Wild Hearts (3 page)

 

CHAPTER TWO

Don't worry about bitin' off more'n you can chew; your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger'n you think.

The rest of the ride through town was a blur. All I could think about was Logan. The hair, the eyes that peeked from underneath his cowboy hat, and the smile that came easily to his face. Was it
like at first sight
or something? I'd never thought so much about a guy I'd known for five minutes.

Less than ten minutes later, Dad slowed the SUV and turned off the main road onto a gravel path. “I thought you girls would like an authentic Western house,” he said. “May as well enjoy the entire package while we're here.” That was guilt talking. Probably because of our Belize house. We'd be happy if this house had electricity, hot water, and a clean yard. Our rental in Belize had been hours away from Belmopan, the capital city. The tiny two-bedroom house was old and crumbling, but it was the only place available near Dad's job site. During the summer we were there, the dense jungle suffered from soaking rains and constant thunderstorms. Sometimes, we had been stuck inside for days filling pans with water from the dripping ceiling. Our power went off for up to a week at a time, and we had to boil water from a local well and haul buckets for showers. Despite the challenges, I loved living there. The people were friendly and as interested in learning about
our culture as we were in learning about theirs. Mom and I had spent lots of afternoons exploring the beaches and jungles with local families.

“Honey!” Mom exclaimed to Dad, folding the map on her lap. “This is huge! How big is it?”

I peered over her shoulder at the house in front of us. Sure, Dad had shown us photos on the Realtor's website, but this was the first time we got to see it
live.
Bonus: we were arriving a day early since we'd skirted around big cities and hit little to no traffic in many areas.

Dad slowed the car so I could see the yard. He drove across a wooden bridge over a clear, rushing creek lined with small boulders. “Four bedrooms, four baths,” he said. “That's a gazebo attached to the left side, and a hot tub.”

The SUV eased up the driveway, and Dad parked in a small gravel lot beside the house. The log cabin was a light reddish wood with a dark green roof. It had two wraparound porches, one on the lower level and one on the upper, each with a sliding glass door for access. The house's roof had a sharp peak in the middle, and there was a triangular window in the center of the peak. A stone chimney jutted out from the back. There were no flowers or trees planted near the house, but a forest filled in the space behind the cabin.

“I love it!” I shouted.

Dad turned off the car and handed me the house keys. “Go on and look around,” he said, rubbing his neck as he got out of the SUV. His blue-and-white polo shirt was wrinkled from the drive. “We'll be right there.”

I trotted across the gravel and headed up the wooden steps. The gazebo gave a startling 180-degree view of the mountains and trees. I looked out over the wooden railing. Beyond the driveway and across the creek, treetops and Blackheart Mountain loomed in the distance. A cloudy haze of gray encircled the mountain's top and I wondered if anything survived up there. Puffy white clouds felt close enough to touch, and the stress of the trip started to fade.

I glanced down at Dad, who was slinging some of our duffel bags over his shoulder while he talked on the phone. Mom, looking toward the forest, had her special Kate Spade notebook tucked under one arm as she framed potential shots with her fingers. She had her photos, Dad had his building, Kate had her Hollywood news and gossip, and I had . . . I needed to find my own project.

Turning my gaze away from my parents, I slid the key into the sliding glass door and stepped into the brightly lit living room. The polished and shiny wooden floors matched the log walls. Wooden support posts in the living room were decorated with carvings of birds so detailed, they must have taken weeks to whittle. Most were owls, but a few eagles were scattered on the posts.

I stood in front of the mahogany leather couches and stared at the beautiful stone fireplace. The mantel was a log sawed in half and mounted to the stone. Above the mantel, a huge silver flat-screen begged to be turned on. I left the living room and stepped into the adjoining kitchen. The cabinets, counter, and bar were wood. I flipped up the handle on
the faucet, squinting—afraid what color the water might be—but clear liquid streamed out. Whew. Our Belize kitchen had brown water sputtering into the sink most of the time.

“Brie?” Mom called.

“Coming!” I said.

“What do you think?” she asked, carrying a pink duffel bag on each shoulder. Dad came in behind her, staggering under the weight of the four suitcases he carried.

“It's definitely awesome, and just enough rustic,” I said. I nodded toward throw blankets with outlines of horses on them that were draped across the couches. “I really, really like it.”

