Page 7 of Wanting Wentworth

Taking pity on her, I dress in the dark, pulling on my jeans while leaving on the T-shirt I went to bed in because Two-tone doesn’t give a shit what I look like as long as I show up to feed him.

Grabbing a pair of clean socks from my top dresser drawer, I stuff them into the pocket of my jeans before heading downstairs as quietly as I can. At the bottom of the stairs, I retrieve my boots from under the bench by the front door before moving toward the kitchen.

Nearing the open doorway, I smell bacon and sigh because that means Mom couldn’t sleep again. Mouth open on an apology she’ll just wave off with a flick of her spatula, I step through the doorway to find Luke standing at the kitchen sink, cup of coffee in his hand while he stares out the kitchen window and I stop, heart trying to squeeze itself into the space between my lungs because for just a moment, I think it’s all been a nightmare.

That everything is okay.

But then Luke turns away from the window to look at me and it’s not Luke.

It’s my father and nothing is okay.

Nothing’s been okay for a very long time.

For a moment, we stand here and stare at each other—my father at the kitchen window. Me in the doorway with a heart that’s stopped trying to push itself between my lungs because it’s suddenly dropped into my stomach.

“Sit down,” he says, his tone gruff and unfamiliar. I can count the number of times my father has spoken to me in the past three years on one hand.

Because he blames me.

That’s okay. He should.

I blame me too.

Still stalled in the doorway, I look at my mom, back turned toward me while she transfers bacon from the frying pan on the stove to a plate already filled with eggs and biscuits with gravy.

She isn’t up because she couldn’t sleep. She’s up because my father is up and he wanted breakfast. God forbid the man fries his own eggs or butters his own toast.

Because she doesn’t hear the scrape of chair legs across the floor that says I’m doing as I’m told, she turns away from the stove to look at me. “It’s okay, Kaity,” she tells me with a nervous smile. “Go ahead and sit—your father and I have a few things we’d like to talk to you about.”

Fumbling my boots, I let them drop onto the floor with a loud thud while I slide my backpack off my shoulder, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. If my father notices it and asks me what’s inside it, I’m screwed. Setting it behind my boots I move to do what I’m told.

Pulling the chair away from the table, I let myself sink into it while my mom gives me another smile, this one just as nervous as the first. “Go on now, Tom—you sit too.” She waves her spatula at my father. “I didn’t get up before the sun to make breakfast so you could just stand there and glower.”

There’s no mistaking the hard set of my father’s jaw while he pushes himself away from the counter. Pulling out his own chair at the head of the table, he sits a moment before my mother sets the plate in her hand in front of him. “What would you like, Kaity?” She looks at me, brushing all that nervous energy in her hands off on the front of her apron. “I can make you—”

“Nothing.” Still watching my father, I shake my head. “I don’t usually eat breakfast—thank you, though.”

My father’s jaw flexes. “Make her a plate, Hilly,” my dad says in that same gruff, unfamiliar voice, his expression daring me to contradict him. When I don’t, the corner of his mouth twitches with something too angry to be considered a smile before he picks up his fork. “Need you to do more than the usual up at Northpoint this morning. Check the inverters for the solar. Get up on the roof and wash the panels. Make sure the batteries are holding their charge and clean the house, top to bottom,” he tells me, gaze lowered to his plate while he cuts into his gravy covered biscuit with the side of his fork. “Got someone staying there for the month—maybe more. Place needs to be squared away before he gets here." His mouth twitches again before he puts food into it.

“Someone is staying at Northpoint?” When all he does is chew at me, I look at my mom for confirmation, the first fluttering of panic stirring in my belly. When our eyes meet, my mom’s mouth turns down at its corners just a bit in sympathy. I’m sorry—she mouths the words over the top of my father’s head before she goes back to building my unwanted breakfast plate. Looking away from her, I focus on my father because he seems to have all the answers, even if he’s unwilling to share them. “Who?"

Shoveling another bite into his mouth, my father narrows his gaze on my face at my tone while he chews. Mouth clear, he wipes it with a napkin before speaking. “A friend of Damien Bravebird’s,” he tells me, his tone making it clear that his willingness to tell me does not mean the answer is any of my business. “He’s from California.” For once, the distain on his face isn’t aimed at me. “Like I said—he’ll be here for a month. Maybe more. He'll want supplies so when he makes his list, you’re to add it to the weekly shopping.” His mouth flattens for a moment in consideration before he adds. “He’ll probably want someone to clean up after him while he’s here. Better ask him when you get his supply list.”

My father rented out Northpoint to a friend—a Californian, no less—of one of our ranch hands for the month.

Maybe more.

And I’m expected to be his step-and-fetchit for the duration of his stay. But that isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is that someone staying at Northpoint means it’s now off-limits. If it’s occupied, that means I can’t use it.

The panic isn’t just swirling now. It’s a churning cyclone, spinning through my belly so fast it feels like my intestines are being tied in knots. When my mother sets the plate of eggs and gravy covered biscuits in front of me, I almost throw up all over it.

“This gentleman has paid a lot of money for his stay so you’re going to have to go on up there and do as your father says.” my mom says, doing her best to prompt me while my father stares at me with growing suspicion.

I force myself to pick up my own fork, giving her a jerky nod while I scoop up some scrambled eggs from the pile on my plate. “Yes, ma’am,” I mumble before stuffing eggs into my mouth. As soon as I say it, my father looks down at his own plate, satisfied. It would never occur to him that one of us would defy him. That we’d move in a direction that he did not designate. That any of us would dare to reach for something he said we couldn’t have.

Swallowing my mouthful of eggs, I watch him through my lashes for a few moments while I wait for him to say something else because there’s no way both he and my mother woke up at three-thirty in the morning so they could tell me to get Northpoint ready for a surprise guest. When he doesn’t say anything else, I look at my mom who’s brought her own plate to the table to sit down across from me.

I watch her for a moment while she butters her own biscuit before sliding her egg on top of it. “You said things,” I remind her, careful to keep deference in my tone. My father won’t tolerate insolence aimed in his direction, but he’ll sure as hell burn me to the ground if he hears it aimed at his wife. “Is there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

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