If this is love, p.1
If This Is Love, page 1
IF THIS IS LOVE
JEWEL E. ANN
CONTENTS
Part I
1. A White Casket and Grilled Cheese
2. Drunk on Grief
3. Frisky Business in the Barn
4. Stolen Dreams
5. My Milo
6. The End of Innocence
7. The Kiss of Death
8. Favorite Place in the World
9. The Uncrossable Line
10. Keep Your Enemies Close
11. There Goes My Heart
12. The Wrong Woman
13. MINE!
14. The Boss’s Daughter
15. The Truth Hurts
16. Imprisoned
17. Never a Bridesmaid
18. Milo’s Women
19. Freedom Never Felt So Miserable
20. Just Stay Drunk
21. ’Til Death
22. Penance
23. Free
Part II
24. The Sperm Donor
25. It’s Been Awhile
26. Cowboy Confidence
27. Tacos in Silence
28. Let Him Die
29. Who’s Your Daddy
30. Caught
31. Homecoming
32. I’m Sorry
33. The Mistress
34. Don’t Look Back
35. That’s for Indie
36. If You Let Me Go
37. If You Had To Choose
38. Not His Tears
39. Slighted
40. The Uncomfortable Truth
41. Unearthing the Truth
42. The Art of Forgiveness
Epilogue
Preview - The Naked Fisherman
Also by Jewel E. Ann
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Jewel E. Ann
ISBN 978-1-955520-26-3
Ebook Edition
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Emily Wittig
Formatting: Jenn Beach
To all the mean girls in school, I forgive you.
PART 1
1
A WHITE CASKET AND GRILLED CHEESE
Fletcher Ellington purchased me for the bargain price of one million dollars. A gift for his wife, Ruthie.
I was four years old.
Ruthie sewed floral sun dresses and ran a boar-bristle brush through my hair every morning. She taught me to read Magic Tree House books, paint pictures to express my feelings, and question everything. We spent hours in her gardens, where I learned a tiny seed can turn into a “shit-ton” of zucchini. Fletcher’s word, not mine.
Now, she’s dead.
“Indie will be so lost,” Faye, Ruthie’s older sister, whispers to Grandma Hill while Ruthie’s casket disappears into the ground. It’s a polished white casket, shinier than Greg’s casket.
He died last year in an ATV accident. I was sad he died, and his wife and daughter didn’t. I know that’s bad, but Pauline (Fletcher’s sister) and my so-called cousin, Jolene, are terrible people. Everyone on Fletcher’s side of the family is terrible. Jolene is seven years older than me, and I hate her. Ruthie told me never to hate anyone, but I can’t help it. Jolene never misses an opportunity to remind me that I’m an “impostor.” Children purchased like racing horses and livestock are not “blood” family.
Someday, I’m going to get back at her. I’m going to take something that she wants. And I’ll stick my tongue out, even though Ruthie always told me nice girls don’t have to stick their tongues out. But I’ll do it anyway just to see Jolene’s freckled face turn red and steam shoot from her big nostrils.
For now, I can’t think about stupid Jolene. Instead, I focus on birds chirping while the breeze carries the slight smell of manure up the hill to our gathering around Ruthie’s grave. Fletcher falls to his knees next to the grave. I can’t imagine feeling worse if he were my real father grieving my real mother. Greg used to say that blood is thicker than water, but Ruthie said he wasn’t using the saying correctly. “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” Ruthie said it meant the opposite. “The bonds we make by choice are stronger than the bonds of family (the water of the womb).” And the only reason Uncle Greg and my mom had this argument was because Greg thought Jolene was more deserving than I was because she was his biological daughter.
I am the purchased livestock.
Ruthie wasn’t Fletcher’s family by blood. Still, while his body shakes with sobs, hands clenching his white button-down shirt over his heart, I think back to Uncle Greg’s death. Fletcher didn’t cry. Not once.
In my short ten-year life, I’ve quickly learned that love is different for everyone. Fletcher must have really loved Ruthie. That’s all I can figure out. What must everyone think of him sobbing like this? Like a child. He’s a king or maybe even a god. Nobody looks him in the eye, and everyone calls him “sir.”
He swears. Smokes cigars. And makes people disappear, according to Pauline. She tells Jolene to be good or “Uncle Fletcher will tie you up and take you for a ride in his truck.” Jolene rolls her eyes, but I don’t know why. I once saw a man’s boot hanging out of the back of Fletcher’s pickup truck. And it was attached to a leg despite Ruthie saying it was one of Fletcher’s boots.
I know what I saw.
But now? It’s as if someone spun the world like one of those globes at school, and everything is backward or upside down. Fletcher Ellington crying?
I wipe the tears. Fletcher’s been a good person to me. Good enough. I’ve always felt like he loved me because Ruthie loved me. Now that Ruthie’s gone, I’m not sure Fletcher has a reason to love me. Seeing him on his knees, I’m not sure he’ll love anyone ever again. Without Ruthie in the world, I wonder who will cry over my grave if something awful like cancer stops my heart from beating. Will they bury me in the Ellington family cemetery, or will I be composted like some animals that die here on the ranch?
