Immortal Mine (7 page)

I walk into a bare bathroom. By bare, I mean
there is nothing within besides the toilet, sink, and a towel
hanging from the rack. Not a single picture, rug, or anything
personal to break up the monotony. I step in front of the mirror,
and gasp when I see myself.

My hair is tangled and knotted, hanging all
askew. But that’s nothing compared to my face. Muddy streaks cover
the entire surface—even my forehead. I look like I’ve been rolling
in it, and eating it, my lips and corners of my mouth caked with
it. I think of Sam, teasing me, of my haughty defiance, and
humiliation floods me. I’m sure he must be having a great laugh at
my ill-placed pride.

I turn on the water and lean down, scrubbing
my face with my hands. Mud swirls down the drain. When it’s finally
clean—albeit a little red from my scrubbing—I dab it dry with the
towel. I pull my hair tie out and try to finger comb my hair. It
doesn’t help. I wrap it back up and exit the bathroom.

“There you are,” Shane says, affably. He
hands me a glass, and indicates I should sit at the table with the
others. Sam is seated between Heather and Hillary, whether by his
choice or theirs I don’t know. I suspect it was theirs, but he
doesn’t exactly look sorry to be there. Shane returns to lean
against the edge of the counter, feet crossed, one arm propped
behind him, the other holding his own glass. In his pose, he
appears much younger than he must be, and I can see why Stacy
thinks he’s hot—even if it is still, like, eww.

I plop down next to Heather, with mumbled
thanks.

“You’ve gotta try these, Vee,” Stacy says,
pushing a plate of cookies across the table to me. I glance at the
large, fat cookies stuffed with oatmeal and raisins.

“Joan Ames?” I ask, picking one up and
taking a bite.

“Mmm-hmm,” Stacy answers around her own
mouthful of cookie.

“How did you know?” Sam asks, wonder in his
voice.

“If there’s one thing Niamh knows, it’s
baked goods,” offers Hilary, leaning closer to Sam.

“And horses,” Stacy puts in
sardonically.

“She can tell you who made just about any
kind of cookie, cake or pie, because she’s better than most.
Everyone else tries to bake as well as she does,” Hilary ignores
Stacy’s comment, not willing to forgo the absolute attention being
bestowed on her by Sam, even if the attention is caused by
extolling my cooking virtues.

“Chickens, too,” Stacy says, smirking.

“But she still can’t beat Joan’s cookies,”
Hilary finishes, as if Stacy hadn’t spoken, nudging Sam’s arm, as
if sharing some great secret.

“Sheep, not so much,” Stacy adds,
cynically.

“Too bad you don’t have some of Niamh’s pie
here,” Heather pipes up, wanting to draw Sam’s attention to
herself. I freeze at her words. “Her apple pie is the best in the
state, five years running.”

“Is that right?” Shane asks, turning toward
Heather.

“Grows the apples herself,” Hilary says, not
willing to relinquish the spotlight, blushing as Sam turns her way
once again.

“She knows apples,” Stacy’s inane comment is
given with humor lacing her voice.

“We had an apple pie brought the day we
moved in,” Shane says. “But I didn’t get any of it. Sam ate the
whole thing himself, within two days I believe.”

I risk a glance at Sam, only to see that
he’s suddenly, intensely interested in tracing the pattern on the
tablecloth with one long finger. I throw him a glare, anyway. His
cheeks redden over his clenched jaw, as if he can feel the weight
of my look.

“Was that one yours, Niamh?” Shane asks.
Stacy shoots me a warning look. I narrow my eyes at her, then turn
to Shane, the sun glaring in the window directly into my eyes
tempting me to replace my sunglasses, rude or not.

“Probably not,” I say. Sam finally looks up
at me, unable to ignore the super-sweet tone of my voice. “It was
probably store bought.”

Stacy chokes on her lemonade; Sam narrows
his eyes at me.

“If so, I’d like to know where it came
from,” Sam says. “It was the best pie I’ve ever had.”

Chucking a single cookie at Sam wasn’t too
harsh a reaction, I didn’t think. Maybe grabbing five more of them
and following suit while he dodged and deflected with both hands
was a
little
overboard. Heather and Hilary were horrified by
my actions. Stacy looked horrified, and Shane laughed so hard he
was bent in half.

Sam was stunned into silence. At least, that
was the last expression I saw before turning and fleeing from their
house. I ran to my ATV, jumped on and gunned it toward home.

“What is it with you and Sam, Vee?” Stacy
asks me later, when she calls on the phone.

I give an exasperated huff of breath.

“I don’t really know, Stace. Every time I’m
around the guy, it’s like my brains just fall out of my head. But,
seriously, what he said today—”

“Would have made you laugh if anyone else
had said it,” she interrupts.

I sink down to the floor, and Bob
immediately has his muzzle in my face, tempted to lick me but
knowing better. He settles for nuzzling me with his wet nose.

“Maybe I’m just having some kind of raging,
hormonal reaction to red hair,” I groan.

“I believe it’s hormonal, but it’s not just
red hair causing it,” Stacy answers.

“What do you mean?” I am immediately
defensive.

“I
mean
,” she explains slowly, as if
I’m an imbecile, “that you are attracted to him, and you hate
it.”

“I am
so
not attracted to him,” I
argue, even while visions of his amazing eyes and great smile dance
in front of me. I smack the palm of my hand against my forehead,
trying to erase said vision. “Why would you even think that? I can
hardly stand to be near the guy.”

