Page 10 of Wanting Wentworth

Then he put his hat back on and went back to work.

“It’s okay,” I say, giving him a wane smile, opening my own door before he can get out and do it himself. “It’s been a long time.” Climbing down from the truck, I move to close the door between us.

Frowning at me, Damien shakes his head. “Kaity—”

“Who is he?” I blurt the question, looking up at him, hand still wrapped around the door handle “This friend of yours from California? Why is he coming here? What possible business could he have here for an entire month?” I shake my head, suddenly desperate for answers. “My father’s made it clear that keeping him happy will be my responsibility, so if he’s some sort of sexual deviant or a vegan or an axe murderer, I deserve to know, Damien.”

Staring at me for a few moments like he’s trying to figure out how we managed to jump so far off the subject of losing Luke, so fast. Finally giving up, Damien sighs. “I’m fairly certain he’s not a vegan,” he tells me with a quick, side-to side head bob. “And he’s not my friend—he’s my brother.” The look he gives me when he says it makes it clear that my father doesn’t know that part—that no one knows that part. “As such, I’d like very much to believe that he is neither a sexual deviant or an axe murderer, but the truth is that before yesterday morning, I hadn’t heard from him in seven years.”

“He’s your brother,” I repeat back to him slowly. “Your brother and you haven’t talked to him in seven years.”

Damien winces slightly at my tone. “If you knew our family history, you’d understand.” Before I can launch my next volley of questions, he holds up a hand to stop me. “If he turns out to be a weirdo, I’ll take over caretaker duties. I would never—”

“I’ve been going to University of Montana online for the past two years.” I’m blurting again but I can’t help it. “I’ve been sneaking up here three days a week for classes because this is the only place on the entire ranch that gets a decent Wi-Fi signal and I have finals in two weeks.” Still blurting but there’s no stopping me now. “If I can’t come up here for classes and to study, I’m screwed, Damien. I need—”

“You’ve been sneaking up here to take college classes for two years...” He shakes his head. “Does your father know?” The look I give him must clue him into how stupid his question is because his lips press together in a hard line. “Right... and my asking your father to rent the only place within a hundred square miles with a decent Wi-Fi signal means you’re—”

“Screwed.” I finish for him. Chewing on my bottom lip, waiting for him to make up his mind to help me or not.

“Has your father ever expressly forbidden you from going to college?” Damien asks. I understand why. Because he was serious when he said that he will never cross a line my father put in front of him. If I tell him my father told me I can’t go to college, Damien won’t help me. He might even sell me out and tell my father what I’ve been doing behind his back. In light of his plans to marry me off to Brock Morris, that could prove disastrous.

“No, I swear.” It’s the truth. My father has never told me I can’t go to college—but to be fair, he barely even looked at me since the day of Luke’s funeral. “My mother knows,” I tell him, hoping it will help solve the sudden dilemma I’ve thrown him into. “She helps cover for me when I’m up here and pays my tuition.”

Mouth pressed into a thin line, Damien’s shoulders slump. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks, even though he knows. He’s not stupid.

“I’ve got to come up here to make his bed and scrub his toilet anyway,” I remind him. “All I’m asking for is a few hours a day at the kitchen counter so I can Skype into a few classes, write some papers, and study for my finals.” I’m trying to make it sound like nothing when we both know it’s something. It’s a big something.

Damien stares at me for a moment before he finally speaks. “Okay, Kaity...” He gives me another nod before he sighs in defeat. “I can’t promise anything but I’ll do my best.”

SIX

Wentworth

There’s a big painted, wooden sign up ahead—the kind I’ve only seen in movies. It says:

WELCOME TO BARRETT VALLEY. MONTANA

POPULATION: 479

As soon as I see it, I dig my battered Red Sox cap (another gift from my grandfather) out of my duffle and pull it on. Sunglasses already in place, I lower the bill of my ball cap over my face before tugging down the sleeves of my long-sleeve shirt, making sure my tattoos are sufficiently covered. I can’t do much about the ones on my neck or my hands but they’re not the ones most people notice. It’s the one of Buck that tends to draw attention. There aren’t many six foot five guys running around, rocking a tattoo of their pet Koi fish on their forearm.

Watching me from the corner of his eye, Damien looks like he wants to ask me what I’m doing but he doesn’t. Instead, he just sighs like he’s relieved he doesn’t have to go through the shit I do while the truck crests the top of the hill to reveal the valley below. In the center of it is a clump of buildings, none of them more than a few stories tall. “That’s Barrett proper,” he tells me while we coast down the hill.

“Barrett—as in your boss, Barrett?” I ask, studying the buildings that line the two-lane blacktop road that cuts through the middle of them.

“Yup.” Damien gives me a nod. “Barretts settled this valley in the 1900s. Not much to it, really. A bar and a diner in one building. Post office and grocery store across the street. Courthouse and town constable next door—although he doesn’t get much business. Folks around here tend to take care of their own affairs.” He looks uncomfortable for a moment before he restarts his guided tour. “General store and a few shops. Medical clinic and gas station. Main street dead ends at Barrett Square. That's the Baptist church on the corner—Presbyterian’s across the street.” He lifts a hand from the steering wheel long enough to point out a pair of bright white buildings, facing each other like they’re in the middle of a staring contest, each with a tall spire, topped with a cross, pointing at the sky. “Churches are the only thing we got two of,” he jokes before dropping his hand.

“Looks like Mayberry,” I say, referencing one of the old black and white TV shows I used to watch with my grandfather. Angling my head to keep looking at the town when Damien takes a left at the bottom of the hill, I find something missing. “No schools?”

“Ranch kids are homeschooled.” He gives me a shrug, leaving the tiny town to shrink in the rearview while we drive down a winding dirt road, barely big enough for two cars. “Town kids get bussed into Shelby.”

Not so different from my life. Delilah and I had a small army of caretakers—nannies and private tutors that followed us while our mother dragged us around the world, from one Hawthorne penthouse suite to the next. I never stepped a single foot inside a traditional classroom until I was in high school and old enough to tell her that Delilah and I wanted to live in Boston with our grandparents. Instead of angry or disappointed, Astrid was relieved to be free of us. “If everyone’s homeschooled on separate ranches, how do they socialize?”

“There’s a co-op that gets together a few times a week for the younger kids—art and music—stuff like that. They put on dances for the older kids a few times a year. Aside from that, they have 4H and rodeo—the Saddle’ll let ‘em in on the weekends to play pool and listen to music as long as they don’t get caught drinking underage.” Damien’s features crumple into a frown for a moment. “Are you a vegan?” he blurts out of nowhere.

“What?” I look at him for a second before I laugh. “No—why?”

“How about an axe murderer?” He throws me some side-eye like he thinks I might have one stashed in my duffle.

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