“You’ll come with us for a few days.” Faye rests her hand on my shoulder. Her silver and turquoise rings clink together. Ruthie wore pretty rings too. But Faye has fake nails where Ruthie painted her own nails to hide the dirt that got stuck under them from so much time in her gardens. “Your dad needs some time alone.” Faye gently squeezes me, and my head leans into her touch.
My dad? I never call him Dad. In my head, I call him Fletcher—actually, Fletch because that’s what Ruthie called him. To his face, I call him “sir” like everyone else.
“Let’s go, Indie.” A familiar hand wraps around mine. It’s warm, calloused, and huge.
“No,” I whisper, slowly shaking my head. “I haven’t given her this.” I stretch out my other arm with a single pink rose clenched in my fist, sweaty from holding it so tightly all morning.
Milo Odell loosens his grip on me, letting me slide free. I run to the hole in the ground, dirt loose beneath my shoes, and stop on the opposite side of Fletcher. His red eyes find me when my gaze lifts from the shiny white casket. I can’t look away. Even now, on his knees, he holds so much power over me and everyone else.
Without taking my eyes off him, the wind whipping my hair into my face, I unfold my fingers one at a time until the wilted rose releases from my palm onto the casket below. His leathery face looks extra sad today. His hair is a little grayer around the bald halo that’s constantly peeling.
But his eyes … they’re empty. It’s what I imagine someone’s eyes look like when they die, when the doctor lifts their eyelids to check for signs of life and there aren’t any. Does he know I stole the flower from the garden? Is he upset?
My gaze sticks to his like one of those unfortunate dragonflies that gets caught in spiderwebs. That warm, calloused hand finds mine again, startling me. And my head whips around to Milo Odell and his pretty face shaded by his cowboy hat. His whiskers are gone. He must have shaved for Ruthie’s funeral. She always told him she knew he was a handsome young man behind those whiskers.
I like his whiskers. They make him look mysterious, just like his long, wavy hair that always falls into his eyes.
“Let’s go, Indie,” he says, giving Fletcher a glance and a tiny nod. Milo is Fletcher’s “main guy.” Whatever that means. Ruthie said Milo did all the essential stuff so Fletcher could take her dancing and pack picnics for her on Sundays after church.
While everyone else feared Fletcher Ellington, Ruthie loved him. He softened with her.
Smiles.
Laughter.
Hand-holding.
He’s not the most handsome man—stained, crooked teeth, scars all over his face, and missing a big round chunk of hair. And he smells like a cigar. Even now, I smell it mixing with the manure. But Ruthie called him the most handsome man she had ever seen. Maybe living on a ranch so far from other people, Ruthie didn’t see that many men. And maybe her nose didn’t work that well. Either way, she found something beautiful about him that you couldn’t see just by looking at him.
He planted wildflowers so he could pick them for her every day.
He woke before the sun rose to do his morning chores.
He showered and made Ruthie breakfast before she opened her eyes for the day.
He carried a dark wood tray to their bedroom each morning: eggs, a muffin, fruit, coffee, and a small bouquet of wildflowers.
I’d peek through my cracked bedroom door to see him wearing the biggest smile or whistling a tune.
I heard them tal
Even in the morning, she looked pretty with her long black hair tossed over one shoulder, her cheeks rosy from … hot coffee, I figured.
“Good morning, my lovely girl,” she’d say with a warm smile while I played quietly with my dolls. “I’ll have Micah make breakfast while you get dressed for school. How does that sound?” She’d kiss my head.
I'd nod and pick out my dress for the day. Not every girl in school wore a dress, but I did because Ruthie did. So in my mind, girls wore dresses. Fancy dresses for weddings. Less fancy dresses for Sunday church. And everyday dresses for gardening. Those dresses didn’t have to be pressed like the fancier dresses.
While I ate breakfast, Ruthie made my lunch and packed my bag. With a tight hug and a kiss, she sent me out the door to climb into Milo’s black truck. It smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and leather. Quite possibly the dreamiest combination ever.
“Morning, Indie.” Milo grinned. His shaggy, dirt-colored hair hung in his blue eyes even beneath his cowboy hat.
“Morning,” I whispered, tucking my chin and fastening my seat belt. I had a severe crush on Milo Odell. It didn’t matter that his brother was in prison for killing their parents.
It didn’t matter that Milo lived in the barn.
It didn’t matter that he was eight years older than me.
I had a crush—the incurable kind.
Faye clears her throat, bringing my thoughts back to this awful day. “She’ll come with me,” she says to Milo. “I’m Ruthie’s sister. Indie should be with me.”
Milo bats away a fly before scratching his jaw. “Sorry, ma’am. Mr. Ellington left specific instructions for me to take Indie.”
My gaze rolls between Milo and Faye. Fletcher made plans for me?
Faye frowns and so does Grandma Hill. But Grandma Hill always frowns. Fletcher calls it “resting bitch face.” I don’t know what that means. Ruthie said she only made that face for him.
