Wild Hearts (5 page)

“Go back to the city, Brooks!” a woman yelled.

“Leave our land alone!” someone else added.

My eyes stopped on a white poster with red letters.
THIS IS THEIR HOME
, the sign read, and silhouetted horses ran underneath. The sign moved high above the holder's head, and he pushed back his cowboy hat.

Logan.

It felt as though every cell in my body froze. I couldn't believe
he
was here. I backed up into the shadows.

“Get off my property!” Dad yelled. He walked down the porch stairs and headed right for the crowd.

“Michael!” Mom shouted.

But he kept walking as if he hadn't heard her.

I looked at the crowd and there was a man who was almost identical to Logan, only older. The man raised his hand in the air, quieting the group.

Dad stopped just short of Logan and the man in a black cowboy hat.

“We are not here to scare or upset your family,” the man said. “However, we
are
here to make you see how many of us are against your plans for Lost Springs. This is our home.”

The crowd clapped and whistled.

“We'll continue to protect our horses, no matter the cost,” the man said.

“And I'm going to continue to do my job,
no matter the cost
,” Dad said in a mocking tone. “Do you want this town to get poor?” He shook his head. “Let me rephrase that.”

“Brooks, it's not about money,” the man said. “It's—”

Dad laughed, silencing the stranger. “It
is
about money. Look at this town. It's not exactly thriving in this economy.”

“Go call the police,” Mom said to me.

Mutely, I nodded. I found one of the phones charging on the kitchen counter. I pressed 911 and waited for the operator.

“Lost Springs nine-one-one,” a cheery female voice said. “What is your emergency?”

“Um,” I said. “There is kind of a protest in front of my house right now.”

There was a pause. “What kind of protest? Does anyone have weapons?” the woman asked.

“I don't know about weapons. There are people with a bunch of signs who are protesting my dad's land development here.”

“Oh,” the operator said, her voice not so cheery anymore. “I'll send an officer to your location. Someone will be there in a few minutes.”

“Wait,” I said. I heard her rapidly pushing buttons. “I didn't give you my address. I'm calling from a cell phone.”

“I don't need your address,” she said. “You must be Michael Brooks's kid, right?”

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. “Yes.”

“I know where you live,” the woman replied.

I hung up, staring at the phone for a minute. I shook my head and hurried through the living room to find Mom. She hadn't moved from her place in the doorway. I slowed down and crept up behind her.

“I called the police,” I said.

“Good,” she said, keeping her gaze on Dad. He hadn't moved—he and the protest leader were staring each other down.

“Brooks, you know damn well who I am,” the guy said.

Dad laughed. “Do you have any idea how many people I talk to in a day? Do you really think I'd even
take
your calls?”

“Someone in your office did,” the man said. “I'm Jack McCoy. I left messages with your people, but you never returned my calls. Think of how much trouble you would have saved if you had only spoken to me.”

“I don't have time to return phone calls to idiots like you,” Dad said. “I'm here to do my job. I've dealt with radicals like you before, trust me.”

Jack crossed his arms. “You have
no
idea who we are. These mustangs—”

“Are not my problem,” Dad interrupted. His face was going through various shades of red. Now it was nearing
tomato red. “Listen now, because I'm only going to say this once,” Dad continued. “I would be stupid not to have my people run every possible check or test to make sure I won't have any problems. The hotel that I'm going to build doesn't violate a damn thing. And those horses can certainly find other places to run around.”

“All right, Brooks,” Jack McCoy said, shaking his head. “I don't think you understand—”

He was cut off as a cop car with a severely rattling dented fender pulled into the driveway and creaked to a halt.

“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” the officer asked as he got out of the car. He sounded bored, almost as if he already knew what the problem was. He pushed back his brown hat and the sun hit his weathered face.

“There's no problem, Officer St—” McCoy started.

Dad cut him off. “There certainly
is
a problem,” he said.

The rest of the protestors were silent.

“Honey, go inside,” Mom said.

“Why?” I asked. “I want to make sure that Dad's okay.”

“
I'll
be sure.” Mom tipped her head in the direction of the living room. “Go.”

I wanted to argue with her, but I watched her chew on her lower lip—something she did when she was nervous or stressed. I didn't want to make it worse.

Nodding, I headed inside. Mom shut the door behind me and the house was quiet. I started toward the window facing the backyard, but changed my mind. I half jogged upstairs and grabbed my phone. I sat facing my sliding glass door. From my spot on the bed, I could see Dad, McCoy, the sheriff, and the protestors.

“Kate,” I said the second she answered. “I'm so glad you picked up.”

“What's wrong?” my sister asked. I could hear the panic in her voice. “Brie, where are Mom and Dad?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” I said. “I totally forgot about the time difference.”

Kate took a deep breath. “What's going on?”

“Something kind of scary,” I said.

By the time I'd told Kate everything, the officer had driven off, and Dad had made a beeline for the front door.

“I think it's over,” I said. “I'll text you later.”

Jack seemed to signal to the rest of the group to head down our driveway to the road. I squinted and could just make out Jack and Logan walking side by side.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.

