Page 1 of On the Land, We Shoot Straight
1
Freeson County, 1981
I
t was a badidea. Grady looked at the kid at the base of his porch steps, his black hair whipping around his face with the wind as he hitched the duffel higher on his shoulder, scuffed the ground with his boot, clutched his hat in his hand, and didn’t look up. He said something, but it caught on the wind and disappeared before Grady could catch it.
Grady recognized him. He was one of the Cole boys. Probably the youngest, by the looks of him. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. He had the telltale dark hair, the porcelain-white skin. Tall, but not yet wearing it well like his daddy and his brothers. Hell, there must’ve been at least eight of them. Old Man Cole had made a mess of it with the banks, and Grady reckoned this must be what was washing up.
It was still a bad idea.
“I ain’t got need for hands,” Grady said.
The boy nodded his head, his eyes on the ground; he nodded like he’d expected the rejection. “I understand.”
Grady thought he caught a “thank you” in there, but the boy was turning, the wind catching his words and rushing them into the wheatfield before he could be sure.
“Hold up.” Grady didn’t know why he said it or what was coming next.
The boy stopped and hoisted his bag higher, glancing over his shoulder in the same movement. He met Grady’s gaze for a moment, his dark eyes tired yet watchful. He dropped his gaze back to his beaten-up boots.
“I gotta do that field before the rain. You work a tractor and combine before?”
The boy animated, nodding vigorously. He glanced up at Grady, too keen. “Yessir.”
Grady grunted. He’d made rare use of farmhands since he took over the place, even though it would’ve meant getting his crops sown faster with a day-and-night push.
“Gonna relieve me at five.”
The boy looked up, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Yessir,” he repeated, and then didn’t move. He hadn’t even fully turned back.
It’d be better for Grady to get his hand to work the night shift. Even accounting for working through the heat of the day, Grady liked staying on regular time. But he reckoned he’d be pushing it to get the kid driving a thing he clearly hadn’t driven at all in the dark.
“I can’t pay you. Just board, food.”
“Yessir.”
Grady could’ve sworn there was a smile on the boy’s lips, but he was looking down, his body still in that half turn, as if hewould walk away at any moment, as if he was used to walking away.
Damn Old Man Cole. What had he been thinking, taking out those loans in a drought? Now his boys were running all over, taking scraps. Grady wasn’t even half the old man’s age, and he knew better than that. He wondered where the others were—he’d heard some things in town and thought it better not to ask.
“Well, come on then.” Grady turned his back on him and went for the front door.
The porch steps creaked softly behind him, like the boy was being careful not to tread too hard or leave a mark. Grady went inside and pointed up the stairs without looking back.
“Spare’s first one on the right, bathroom’s to the left.”
Grady listened to the sound of laces popping out of their holes, the boy’s boots hitting the floorboards with a quiet thud. He was about to head down the hall to the kitchen and get the coffee on when he thought he couldn’t keep on calling the kidboy.
Grady turned back, and the boy was straightening up, pushing a hand through his hair. It got stuck, and he shoved it hard, trying to work out the knots. Grady studied him. He didn’t look good. Dark bruises under his eyes like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in his life. But now Grady was looking, really looking, he saw there was a defiance there too, a dare to ask.
Grady didn’t ask.
“What’s your name?”
“Cole.”
Grady shook his head. “I ain’t callin’ ya that. What’s your Christian name?”
