CHAPTER FIVE  ╱  My Heart Is A Hearth

            It's always peaceful when the evening comes to a close, making way for the sheet of stars that hide out in the light of day. Always watching. Hoping. Wishing. It's awful lonely, too.

            The wooden rocker creaks against the worn denim wrapped around my legs. Glass of sweetened ice tea in my grasp, I sway back and forth, watching the blankets of liquid red mute into a faded shade of gold.

            I take a sip of my mama's homemade brew, allowing it to seep down the back of my throat leaving me with the taste of home on my tongue.

            I ponder about tomorrow. About how much was supposed to be done today, but didn't even cross my mind considering the million other things that consumed my day.

            My best heifer, Bessie, going into labor. The dilapidated fence that I'd been putting off fixing for quite some time in Pasture Four. My right hand ranch man, Dalton, calling in sick at two o'clock this morning. A stomach bug, he'd said. A stomach bug, my ass. He was drunker than all hell when his voice rumbled through my phone's speaker. Slurred and disturbingly giddy. I think he told me he loved me three times before he hung up.

            I've got a corn ear worm epidemic on my hands, soil that beckons to be plowed for autumnal preparation, and a hoard of applications to sort through to acquire an equine caretaker. Lucy typically manages our stable house, but now that construction is finally completed at her new bar and grill, Badlands, she's been unavailable. I have enough to tend to as is so I was forced to release an ad in the local paper.

            I loosen my neck, allowing my head to bobble backwards until it thuds against worn wood. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, I lift it again to glaze over the open fields in front of, what used to be, my parents old farmhouse. It's mine now.

            My line of sight ambles just over the cusp of the hill where a silhouette molds against the veil of amber. Edging closer and closer, arm hung loosely and enveloping the shadow of a much smaller frame, I find myself straightening my back a little, adjusting my oily locks in a way that isn't completely off putting.

            The tips of my fingers graze the rising stubble decorating my jaw. I'd abandoned the clean cut look, not out of fondness, but out of mere indifference. There was no need and I didn't have the time to manage it any longer.

            The shadows advance until finally I'm able to make out their damn near identical features. I knew from the moment they topped the crest who had been journeying in my direction.

            Junie Wren and her mini me, Little Miss Pearl.

            I note a casserole dish clutched tightly against June's middle. White with a blue cornflower design. The contents, I'm not sure of, but I'm hanging my hopes high that it's her mama's homemade chicken and broccoli casserole. My stomach rumbles at the mere prospect.

            A smile touches my lips when June bends down, her lips honing in on Pearl's ear. The little girl nods her head a few times, her eyes meandering over to me. A mischievous little grin creeps up on her lips. I send her a wink that launches that grin of hers further up the apples of her freckled cheeks, displaying a few of her missing teeth.

            June clutches Pearl's hand and eases her up the porch steps. The wood groans against the soles of their feet, creaking a sad little tune. I zero in on June's particularly, finding them enclosed by a set of little cream-colored heels. My eyes narrow at the sight of them.

            "Mama made you a casserole. Chicken and broccoli. Lucy slipped up and told her your version of dinner are Banquet meals. She said, and I quote: 'Well, that just won't do.'"

            Her voice drifts into my ears, like a melody, but I'm still watching her toes do a little dance in those uncomfortable looking confines. June's smile is polite, a little stiff, but still as pretty as ever.

            "So here we are, hand delivering the scraps," Embarrassment washes over her face, cheeks becoming as red as a Gala. "Well, not scraps. It's an entirely new dish. Mama made it separate. I-I don't know why I said that." Her smile is more wobbly by the time her lips conclude her rambling. A smirk rises on my cheeks, watching her get all flustered.

Reminds me of when we were teenagers.

She always stumbled over her words when it was just her, Gust, Lucy, and I. We had all been closer in age, Sawyer many years our junior. It always baffled me how she could stand atop a stage, or at the front of a classroom, or a cafeteria full of a bunch of Graceland kids with confidence dripping from her lips and a chin tilted to the high heavens and not miss a single beat considering how much she ate her own tongue and allowed her nervousness to devour her words when it was the just the four of us.

            Pearl's voice, soft and hushed, filters through my ears next. It severs me from my daze, "Mama, can the cowboy talk or is he like Snoopy?"

              June shuffles in her heels, knocking her knee into Pearl's side. She gives Pearl a fierce, motherly look. I clench my fists against the rocker handles. The girl shields her Cheshire grin with a curved palm, peaking over at me like a little rascal as she muffles the giggle behind her smile. I lift my eyes, steadying them on June's frowning face. I stifle a laugh, my lips betraying me by peeling upward.

            I catch the glint of her wedding band out of the corner of my eye and swallow. It's as if a mound of gravel was laced in the spit, sending a sharp twinge down my throat. The body of my tongue becomes incredibly wilted. I tap it against the roof of my mouth, to no avail.

             June's legs do a little dance, a nervous little shuffle, again when she discerns my faltering smile. A tiny little chuckle drifts from between her parted lips, airy and highly strung. I shake out of my daze, returning the smile to my lips and extract my legs from the rocker.

