Page 43 of Chasing Home
Eliza laughs softly, tipping her chin. “Oh, my dear, honey pie is a delicacy. I’ll make you one of your own to try.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d tell her that unlike the story my coffee preference tells, I’m not usually a fan of overly sweet things. But apparently, if my sudden—albeit reluctant—interest in Johnny means anything, it would seem that maybe that isn’t so true anymore.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
She taps her palm to the steering wheel of the truck she insisted we use for our drive. I expected it to be filthy inside due to the age of it but was pleasantly surprised to find it well-kept. The hula girl dancing on the dash is a nice touch, as are the fluffy seat belt covers.
“You know, I haven’t learned much about your family yet, and I’ve been here yappin’ about mine.”
“You know a bit about my family,” I argue lightly, using the half-truth as a way to avoid having to talk more about it.
Eliza doesn’t care about my reluctance. “Your real family, Rory. Not Lee. What’s your momma like now? She happy?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, resting my elbow beneath the window and propping my chin on my palm. “She got married a few years ago to a nice man who treats her well. It’s been good for her to have that.”
She didn’t for a long time. For the majority of my early years, it was just us. I loved the one-on-one time, but she was vulnerable on her own in a town full of judgmental piranhas. They always looked down on her for getting pregnant out of wedlock and raising me without a husband at her side.
A bunch of pigheaded assholes stuck in the fifties. I haven’t missed while being here is a single one of them while I’ve been here.
“Good. So, you approve of him, then?”
“I love him. He’s the only dad I’ve ever had, and I don’t plan on replacing him.”
Not like Lee Rose is going to want to try and fill his shoes, anyway.
I keep my eyes trained on the fields we pass, noting the obscure number of brown cows that fill each one. We pass several men on horseback and one on an ATV who blows a kiss at Eliza before turning off the gravel road in front of a tall steel shop. I’ve never been surrounded by so many cowboys, and it’s exactly as intimidating as one would think.
Tall, muscled, rugged men with dirty jeans and tans that disappear beneath ripped shirt sleeves would intimidate most people, I’m sure. The cigarettes in their mouths and brutal glints in their eyes make them look as if they don’t give a shit about much, but I doubt that’s the truth. Their gentle pats to their horses’ necks and softly spoken words to Eliza give me a pretty good idea of who they are beneath it all.
I remind myself of that when we pull off the road past a set of horses tied to the fence and park. Johnny’s easy to spot through the two men watching him from our side of the fence. Or maybe that’s because he’s invaded my thoughts like an infectious disease, and I’m apparently now searching for him.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I ignore the weight of Eliza’s stare on my face and hop out of the truck. The humid air sticks to my throat when I inhale and flatten my frizzy hair with my palm.
“Why are you boys out here and not in there with Johnny?” Eliza scolds, squinting out at the field, where Johnny stands in front of a single cow with a neon orange paddle in his hand.
“He told us to leave. That damn stubborn red heifer he’s got there won’t get in the trailer.”
I look at the man who spoke, trying to remember a name before coming up blank and letting it go. He’s the typical rough-and-tough rancher with a face full of scowl lines and a collection of scars on his hands that I catch when he scratches at his jaw.
It’s like everyone here has a dress code they have to follow or something. Wrangler jeans, shirts that have seen better days, and boots. At least they switch it up from cowboy hats to baseball caps from time to time.
Eliza huffs and heads for the gate without giving him an answer. The two men look to me now, as if realizing for the first time that she didn’t arrive alone. I stare back, keeping my expression blank so they can’t tell that their presence intimidates me. It’s not like I can help that fact either. They’re huge, unfamiliar men who are more than likely strong enough to snap a metal rod with their bare hands.
“You must be Aurora, right?” the second one asks me, his smile infectious and kind. The soft expression should look out of place on his sharp features, buzzed head of blond hair, and dark eyes but doesn’t at all. He’s familiar, barely so. Almost as if I’ve only maybe passed by him a couple of times.
“Rory,” I say, correcting him.
His grin grows, revealing the two rows of teeth and the small gap between his front two. “Rory, right. I’m Thomas, or Tommy if you’re feeling like using a nickname. And this is Loren.”
“Loren? You don’t get a nickname too?” I ask, flicking my eyes to the other guy.
He blinks down at me from his staggering height, his short black lashes fluttering over leap-pad-coloured eyes. They’re heartbreaker eyes. Too bad I’m already more than covered in that department.
“Lo is a terrible fucking nickname” is his reply.
“So, no nickname or accent, then. Interesting.”
Thomas laughs and squeezes Loren’s bicep. “Loren’s from Manitoba. Hard to believe with the way he looks that he’s the least hillbilly one around here. The most boring, though.”