“Classic story,” she says, “pretending to
hate one another, when really you’re madly in love.”

“Give me a break,” I say, pushing Bob off me
and standing. “This isn’t some cheesy, dime-store, romance novel.
This is my
life
. If I liked him even a little, don’t you
think I would—”

“No, I don’t,” she interrupts yet again, as
I wander to my window, looking down, ironically, on my mini apple
orchard—which I need to pick. That brings to mind my pie, his
comment, the cookies…I swing away from the window, pulling the
string to drop the blinds. “I know you better than anyone, Vee,”
she continues, “probably better than yourself.”

“And?” I ask, wishing I could take the word
back as soon as it leaves my mouth.

“And I think you’ve got the hots for this
guy.”

I roll my eyes, wishing she could see the
gesture. “Okay, first of all, Stace, I’m not you and he’s not his
uncle. Second, if I had the hots for him, I’d be
nice
to
him, not…” I hesitate at calling myself mean, “well, you know,
angry at him all the time. Your theory makes zero sense.”

“Hear me out, my little chicky. Exhibit A:
you have never had a serious boyfriend before.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“You’ve never
had
a serious boyfriend
because you are extremely independent. You’ve practically raised
yourself, and so you don’t think you need anyone. Not only does
that keep you from hooking up, it intimidates the boys we
know.”

“Okay,
mom
,” I begin, sarcastically.
“Thanks for the—”

“Exhibit B: So far, all the boys you’ve
known are planning to leave Goshen, a thought you can’t stomach, so
you’re waiting to see who comes back, or who’s willing to
stay.”

“That’s not—”

“Finally, exhibit C: Sam and Shane are
clearly not small town types, which means they probably won’t stick
around for long, and while that’s a total turn on to me, you find
it…
undesirable
. You don’t want to fall for someone who
doesn’t share your dream of growing old and dying here—along with
the town, I might add.”

I’m silent as I desperately try to find my
side of the argument. Finally, I settle on, “
Exhibit
C? What
are you, a lawyer now?”

“Look, Vee, I’m just saying that being nice
to the guy, hanging out with him and having a little fun isn’t
going to hurt you.
He
isn’t going to hurt you. Just because
you admit you like the guy doesn’t mean you’re going to marry
him.”

I take a deep breath, suddenly drained by
the conversation.

“I’ve gotta go do my chores, Stace. I’ll
talk to you at school tomorrow.” I hang up without waiting for her
response.

“Come on, Bob,” I say opening the door.
“Let’s go feed the chickens.” At the word
chicken
he
immediately perks up, tail wagging, nose pressed to the door in
anticipation of being set free to pursue his favorite hobby,
impatient while I pull my boots on. When I open the door, he
beelines for the chicken coop, but at the last second, detours to
the right, taking off at a dead run.

“Bob, come back!” I call, which he
completely ignores. I grunt and follow his path, deciding I better
discover just what caught his attention so fully. I come around the
backside of the stable and stop in my tracks.

Sam is in the center of the enclosure,
leading the Irish in wide circles. The stallion is agitated,
leaping and bucking, pulling against the lead, glorious in his
fury. I spot Bob, sitting outside the gate, watching the scene, as
if he, too, is transfixed by the sight. I slowly walk toward him,
not wanting to disturb their work.

As I draw near, I can hear Sam, clucking and
talking in a low voice, soothing and hypnotic. For long minutes,
the horse ignores him, refusing to give in to his call. I don’t
know how long he’s been at it, but they are both covered in sweat
and dust, his t-shirt clinging to his straining muscles. Sam is
patient, slowly circling, giving the horse just enough freedom to
keep his rage at bay, but holding on tight enough to make sure the
Irish knows just who is in charge. I find myself holding my breath,
trying to force my own will on the horse, compel him to trust in
the hand that holds him.

The stallion begins to tire, and slows his
pace. His breath heaves his sides loudly in the hot air, his eyes
rolling still, but giving in to the persistence of his lead.
Finally, he slows to a complete stop. He tosses his majestic head
twice then drops his nose slightly; with a final huff, he gives
himself over—for now.

I glance up at Sam, and his eyes meet mine
across the distance. In his victory, he appears more like
seven-feet-tall than his true... six-whatever. Suddenly, his face
breaks out in a wide smile, victorious, complete joy radiating from
his eyes. I can’t help it; I smile back, my face reflecting his
elation. He lifts his hand in a low wave, and I mirror the gesture.
Suddenly I’m embarrassed at being caught watching him, and I
quickly shove both hands in my back pockets. The intimacy of the
moment strikes me, and abruptly I turn away, smacking my thigh
twice to bring Bob to heel as I head for the chickens.

I think about Stacy’s words, and realize how
very wrong she is. I think, if I gave myself over to Sam as the
stallion did, it would give him the power to hurt me… to hurt me
very much.

I let myself into the noisy, squawking hens
and try to ignore my pounding pulse, my thoughts that want to
succumb to a certain hypnotic voice, my heart that squeezes
painfully.

I watch as Niahm hurries away from the
paddock. For just a minute, as she shared in my victory, I saw
something in her, something that she seems to try to keep hidden. I
think about her parents leaving her home while they travel the
world. It didn’t take much asking to find out that they’re gone
more than they’re home. Anger rises in my chest again, and I
quickly push it back as the horse catches the scent of it and
throws his head.