Page 17 of Heartland
And if he ever left a scrap of something on it, one of his many children would grab it and shove it in his mouth in no time flat.
One night every year, the menfolk (we actually used that word) who worked the ranch held a steak dinner to congratulate themselves on another auction of steers. I guess that sounds normal enough until I add that none of the wives were invited to this dinner. Or the daughters.
But—as I mentioned above—the men of Paradise Ranch don’t do their own cooking. And why would they? My stepfather has five wives.
On steak night they did their own outdoor grilling. (Because that’s somehow different? More manly.) But the daughters spent the day slicing potatoes and creaming spinach. And it was the daughters who carried in the steaming casseroles and the beans and the warm rolls with real butter. We set all these glorious foods on the long tables, where the men were seated with bowed heads.
And then we stood back against the walls of the dining hall while our divine pastor said his lengthy prayer. It lasted five minutes at least. Maybe ten. That’s how long I stood with my back pressed to the wall, inhaling the scent of meat that I would never taste.
When he was finally done with the windy men-only prayer, the men fell on all that delicious food like a pack of wolves. And I still wasn’t excused. It was my job to circle the table pouring water and refilling baskets of rolls.
And I’m ashamed to say that I actually looked forward to this annual humiliation. Because it was an honor to be chosen to serve. I was first picked to serve at fourteen, and then again at fifteen. I was so proud. And for what?
My only reward was attention. The whole time I circled that table with my icy water pitcher, refilling their cups, they eyed me the same way they looked at the food. The same way they eyed the fattened steers on the way to auction.
Hungrily.
Seven
Chastity
“Oh my God.Is your seatbelt on?” I ask Dylan. I’m gripping the steering wheel of his truck with two slightly sweaty hands.
“I’m locked and loaded over here,” he says from the passenger seat. “Let ’er rip, Chass. It’s only four miles.”
“Okay.” I take my foot off the brake and tap the accelerator gently. “For the record, this was all your idea.” I turn out of the gas station and point Dylan’s truck uphill.
This must be how a criminal feels when she’s driving the getaway car. I’ve stolen Dylan away from Kaitlyn, at least for the weekend. For some reason Dylan decided I should practice my driving. I have a license but no car, so I’ve barely driven at all after passing the test. He offered to let me do some highway driving, too. But I refused.
Dylan looks completely relaxed, singing along with the radio as I drive us the last few miles toward home.
In the cupholder, his phone lights up with a text. Again. His phone is full of texts from Kaitlyn. She’s pissed off that Dylan left town a day early. Every time his phone lights up, I feel a shimmy of victory, followed immediately by discomfort.
Because I told a lie. And I got away with it.
Dylan doesn’t even glance at his phone, though. That’s just his way. He’ll get to you when he gets to you. But when you have his attention all to yourself? There’s nothing else like it.
“Are we going to make caramel before dinner or after?” he asks me now. “You said it takes a while.”
“Before,” I say, steering carefully around a curve.
“I hope this isn’t a disaster.” He laughs. “Because when I told Griffin what we were trying to do, he got all excited. He wanted to know the cost of every ingredient by weight.” Dylan shakes his head. “I told him that you were the numbers man in this business venture.”
I still can’t believe we’re doing this. I nearly chickened out yesterday instead of sharing my idea, because I hadn’t wanted to get shot down. But I’d still been hungover and still angry at Kaitlyn.
I hadn’t felt like I had anything to lose. And there had been no mistaking Dylan’s spark of interest. The unsold goat’s milk was a problem.
Still, I didn’t have to tell him that Friday was the only day available to us. I’d surprised myself by lying. Kaitlyn’s awful excuse for a note pushed me over the edge, though. She’d known exactly what she was doing when she’d left me sitting in the library like a loser.
I’m aware that it’s a shallow victory. Dylan is still hers. But this is the only time I’ve ever had something she wanted—a night in Dylan’s company. I don’t really deserve it. Yet here we are.
I make the last turn, and then we’re cruising down the dirt road to our neighboring farms. The Shipley Farms sign comes into view first, its posts decorated with a scarecrow and a collection of pumpkins. By nine o’clock tomorrow morning, tourists’ cars will be parked all over this road. They’ll come in droves to pick apples, ride in the wagon, and buy cider.
Leah and Isaac are almost two miles past the Shipleys’ driveway. “Next-door neighbor” means something different in Vermont than it means elsewhere. We pass a cow pasture and then row after row of the Shipleys’ apple trees. Eventually, these give way to a little bungalow where Griffin Shipley lives with his wife and baby boy.
The Abrahams’ place is just beyond. Leah and Isaac bought their farm five or six years ago now. It was in foreclosure, which is why a couple of runaways from a cult could save up enough money to afford it. They made their escape a few years before that, because they wanted to marry each other, and they weren’t going to be allowed to.
By the time I got here, it was already a small but thriving farm. The Abrahams grow vegetables and raise a few dairy cows. But the big cash crop is Leah’s artisanal cheeses. They retail for twenty-four dollars a pound.
