Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Half a million dollars. War’s right, to my father, that’s nothing. Meaningless, paltry. What’s money compared to his flesh and blood taking over the ranch? That place is everything to my father, everything in the world, and he’ll spend any amount, any sum at all, to get me to stay there. Even half a million for a week.
“This is crazy.” I turn away and stare at my drink. It’s nearly empty, only ice and dregs. “This is really, really crazy.”
“You need money. I love money. And it’s only one week.”
“Fuck.” I squeeze my eyes closed. I can’t believe I’m considering this, but two hundred and fifty grand will go a long, long way to giving Bomber a good, comfortable life, with some left over for me. “Fuck you, War. Fucking fuck.”
“I know what you mean,” he says with a sigh. “Come on. We’ll do it together.”
“I don’t want to do anything with you,” I say more sharply than I should. I take a breath to calm myself. “I just don’t want to do it at all, okay?”
“This is the best I can offer you,” he says. “I’ll come and I’ll stay and I’ll help you survive it. We’ll spend one week at that stupid ranch, we’ll make a big show of it, and then we’ll take your father’s check and get the hell out of there. This is your chance, Melody.”
This is my chance. I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. I know he’s right, and I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to do it at all.
I see Rosie again. Her bubbles popping in her face like a big pink wound. Dead Rosie, gone a long time now, her face purple and swollen, her eyes wide and disbelieving in those last moments, the panic as her legs thrashed. Her moment touches everything at that ranch, and she’s the real reason I can’t bring myself to go home. She haunts the place, every inch of it, her and everything that came after her.
“One week,” I whisper, my hands trembling, my toes numb. “I can do one week.”
“It’ll be an adventure. Or at the very least, we’ll walk away with a good chunk of money.” He holds up his beer. “To going home.”
I shove my stool back and stand. “Tell my dad we’ll see him in a couple days. I need time to pack and get things settled with Ford and Kat.”
“Whatever you want.” He lowers his glass and watches me, his face serious. “I meant it when I said I’ll stay with you, for whatever that’s worth.”
“Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me now, War,” I say and turn my back on him. “You’re doing this for the money, just like me.”
“Yeah,” he says almost too quietly for me to hear. “Sure I am.”
I walk away, steeling myself, trying to make myself believe this is really happening.
I’m going home.
Chapter 10
Melody
It’s an hour drive from the sprawl of Dallas to reach Leader Ranch. The closer we get, the tighter my stomach feels, like I’m going to lose my lunch on the side of the road. We barely talk and it’s like War understands I need the silence right now, for once in his life. There’s too much crowding my head and too many bad memories trying to force their way to the surface. I fiddle with the radio and let the dread take me deeper and deeper into fear and anxiety as more familiar landmarks from my childhood appear like weeds: the old movie theater, the Wal-Mart, Frank’s Barbecue Joint with the ugly red pig sign, everything looking unchanged in the years since I left, like my life’s been paused and this is reality reasserting itself.
And finally, the ranch itself, surrounded by a silver metal fence tarnished by the sun. The gravel driveway from the main road to the big house bumps more than I remembered. As I stare out the window at the fields, I notice more weeds, a couple rusting tires, and barely any animals, only a few sad-looking cows and a lone horse grazing. It looks strange, desolate, and I wonder where the workers are, the herd of sheep, the goats and chickens and pigs. It feels wrong—this place should be bustling and alive on a workday like this, except it’s like nothing’s opened, like an old town shuttered.
“Seen better days,” War remarks as the house approaches, and I bite back my sharp retort.
Because he’s right. The place looks cluttered. An old car’s rusting near the far garage. Work equipment’s left out near the barn: a wheelbarrow, sandbags filled with something I can’t identify, shovels and rakes left to bleach to bone white in the sun. During my time here, my father never would’ve let the place look like this. He had pride in the ranch and it was an extension of him. To let the fields and outbuildings rot would be like letting his own body decay.