Brigsy pulled me into a hug that felt a bit like the opening move to a wrestling match. “Thanks. Take care, Mase. Thanks for looking out for my sister.”

  I nodded and told him to be careful, then headed out to the truck.

  All the way to the Bean, I tried to get my head back on straight.

  The problem was that my life had been simple for a long time, by design. I had a minimum of attachments—mostly Amelia and Uncle Billy—and that was fine with me. I had routines that were comfortable and work that was predictable. Life was good. It was just the way I wanted it.

  And having someone like Heather watching it from a front-row seat, analyzing my facial expressions and asking too many questions . . . It had the potential to upend everything.

  7

  Heather

  My brother left an hour after Mason took off in his old red truck. I stood out on the front steps, Rascal at my side, and waved as Kevin disappeared yet again. My chest felt heavy as I watched him leave. I realized that no one ever had guarantees, but as I watched the Range Rover turn out of the little driveway and vanish, I tried hard not to think about the kinds of things Kevin did at work, about the risks he was pushed to take with his life. A very uncharitable part of me wished that he had chosen to be a barista instead. Let grumpy unattached guys like Mason go off and save the world.

  Though that didn’t feel quite fair. I didn’t know anything about my host. Other than that he didn’t seem capable of smiling and had an affinity for books.

  “Guess it’s just you and me, Rascal,” I said, looking down at the sturdy brown dog at my side. I knelt down next to him, running my hands through the thick ruff of fur at his neck. “That okay with you, buddy? I’m worried I’m gonna be in your space too, like I’m in Mason’s.”

  Rascal nosed at my cheek and gazed at me with eyes like pools of amber liquid, and the tension inside me released just a little.

  “Okay,” I told him, “let’s go inside. If I’m going to be here all day, I might as well make myself useful.” The place could definitely use some tidying up. And I had a feeling that if Mason was working double-time, running between the farm and the coffee shop, he probably didn’t spend a ton of time thinking about putting things away.

  I stepped back into the airy little cottage and allowed myself to explore in a way I’d never do if Mason was home. I poked into all the rooms, sticking only my head into his bedroom, where I was charmed for some reason by the neatly made bed, the single hardback chair in the corner, and the closed book upon his nightstand next to a glass of water. This room wasn’t cluttered at all. I squinted to see if I could make out what he was reading and chuckled to myself when I caught the title, Principles of Geothermal Farming.

  So serious.

  I wandered through what appeared to be Mason’s office, Rascal at my side as I looked around. This room was neater than the living room, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with binders, their spines explaining exactly what they contained—tax returns for the last seven years all neatly lined up, medical records for Mason, and another binder for someone named Billy—his uncle, I was pretty sure—and lots of other binders that were labeled according to date and subject. Mason had notes on everything from cheesemaking to hybridization of tomatoes, and I smiled to myself as I explored. It was a little like looking inside his head, I suspected, and while I did feel like I was invading his privacy a bit, I also wanted to know who exactly I was throwing my lot in with here.

  The tidiness of Mason’s room had me back in my room, making the bed carefully and hanging my shirts in the closet, tucking the rest of my things into the empty drawers. I hadn’t slept very well the night before, but that was nothing new. It had been comforting knowing that both Kevin and Mason were here though. It was a lot different than the recent nights I’d spent in my apartment, worrying whether this would be the night someone actually acted on their threats.

  I spent the rest of the day tidying up books and magazines, dusting shelves, and baking a loaf of quick bread from some bananas that looked well past their prime on Mason’s countertop. Hopefully he hadn’t been saving them for some mystical farming purpose.

  As I moved through the shelves in the living room, I lingered in front of the few pictures I found. There were three in total. One of them was actually of my brother—he and Mason were glaring at the camera in full Marine gear, holding serious-looking guns in their hands, but the picture was given a bit of levity by the tiny brown dog at Mason’s feet, one of his legs stuck out in front of him and casted while a huge cone rose up around his little head. “That you, Rascal?” I asked him as he sat at my feet, patiently following me through my exploration of my new space.

  The other two pictures were of Mason’s family, I thought. In one, he was just a kid, standing in front of two adults I assumed must have been his parents. There was a little girl in the picture too. His mother had her hands draped over Mason’s shoulders, the man laughing as he gazed down at his children, and the little girl beaming up at him. Mason looked directly into the camera, his cheeks pulled wide in a glorious smile that I wondered if he’d managed since. There was a startling difference between this gleeful boy and the man I’d met last night.

  The last photo was a young woman, a teenager who must have been the little girl from the family shot. She was wearing a crown and holding a bouquet of roses, and something about the photo made me think it was prom or homecoming. She looked proud and happy, and I wondered where Mason had been when this was taken.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the land around Mason’s house, Rascal trotting at my side, dutifully keeping an eye on me. The yard consisted of the walipini, a chicken coop I hadn’t noticed before, and a little fire pit set back in the trees with a few low chairs around it. The chickens were cute and seemed curious about me, so I hung out for a while chatting with them, feeling a bit like I’d lost my mind.

