I can't come back, but he says nothing. Somehow nothing is harder to listen to.
My pa was a real talker. He loved the sound of his own voice, loved his stories, which he repeated so often I could recount them word for word. This man doesn't seem to own a voice.
I'm on my feet, stuffing the blanket into the top of the bag when he speaks.
"You're Melanie?"
Oh, that voice. It's deep with a huskiness that I imagine comes from yelling instructions and drinking too much whisky.
"Yeah. Look, I know I'm trespassing now. I know this is your place but I…I just wanted to stay one more night. I promise I'm going now, okay?"
I stare up at him, his more than six-foot frame feeling even larger in our close confines. He nods his head just once, blinking slowly as though he's thinking through some kind of conundrum. Outside, more men speak, but I can't hear what they're saying. Then there's a call. "Cash, where the hell are you?"
The man shakes his head, his attention still fully focused on me. "Where are you going now?"
I look up at the barn roof, trying to think of a good lie, but my mind is addled from lack of sleep and his imposingness. I can't think of anything believable, so instead, I shrug. "It's not your problem, is it?"
Footsteps approach from behind the man I now assume to be Cash. "There you are. What are you doing…?" He stops abruptly, glancing between us at the unexpected sight of me conversing with his brother. Even at first glance, the resemblance between them is uncanny. The same straight, strong noses and full lips are visible beneath the brims of their hats. That, and the eyes the color of polished steel.
"This is Melanie," Cash says. "I was just about to ask her if she's looking for work. We could use someone to keep things going at the house now that we've taken on more land."
"You want her to come and work for us?" I guess his brother isn't used to Cash making unilateral decisions, and it doesn't matter because I can't take up their offer. It would feel like laboring for the devil.
"I don't need your pity." I square my shoulders, drawing myself up to my full five feet eight inches, grateful that I took after my momma's family in that regard.
"It's you who should take pity on us," Cash's brother says with a gleam in his eye. "We're down to our last clean shirts and underwear. There are more dishes in the sink than there are in the cupboards, and the floors haven't been vacuumed in over a month."
Cash shakes his head again. His brother has said more than he wanted to give away. I get the distinct feeling that Cash likes to appear in total control. He's the swan, gliding over the surface of the water while his feet are paddling frantically beneath. His brother, on the other hand, doesn't mind wearing his humanity on his sleeve. "We pay fair wages, and you'll have room and board included."
"I'm not a cleaner," I say. "I know how to work the land. I know how to care for livestock. I know this business."
More footsteps approach from behind. "What the hell is going on in here? How many men does it take to survey a barn?"
The third triplet appears next to his brothers, wearing low-slung jeans and a shirt with a pocket hanging half-torn. He's chewing something, maybe gum or maybe tobacco. I didn't take these boys for traditional ranchers, drawing from the old western traditions, but maybe they are. "Well, I don't remember us bidding for a beautiful woman at that auction yesterday."
"Maybe they threw her in with the farm?" the other brother says. My head swims with the image of three almost identical men, as though I'm drunk, and the image of just one man is splitting into more.
Cash scowls. "Excuse my brothers, Melanie."
"Cary." The hand of the torn-pocket brother is offered to me to shake. I look at it, surprised, then free my right hand so as not to leave him hanging.