Page 9 of Whispers of Helena
As I head for the house, the first birds begin to stir in the trees. By the time Kiran’s awake, I’ll be sitting at the table, coffee in hand, looking like any other rancher who spent his night minding cattle.
After breakfast,the men scatter from the main house. Kiran lingers close to Eli, their voices low as they head for the stables. I take my time rinsing my plate, knowing today will be a long day. Helena’s measured steps creak slowly on the stairs, announcing her arrival. Pausing in the kitchen doorway, her presence makes the room feel smaller, more intense.
“Good morning, Mr. Hayes,” she says, her voice soft but not timid. It carries the kind of edge that lingers in the corners of a room long after the words themselves have gone. Her hair’s down today, rich waves cascading over her shoulders, catching the morning light.
“Helena.” I dry my hands, the coarse towel rough against my skin. “Hope you slept well.”
But we both know better. I saw her at the window last night, her gaze following me as I crossed the yard. Her stare felt like the brush of a hand at my back, drawing me to her, even in the dark. If she was up that late, she didn’t sleep a wink worth mentioning.
“Slept just fine, thank you,” she says—a lie. She moves past me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of something floral, mildly sweet. She dumps the old coffee grounds with a practiced hand, her motions brisk. She’s steady, but there’s a tension in her shoulders.
“Good. I’ll send Kiran inside in about an hour,” I say, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “Let him run off some energy before you two get started.”
She nods, keeping her focus on her task. “That sounds just fine,” she replies, her voice even, but there’s a flicker in her eyes, something restless.
I watch her move around my kitchen like she’s been doing it for years. She’s efficient, sure-footed, every action purposeful. She’s a good cook, if yesterday’s meals were any clue to her skills. Kiran seems to be comfortable around her, and that’s no small thing. But trust isn’t something I give easily, and she knows it. There’s a strange pull between us, a magnetic wariness. I’m still trying to figure out if it’s a comfort or a threat.
“Kiran,”I call as I step into the dim stables, the smell of hay heavy in the air.
His small figure emerges from the shadows of a stall, shovel in hand. “Right here, Pa.”
“Finish what you’re doing, then head inside. Ms. Helena’s waiting.”
“Yes, sir.” He ducks back into the stall, the rhythmic scrape of the shovel resuming.
I walk toward the back room. Muted light, slicing through cracks in the wood, cast gold streaks inside. In the tack room, Eli is hunched over, pouring feed into barrels lined against the back wall. With methodical movements, he shoves the scoop into the last barrel and seals it with a decisive slam of the lid.
“You were out longer than usual last night.” His voice iscasual, but there’s a bite to it, an undercurrent of knowing. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps moving, stacking, straightening.
“Time sort of got away from me.” I grab a bucket, filling it from the water trough before reaching for the tin of saddle soap. My hands move without thought, the familiar feeling of the saddle grounding me.
Eli finally turns, leaning against the barrel, arms crossed. “How many this time?”
“I got done what needed doing.” My voice is flat, a line drawn in the dirt.
“Nothing I need to worry about?” His eyes narrow.
I shake my head, the silence between us thick. “Like I said, it’s handled.”
He steps closer. “Silas, it’s been four years. How long are you planning to keep this up?”
My hand freezes, the brush slick in my grip. Four years. Sometimes it feels like the world stopped spinning that day; other times, it’s like I’m chasing something that stays just out of reach.
“Until it’s done,” I say, my voice low, resolute. “Won’t be much longer now.”
Eli exhales sharply, his frustration visible. “Well, hurry it up. That boy in there needs more than a shadow for a father.”
“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to stop.
Instead of pushing further, Eli gives me a measured look before returning to his work. As he moves away, the stable seems to shrink, its dark corners filled with things too sinister to mention.
Sunset
Helena
Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old.
Isaiah 43:18