“She’s a young girl,” Grandma Hill says just before sniffling and pressing a wad of tissue to her nose. “Indiana needs to be with other women.” She steps closer to me while curling my hair behind my ear on one side, like Ruthie would have done. The wind blows it back into my face.
I think she means I need to be with the Hills—Ruthie’s family—not the Ellingtons.
“Again, I’m sorry, ma’am. But Mr. Ellington was very clear with his instructions. Let’s go, Indie.” Milo squeezes my hand.
I feel safe. Safe because Fletcher trusts Milo more than anyone else. Safe because Ruthie always trusted Milo with me. Still, I don’t want to be with the Ellingtons. I want to go with Ruthie’s family. The Hills are kinder, and they treat me like I belong with them—like I’m their blood even if I’m not.
“I’ll check in on you later, sweetie,” Faye says while I let Milo lead me to his truck, peeking over my shoulder and giving Faye a nod.
When Milo shifts the truck into gear, he glances at me, but I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me cry, but I sure do miss Ruthie.
“You hungry?”
I shake my head while his truck creeps down the hill and out of the Ellington family cemetery. It’s a short drive to the main house, but Milo veers left and parks next to a barn instead of taking me home.
This is new. I’ve never been inside this barn, the one where Milo sleeps. Am I being moved to the barn now that Ruthie’s dead?
“I can make you grilled cheese,” Milo says, hanging his hat and tugging at his tie to loosen it before shrugging off his jacket.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Milo in a suit. It’s also the first time I’ve seen him without his cowboy hat, except the time I snuck out of the house and spied on him swimming in the pond behind it. He wore his underwear instead of swimming trunks. When they got wet, I could see the size of his penis and testicles. I never told Ruthie because I didn’t want Fletcher to get mad at Milo and not let him swim in the pond.
He glances over his shoulder at me and jerks his head.
With heavy feet, I step past the door and softly close it behind me. “I’m not hungry,” I murmur, trying to think about something besides Ruthie dying and the size of Milo’s penis and testicles.
“You have to eat. Mr. Ellington insisted I feed you, so …” He turns toward me and tosses his jacket over the back of a faded brown chair. It looks ancient. The cracked and peeling leather reminds me of the bald spot on Fletcher’s head.
I glance around the room. It’s plain compared to the main house but nice for a barn. Milo has a real bed, not a bale of hay or a stall of straw like I imagined. That’s good.
It’s just one room and maybe a bathroom to the right. The door is partially shut, so I can’t see for sure. His walls are gray wood. No pictures. No pillows on the sofa. No vases of fresh-cut flowers.
Even though it’s very plain, it’s clean.
But it does smell a bit like wet leather and hay. Maybe his bed is hay under the sheets. My house smells of lavender. Ruthie loved lavender. She even had Micah add it to her sweet tea, and she put it in her jars of honey from the beehives Fletcher gave her for her birthday.
“Grilled cheese is fine,” I mumble, fiddling with the sash of my dress.
“Let me change my clothes, and I’ll make it for you.” He shrugs off his button-down shirt, but he’s not wearing an undershirt like Fletcher. Milo has big muscles and a few tattoos. Bull horns and something else I can’t figure out. Before he takes off his pants, he grabs a pair of jeans from a plastic laundry basket and carries them into the bathroom.
Minutes later, he opens the door, and I startle. I’m not doing anything wrong, but everything in here squeaks.
The floor.
The doors.
The windows.
Even the ceiling whines when there’s a gust of wind.
I stare at Milo’s jeans and white tee while he plucks his tan cowboy hat from a hook and drops it onto his head. Perched on the very edge of the sofa, I smooth my hands over the skirt of my dress.
“I’m going to leave this right here for you. If it’s hot, you don’t have to wear tights. If it’s cooler, then the tights are in the top drawer. Wear your black patent shoes. And Faye will braid your hair.” Ruthie prepared me for her death.
Sort of …
She didn’t leave instructions for what would happen to me beyond dressing for her funeral. Will Fletcher comb my hair? Will he crawl into bed with me if I have a bad dream? Will he pack my lunch and tell Micah what to make me for breakfast?
“Did he buy you too?” I ask Milo to keep my nervous brain from wondering what happens next. I’m used to being with Milo in his truck when he drives me to school or smiling at him when he comes to the house to talk to Fletcher. This is different.
“What’s that?” Milo says with his back to me while he presses the sandwich into the skillet with a metal spatula.
It sizzles and smells a little burnt.
I clear my throat and find a stronger voice. “Did Mr. Ellington buy you too?”
Milo kills the stove’s flame and slides my sandwich onto a plate while eyeing me with a funny look. “No. He inherited me of sorts.” He sets the plate on the table. “Ketchup?”
“Yes, thank you,” I mutter while my shiny black shoes tap along the wood floor toward his small, round kitchen table. The chair squeaks too when I plunk down into it. It wiggles on uneven legs, so I try to hold still. “What does that mean?”