I took the duffel bags from her and headed off to search the rest of the house. It felt like an “after” episode of a home makeover show.

A dining room adjoined the living room. There was a pool table that Dad would love, if he ever actually put down the phone and picked up a cue. Since that was unlikely, I would beg Mom to play with me. She was quite the pool shark. Sarah Lawrence art history majors aren't so innocent after all.

I wandered down the hallway and passed the master bedroom and a smaller room across from it. A short staircase led to a second floor. I walked upstairs and found a bedroom with double glass doors and gauzy white curtains opening up to a balcony. This was
so
my room.

The bed had a tall wooden headboard and a bare queen-size mattress. A dresser sat directly across from the bed and a large plain mirror hung over it. One window was directly to
the left of the dresser and the same gauzy curtains covered it. I reached for the handle on the sliding glass door and pulled it back—the balcony was bigger than it looked from inside my room. I could envision sitting out here with a giant glass of pink lemonade and a book. The balcony overlooked the driveway and showed a gorgeous view of Blackheart Mountain. Even though I'd seen the mountain earlier, I loved how dark and almost moody it looked against the lush grass and happy flowers. I was already in love with this place.

I stepped over my bags and headed downstairs. Mom was in the master bathroom running her fingers over the ledge of the Jacuzzi tub. This house was more like a resort than a rental. Outside, Dad paced around the driveway with his cell phone pressed to his ear. He threw a hand into the air.

“This house isn't terrible,” I said.

“It just makes the cut,” she agreed.

“Is it okay if I bike into town for a bit?” I asked. “I just want to look around.”

With our constant moving, it wasn't easy finding the time to get my license. I loved running and biking, though, so driving wasn't really high on my list anyway.

“You won't get lost, will you?” she asked. She wiped down the counter with a cloth and sprayed Windex on the mirrors. Each time we moved into a new place, she cleaned no matter how sanitary things appeared. It was part of her routine to ease us into a new house. I liked that she used the same cleanser—so it made the house smell like home. I always lit candles,
too—ones scented like roses and strawberries. Having familiar scents calmed me.

I started for the door. “There's not much town to get lost in.”

Mom nodded. “Take your phone just in case.”

She went back to cleaning the counter, and I left. When I opened the back door, Dad's voice carried across the yard. “Are you kidding me?” he said into the phone. “Why weren't these people handled before I got into town?” His free hand was balled into a fist. Then he saw me.

Dad uncurled his fingers and waved at me. Or rather, he waved in my general direction. All his attention was on the phone call. I grabbed my yellow bike and headed down the gravelly driveway. Exploring a town solo was one of my favorite things about coming to a new place. I intended to soak up every second of Lost Springs.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.

The crumbling road to town was almost deserted. There weren't any houses even remotely close to our cabin, and when a solitary pickup truck passed me as I biked into town, the driver lifted three fingers from the steering wheel and tipped his hat to me. Three fingers? Not one or two? Did three mean something? If you flashed three fingers in a lot of the places I had lived, it would have been taken as a gang sign.

In town, I passed a small post office—a wooden building with a tin roof that stretched into an overhang above the steps and small porch. A wooden sign, flapping gently in the breeze, said
WATSON'S GROCERY STORE
. The gravel parking lot was nearly empty, and attached to the grocery store was a smaller building. SPRING SUPPLY: SEED & FEED. Their parking lot was packed. Pickups with dogs in the truck beds were jammed into the crowded space. People trickled out of the store with burlap bags of what I assumed was feed for cattle and horses, bales of hay, and other unidentifiable farm supplies.

I headed for the grocery store. Our usual ritual was to come to the new grocery store and shop together as a family, but maybe I could pick up a few things now and save Mom and Dad the trip.

The grocery store was more like a market. Dozens of fruits and vegetables filled large bins, and smoky-smelling ham was suspended from the ceiling by twine in a corner of the store. Mom would probably buy out the fruit section when she saw all that Watson's offered. I grabbed milk, bread, and a container of pre-sliced turkey and headed for the checkout. The
one-
lane checkout.

“Hi,” I said to the cashier, who looked about my age. She had chin-length black hair and, like, a hundred metal buttons with smiley faces, clovers, and other tiny pictures pinned to her uniform. “Ask me” was written on her name tag.

“Stocking up on travel food?” she asked as she rang up my items.