Page 35 of Huckleberry Hill
I went into the sitting room. She was resting in a patchwork chair that she refused to have reupholstered. The fireplace was on, the fake logs glowing under the flames. She had a brandy on the end table next to her and her crocheting project in her lap.
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a seat on the couch.
“Ah, sugar, don’t apologize. I was baiting you.” She shot me a smile. “I was hoping it would get you to open up.”
“I’m not ready to open up.”
“Yeah, I got that message loud and clear. Say the word, and I’m on the first plane to New York.” She held up her crochet needle. “This can do some serious damage, you know.”
“I know.” I grinned. “But he doesn’t deserve the energy. Trust me on that.”
She bent her head and went back to her task. “He was never good enough for you. I think you know I feel that way. But I won’t say anything more about it until you tell me. Okay?”
“I love you, Muddy. I really do.” I sighed. “Where’s Dad?”
She paused for a moment and then she said, “Out.”
“Out.” I rose from my seat. “Guess we all have our secrets, huh?”
Chapter Eight
The Ranch
* * *
The next morning, I woke up with the sun. I hadn’t set an alarm—I didn’t need to. Something about being home had my inner clock functioning like I’d never left.
I got up and quietly padded downstairs, not wanting to wake my grandmother and father. I’d told Muddy before going to bed that I’d feed the chickens and collect the eggs.
As the coffee gurgled into the carafe, I watched from the kitchen window as the morning rays gilded the mountainside.
I took out my phone from my pocket and snapped a photo. I sent it to the group chat.
Poet’s reply was almost instant.
Poet
Your morning view is better than my morning view. I saw a homeless guy throw up on the train.
Wyn
How did you ever leave that place?
Salem
She had to follow me to make sure I didn’t lose any limbs.
Smiling, I put my phone away and poured myself a cup of coffee. I splashed heavy cream into the cup, and then I went outside onto the back porch to sit in the silence of the early morning.
I nuzzled down into my coat, my cold fingers wrapping around the hot mug.
The back door creaked open, followed by the clod of heavy boots. Dad took the chair next to me. He wore a down vest, but his flannel shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I’m always up early,” he pointed out.
