Chapter Six
She didn’t run into Ethan after her shower, even though she expected to. He wasn’t in the kitchen, which was empty. The whole house was empty, except for her dad. He was standing near the front door waiting for her, pickup keys in one hand, travel-mug in the other. He offered the mug to her when she reached him. She slung her bag over her shoulder and took it, and they headed out to his truck together.
“Where is everybody?” she asked.
“Lookin’ for Ethan, I imagine. He wasn’t in the bunkhouse. Trevor said he was gone when he got out of the shower this morning. His truck’s gone, and they’re all worried. Did you see?—?”
“I saw.”
Her father started the engine, then slammed a fist onto the steering wheel, “It isn’t right, what they put in that rag.”
She put a hand on her dad’s shoulder. He’d fully assimilated into the Brand family, was as protective of Ethan and his cousins as he was of her and Harrison.
“Ethan’s a good man,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
“I know, Dad. I know.”
“You know where he might be?” he asked.
“I have an idea.”
“Well, I don’t think he should be alone just now. Do you? It’s a lot, what’s been laid on him. And I know, he’s been giving you a helluva time, but?—”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Giving me a helluva time?”
“I…” His face puckered like he was trying to squeeze out an answer. “Nothing.”
“No, I want to know. Come on, Dad. Out with it.”
He shrugged and focused on driving. After a mile he said, “It’s clear you two…like each other. Equally clear he’s…how did Garrett put it? Saddle shy.”
“You’ve discussed this with Garrett?”
“Not like you mean. Simmer down, Daughter.”
That was a Texas turn of phrase if she’d ever heard one. She closed her eyes, shook her head, blew a sigh.
“Besides,” Hyram said, “The whole family’s rooting for you two.”
She swung wide eyes his way.
“You’re thinking the burial ground, aren’t you?” her father asked, his eyes innocent.
She nodded, still mortified.
“I’ll take North Brand Lane, then,” he said. “Let’s just see if his truck’s out there.”
Ethan sat on the little stone bench in the family burial ground. His mamma’s headstone was on his left in a row of others. On his right there was a small pond, thriving with little fish and frogs and salamanders, and covered in lily pads. Blooms of white and lemon yellow seemed to float just above the water.
He sat there and listened to the slow croak of a bullfrog, closed his eyes and smelled wild roses blooming nearby. Something splashed. Something rustled. And still a whirlwind of questions gusted through his mind about what to do and how to do it and when, and what to say on the video and where to record it, and a million others.
The rustling took on a pattern of pairs. Footsteps. He opened his eyes and for some reason, wasn’t surprised to see Lily coming along the same path he’d taken. He rose from the bench. She kept coming, winding through the cemetery, blowing a kiss in the direction of the most recent grave, her mother’s. Then she came to him and looked at his face, really looked. “You okay?”
He stared back at her, opened his mouth, closed it again.
“Of course you’re not okay. That was a dumb question.”
“I’m livin’ out my worst nightmare,” he said. He hadn’t intended to say it. The words had just tumbled out. He sank onto the bench. “How’d you find me?”