  In the pantry, I found some soup I could heat for dinner—I didn’t want to assume it would be okay if I raided the refrigerator for a full meal, but it felt wrong to expect Mason to cook after he’d been at work since before I’d been awake. When his truck rolled back up the driveway, I had two bowls of steaming chicken noodle soup on the table.

  “Hi,” he said as he came in the door, spotting me setting the table.

  “Hi,” I said. My cheeks flushed for no reason whatsoever, making me hot and awkward. “I didn’t know what your plans were for dinner. I found some soup in the pantry.”

  “Oh,” he said, glancing at the steaming bowls. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll just wash up.” He disappeared for a few minutes and then came back to the kitchen, pausing as he walked through the living room, a deep frown on his face.

  He sat at the table, not looking at me as he picked up his spoon and started eating.

  “So, thanks again for—“

  “Did you move things around?” he asked, interrupting me.

  “I did tidy up a little bit. I thought maybe you’d appreciate it. I know you’re super busy, and—”

  “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean . . . look, I think I’m just really used to living alone. It’s gonna take some getting used to.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just . . . I won’t touch your things.” Well, this was going to be a fun few days. There was no way I could stay here a month. I’d lose my mind.

  “What else did you do today?” he asked, his tone was soft, but I felt put on the spot. Was I supposed to have a good answer? What did he think I’d be doing?

  “I explored a little bit around the property,” I said. “Made some banana bread . . . not much, really.” An uncomfortable laugh escaped me.

  He just nodded, staring into his soup.

  When we’d finished eating, Mason insisted on cleaning up. Then he picked up a book and deposited himself on the couch, ignoring me.

  “Well, I guess I’ll head to my room,” I said, figuring maybe I’d borrow a book.

  Rascal responded by jumping down from Mason’s side and nosing at my thigh for a pat. Mason said, “Good night.”

  As I tucked myself in, I tried not to let my mind search through all the feelings I was having, all the doubts. At least in the city I’d been in my own space, my own world. Here I felt detached and unmoored, completely unwanted. I knew no one, had absolutely nothing to do, and no plan for how to spend my days. What had my brother been thinking?

  I didn’t sleep. My mind raced between worrying about the situation I’d left behind and discomfort over the situation I was in now. I hadn’t looked at my phone all day—it had become a conduit for the crazy and angry constituents of Senator Andrews to reach me. But I powered it up now.

  Morgan had sent me a few messages checking in, and there were texts from numbers I didn’t know that I didn’t open. Those were the scary ones, usually. I didn’t pull up my email, but I did listen to a message from my brother, telling me to give it at least a month. I blew out a little laugh.

  I listened to the next message too, thinking it might be work-related, something I needed to forward to Morgan—but it wasn’t.

  “Listen to me, you lying little bitch,” it began, and I pressed the delete button and then practically threw my phone away from me, my heart beginning to race again.

  I lay awake for hours. I listened as Mason went to bed and tried to will myself to sleep. But after lying in the dark for what felt like hours more, I finally pulled the quilt from the bed and stumbled out to the couch, turning on the ancient television more for company than for anything else. Rascal came over and curled up next to me, and eventually, I must have fallen asleep there.

  8

  Mason

  Prior to Brigsy calling me and delivering his sister into my care, my life had been relatively simple.

  Now?

  Now I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling and falling into a fitful sleep for the second night in a row, despite the fact that goats required my presence at the same early hour every day, whether I’d slept or not.

  I woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, vestiges of a nightmare I hadn’t had in years lingering at the edges of my consciousness. If I allowed myself to, I could still smell the smoke.

  But there was something else—my senses switched into high alert the second I’d risen from the dregs of the dream. My house was isolated and quiet. And right now? There was noise.

  I crept out of bed, slowly realizing the sound was the tinny audio track of some television sitcom, and as I reached the door of my bedroom, my wary alarm shifted to anger.

  This was what I didn’t need. My routine being upended, my schedule being impacted. And turning on the television in the middle of the night?

  For fuck’s sake.

  I moved to the living room, making no effort to be silent, since it was clear my visitor wasn’t asleep. The laugh track on the show skittered across what felt like my last nerve. But what I saw when I reached the living room stopped me cold and sent my building anger cooling immediately.

  She was curled in a tight ball, the comforter from her bed over her, and something about the way she lay told me it hadn’t been an easy night for her either.

  My dog curled just beneath her on the floor, alert and protective, and when I stepped into the room, his eyes found mine. If I didn’t know better, I’d testify that dog was trying to tell me he was worried. About her. He let out a soft whine and got up, coming to push his head into my leg.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I told him.

  And then I crossed to where the ancient television blared in the corner, turning the sound down but leaving the thing on, and turned to face my houseguest.

  She looked childlike, innocent and small, the comforter slipping from her shoulders as she slept. Her bright hair reflected the glow from the television, and I was struck again by how pretty it was, how light and soft-looking, and I found myself staring for a long moment. Her hands were clenched into fists next to her chin as she lay on her side, and her pink lips were pursed into a tiny frown.