The next morning I woke to silence. I stretched, and the sore muscles in my arms screamed in protest. I'd been up until midnight unpacking. I'd gone to bed and woken up around two because all I could hear was Dad and Jack McCoy arguing in my head. Then I saw
his
face. Logan standing at the front of the crowd, looking on at his dad talking to mine.

When I'd finally been seconds away from drifting off to sleep, a bone-chilling howl had made me freeze and hold my breath. It wasn't as if I hadn't heard coyotes before, but it freaked me out. The coyotes hadn't stopped howling until three thirty, and I was wide awake. After I got up and went around the house and checked to make sure every window and door was locked, I lay in bed listening for sounds—imagining the protestors quietly creeping onto our lawn, ready to sneak-attack us in the morning. I finally fell asleep around four.

I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow. I felt like a coward. I'd stood behind Mom during the entire argument. I'd hidden in the shadows of our house like a scared little kid. I almost wanted to apologize to Dad for not appearing at his side. I frowned, mentally scolding myself. I'd never
cared what people thought of me. I was always the new girl, and that made me stand out. So why hadn't I jumped to Dad's defense?

Because Mom would have freaked if you'd gone out there,
I told myself. But even I didn't believe my lie.

I slid out of bed and opened my blinds. I'd had the window cracked open all night for air and the bedroom was chilly. I slid on jeggings and ankle socks and pulled on a black graphic tee with a rhinestone skull on the front.

Quickly, I did my morning routine: brush hair and pull it into a high ponytail, wash face and apply BB cream with sunscreen, brush teeth. I slicked on a coat of Sugar Fresh Rosé lip gloss and, pocketing it, headed downstairs.

Mom and Dad were already up and in the kitchen.

“Did you guys hear the coyotes last night?” I asked, pulling out a high-backed chair from the island. Before sitting, I went to the window and scanned our lawn. No protestors.

“Coyotes?” Dad said. “Really?” His brown-gray eyes looked at me.

“I can't believe you didn't hear them. They howled half the night. Then I was too freaked to sleep.”

“I didn't hear them, either,” Mom said. “Probably because we fell asleep with the TV on.”

Mom poured me a glass of OJ and slid it across the counter to me. She went to the coffeepot and topped off the coffee in her favorite yellow mug.

“Can I have a cup, please?” I asked, sipping my OJ.

Mom shook her head. “Not until you finish your juice. Your father”—Mom shot Dad a look—“is on his sixth cup of coffee.”

Dad grinned, looking up from his iPad. “My love,” he said. “It's not my sixth cup.”

I grabbed a raspberry-filled breakfast bar from a wicker basket on the counter.

“You haven't had less than six,” Mom said, folding her arms.

“I never said
less
,” Dad said. He had a gleam in his eye, like he was excited to be getting away with something. “I had two cups before you woke up.”

“Michael,” Mom said, shaking her head. “It's not even seven o'clock. At least drink some juice or have a piece of fruit.”

Dad kissed Mom's cheek. He tore a banana from the ripe bunch near the breakfast-bar basket.

“If we don't get our morning coffee, it stunts our growth,” I said, putting an arm around Dad's waist and grinning at Mom.

Dad laughed and kissed the top of my head. Mom was barely able to conceal a smirk.

“You are your father's daughter,” she said. “Now, hon, Dad and I need to talk to you about something before you leave.”

“Okaaay,” I said slowly.

“We didn't talk much yesterday about what happened,” Mom said. “You know there's a very good chance you might run into protestors at the development site this morning. Or maybe even this afternoon.”

“I'm not afraid of them,” I said, shrugging. “Dad's not doing anything wrong.”

“You were really quiet after everyone left,” Mom said. She did her Mom-Scan of my face, looking for any signs that there was more to the story.

“Brie, you
can
stay home today,” Dad said.

“I'm
really
okay,” I said. “Stop.”

I looked away when Dad leaned in to kiss Mom.

“Like we talked about last night,” Mom said to Dad, “I'm going to be on a video call with another photographer, and then I've got to order a few new pieces of camera equipment.”

“Okay, hon,” Dad said to Mom. “You almost ready?” Dad asked me.

When I wasn't working on my homeschool curriculum, I worked for Dad in his office. I'd been Dad's secretary and website designer since I was twelve. He had started me out with small tasks like filing paperwork. Then, after a month, he taught me how to answer the phone with a “How may I help you?” and not a “What's up?” By that point, I realized that Dad didn't have—and really needed—some sort of online presence for his company. So, I got a book from the library about how to design a website. A few months later, Dad's company website went live and business really started to pick up. I was glad to have learned all that I had from him and wouldn't take back the hours I put in for anything. Still, I was almost jealous of everyone else in my family. They all had their own “thing.” I wondered if I would ever find mine.

Under Mom's eye, I swallowed the rest of my juice and took the last bite of my breakfast bar. I made puppy dog eyes at her, and she went, shaking her head, to the coffeepot and poured the remainder of it into a stainless steel travel mug. The mug was the one and only thing I insisted had to be safely packed and not left behind during any of our moves.