“You want to take on more?” He sounds surprised, and that irks. He’s assuming things about me that he has no business assuming.
“I want to reach my full potential,” I say, realizing for the first time just how important it is for me to spread my wings.
“I think you have a whole lot of potential,” Cash says, and he sighs thoughtfully. “Let me think on what you’ve said. I need to leave now, but we’ll be back later.” With a nod, he plods back down the hall, leaving me feeling a strange mix of both sad and hopeful.
My family home might be about to be destroyed, but life does go on, and maybe it’s possible for me to thrive regardless.
6
The truck that Cash has left the keys for is a great hulking thing that has definitely seen better days. Inside, it’s dusty with enough dirt on the floor to make my hands itch. I get that this is a working vehicle, but everything needs maintenance to keep it functioning properly. I guess I will have to add it to my list, or maybe I need to start a list for the Bradfords.
I chuckle, imagining Scott’s face if I present him with a list of things to do. He’d probably spontaneously combust.
Rumbling down the road, jerking from potholes, and watching the spray of dirt behind me is more fun than I’m expecting. Pa used to drive me into town and help carry the shopping, so this is new to me. I’ve even smartened myself up a little with my hair done neatly and a swipe of lip gloss. Not that I’m expecting to see anyone of interest at the store. It’s more because everyone in town knows what happened with my place, and I want to hold my head high.
I have a list and the bills that Cash tossed to the table in my shirt pocket. I’m excited to buy ingredients to make some new dishes too. Pa was always such a stickler for routine.
The store isn’t busy, but I notice a few stares as I push my cart from aisle to aisle, checking off my list as I go. Maybe news hasn’t reached town that I’m working for the Bradfords. Maybe these folks are wondering why I need so much ground beef to feed just me. Let them wonder.
I’m in the spices section, gathering all the dried herbs I need to flavor the meals I’m planning to make when a man leans up against the display.
“You’re Melanie?” He’s big and broad, wearing a well-worn blue shirt over an undershirt that has seen better days. The scruff on his face is long and peppered with gray, and his skin is sun-darkened and well lined. I know who he is.
“Mr. Flint,” I say. His first name eludes me, and he has a brother, so I don’t want to try guessing.
“Jethro,” he corrects. He leans closer, his tall frame looming over me. My instinct is to step back and preserve my personal space, but I know that would be seen as a weakness, so I stay put. He waits for me to say something, but I leave the silence to stretch, and after a few seconds, his jaw ticks. “The Bradfords bought your ranch.”
I nod, swallowing the urge to tell him that it isn’t kind to rub someone’s nose in their misery.
“Those assholes.” He grits his teeth so hard there’s an audible scrape of enamel on enamel that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
“It was an open auction,” I say. “I didn’t get a choice on the buyer.”
“They’re like vultures.” Jethro’s eye twitches as he switches the weight on his feet.
“They’re expanding.” I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to get drawn into a Bradford hate club while I’m in the process of buying their toilet paper. I don’t know this man, and from what I overheard my Pa saying at the time, he and his brother made terrible business decisions that resulted in foreclosure on the property. I get why he’s angry, but blaming the Bradfords for being better businessmen after eight years seems irrational.
“They’re outsiders who need to be taught a lesson.”
“They’ve been here eight years,” I remind him. “And I don’t think they’re bad people.”
“That’s your family property,” Jethro growls. I smell alcohol on his breath, and this time I do step back.
“It was, but then my pa put it at risk. I can’t blame them for that. That was all his doing.”
Sneering, he shakes his head. “So now you’re going to take the crumbs they toss you?”
“No one is tossing me crumbs,” I say, realizing that news of my hire must have traveled on the town grapevine. “I’m making a living, same as them.”
“They’re making a living at our expense,” he says. “Someone needs to teach them a lesson.” His eyes bulge, the reddened veins that are probably exacerbated by too much drink making him look crazed. I don’t like the way he’s talking or roping me into his resentment. He’s had eight years to move on from this, but he hasn’t.