  I pulled the comforter up higher, careful not to jostle her any more than I had to, and then I tucked the edges in around her. Rascal watched all this, standing between the living room and the darkened kitchen, where he usually slept. When we were both satisfied, he turned and padded off to his bed, and I told myself I should do the same. I’d be up again soon enough.

  With one last look at Heather, I turned and went to my own room, where I climbed back into bed.

  It felt like moments later that I woke again. I was certain there’d been a sound in the house—not the television this time. It was still dark out, but my body clock generally roused me before the alarm I set as a backup on my phone, and it was just a few minutes before I’d need to be up anyway.

  I tugged on a shirt and followed the sounds back out of my room. The comforter was folded and sat on the edge of the couch, and the television was off. But the lights were on in the kitchen, and Heather was at the stove, her back to me, and all that bright hair pulled up on top of her head.

  Irritation and wonder flooded me in equal measure, and I found it hard to sort through the dueling emotions. Why was this woman in my kitchen at four in the morning? Why was my life suddenly upside down? And wasn’t there something strangely nice about not being so alone in these pre-dawn hours?

  I pushed that last thought down, since it was the least comfortable of any of those I was having, and went with annoyance instead. “What are you doing?”

  Heather jumped at the sound of my voice and spun around, the spatula held defensively in front of her. “Oh my god, you scared me,” she said.

  I lifted a shoulder, running my hand over the top of my head to try to calm the hair I was sure was sticking up everywhere. “I live here.”

  I was being a grumpy dick, but she smiled at me anyway and laughed lightly. “Right, I know. And I knew you’d be up soon to go milk. I thought you might want some eggs before you head out.”

  “You’re making me breakfast?” I felt like even more of a dick suddenly.

  “I woke a little early,” she said, both of us seeming to agree not to mention her late-night television viewing. It appeared that neither of us was sleeping well now. “I thought maybe you didn’t normally eat before you went because it’s so early, and you probably wouldn’t bother.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But I’m sure you’re hungry,” she tried.

  I wasn’t. I was so used to working before I even thought about food that my stomach usually didn’t even try to grumble before I got back from the barn. The smell of the eggs and sausages Heather was cooking, however, had my stomach betraying me in the same way my dog seemed to be doing. Heather was winning them both over.

  “I don’t really have time,” I told her, digging my heels in for no real reason.

  “It’s ready,” she said, and she slid some eggs and sausage onto a plate, pushing it across the counter.

  It felt strange, being served in my own house, but I accepted the plate and took it to the small table, sitting down like a guest to eat. The goats could wait a few minutes, I supposed.

  “Coffee?” she asked, placing a mug next to me at the table and then sliding into a chair across from me.

  “Thanks,” I managed around a mouthful of delicious scrambled eggs.

  I ate, and she watched, which wasn’t my preferred setup. Her big, liquid blue eyes tracked the motions of my fork, and after a moment, I put it down. “Aren’t you eating?”

  She shook her head.

  “You need to eat,” I told her, sounding like a scolding mother.

  “I will. I’ll eat later, I promise,” she said.

  I glanced over to where my dog still lay curled in his bed, unfamiliar thoughts chasing each other through my mind as I tried to get used to having someone else in my space, cooking and speaking and moving around.

  It didn’t take me long to finish the plate, and I stood, carrying my dish to the sink. “I’ll clean up when I get back,” I said, my back to my houseguest. “Thanks again.”

  “Sure,” she said, and I could hear the uncertainty in her voice, the lingering exhaustion and fear over whatever had chased her to Vermont, put her on my couch watching television in the middle of the night.

  I dressed and picked up my keys. Normally Rascal came with me when I planned to be at the farm all day, but I decided to leave him in the house again today—it seemed like he and Heather were bonding, and they could both use the company, I figured. “I’ll be back late.”

  “Like, tonight?” Heather sounded worried.

  “Six or seven, I’d guess,” I said, wishing my own voice didn’t sound so harsh and edgy. I’d used it more in the past few days than I had in months. Years, maybe.

  “Okay. Have a good day.” She stood in my kitchen in her soft-looking sweatpants and a T-shirt and lifted a hand to wave goodbye.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Mason?” she said, her voice soft and tentative. “I really didn’t mean to get in your way yesterday. I just . . . I’m feeling a little lost, I guess. I don’t suppose you have a Wi-Fi password you might share with me?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I wrote it down for her on a scrap of paper from the coffee table and handed it to her. I should have thought of that earlier. “There.”

  She took it, not saying anything else.

  “Okay, well.”

  “Bye.” She sounded timid and small, and for some reason, it was hard to turn and leave. But I had work to do.

  I drove to the other side of the property, my thoughts alternating between scathing reprimands to myself about how I was treating her and considerations of how unfair her very presence was here, how unsettling it was, how it had upended every carefully balanced thing in my world.

  “What’s up your butt?” Uncle Billy asked me the second he saw me.

  “Nothing.” I shoved my keys into my pocket and moved to the barn doors to start pulling goats from the pens.

  “Bullshit.”

 

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