            Limp and wobbly, like Jell-O, I slip my hands beneath the dish. I graze her skin, sending a shockwave through my fingertips that nearly sends the ceramic pot to the ground. She must have felt something, too, because as soon as I have the dish fully in my grasp, she tears her hands away and rubs her fingertips together as if they'd been burned.

            Emptying my throat, I peer down at Pearl with a wider smile etched onto my lips, "Just a man of very few words, darlin'."

            Pearl tugs away at her mama's hand, "He called me darlin', Mama! Just like that guy in that movie we watched! Do you remember? Like a real cowboy!"

            June, seemingly half-amused and half-abashed, eyes Pearl, "He is a real cowboy, baby. I told you that . . ." She told her that. I'm grinning like a proper idiot now. There's no denying it and definitely no hiding it.

            June's eyes lift, settling back on me. Right where I prefer them. I tuck the sheathed casserole between the crook of my elbow and my ribs. It's still warm and my mouth's watering. Not sure if it's from the home cooked dinner stowed into my side or the woman standing in front of me. Likely both.

June eyes my lips for a moment and mirrors the gesture. Her shoulders slacken, posture loosening in a way that seems more relaxed.

            "I don't mean to interrupt your evening, I told Mama that it was getting late and you were probably—"

            "Are your feet okay?" I ask, abruptly capturing her unfinished thought.

            Confusion embraces her features. The downturn of her brows. Lips ajar. A slight wriggle of her dainty little nose. Muddled, she begins to stammer through a wordless string of bewilderment.

It's frowned upon to interrupt. I was raised better, and I'm about to interject again like some asshole, "Your feet. Those heels."

            Pearl's head darts between the two of us. Two blubbering, riddled adults. A smile still takes shape on her lips. Tugging on her mama's hand again, she beams up at her, "I told you not to wear those, Mama. Boots are comfier."

            As if June needs further confirmation, Pearl extends her leg outward and gives her boot clad foot a little shake. Smiling softly at the embroidered peach at the heel, I glance back over at June. Her face, still stained pink with her goldilocks draped around her jaw, is a touch more sheepish now more than anything.

            "I'm quite alright," June affirms. She loops her arm around the back of Pearl's head, absentmindedly sifting through the blonde strands with her polished fingertips, "We better be gettin' back."

            I nod my head, "Of course. I want to thank y'all for takin' the time to stop by. I'm afraid I can't let you walk all the way back home though. Not in those." My eyes direct toward her confined feet. Of course, she looks amazing in them—she looks amazing in everything—but the choice reeks of Spencer Beckett.

            "Oh, no! That won't be nec—"

            Pearl tugs at the skirt of June's sundress, a pale yellow number with flowers stitched all over. The ruched bust mocks me, but I keep my eyes level. "Don't be rude, Mama!"

June and I share a laugh.

            "Guess that settles it. I'm just gonna take this inside and we can be on our way." I explain, my fingertips tightening around the ceramic platter.

June tucks a loose strand of her flaxen-hued locks behind her ear. A polite smile appears on her lips as she gestures toward the pick up truck stilled in the drive, "Of course. We'll wait by your truck."

I stroll casually inside after giving the pair a slight nod, allowing the screen door to crash into the white siding. My eyes don't stray from June as she departs down the stairs in those little heels. Neither do hers, her neck twisted to peer back at me over her shoulder, hand bound with Pearl's. A flush rolls down my back as I disappear inside.

That's when I pick up speed.

Clambering around, I race through the foyer and split off into the kitchen where I ease the casserole dish onto the island. I trek upstairs, down the hallway, which seems a lot more lengthy in a rush, and toward my bedroom. I step through the threshold leading to the master bath.

Rifling through my bathroom cabinets, I roll a stick of deodorant beneath my armpits, accompanied by a spritz of the cologne that I've been using as a decor piece on my sink vanity top against both wrists and around my collarbone. I leave my fingerprint behind within the dust caressing the cologne bottle and race back downstairs, easing my pace at the welcome mat, and appear rather relaxed as I step back into the descending light of day.

June is a woman of her word. When I return, she's got Pearl looped around her hip, their cheeks pressed together as she points out at the field full of mares that I'd fenced closer to the farmhouse a couple of years back. There'd been concerns when I'd had them stowed in Pasture Six. Mountain lions.

My boots scuff against the gravel as I ease toward them. Pearl's eyes are first to capture mine. Beaming and stained chestnut, she flashes me a hopeful grin, "Do you think you can teach me, Cowboy?"

June is quick to interject, but she does so wordlessly. Glancing over at me, she appears hesitant. Whether it's out of fear or the chance of burdening me, I'm not entirely certain.

I flick my eyes back over to Pearl, "I can teach you just fine, but you'd have to ask for permission from your mama first."

Pearl's eyes shift over to June's, "Please, Mama? Pretty, pretty please!."

June tears away at her lower lip as Pearl pleads with her, considerably well for a four year old. Puppy dog eyes and all. Lifting those deep brown eyes up toward my lighter ones, she gives her head a tilt, "You really don't mind?"

            I can sense the light resonating across my features, "I wouldn't mind at all, Junie Wren."

            Her gaze returns to her baby, her cheeks a darker shade of crimson that she not-so-subtly tries to conceal from me. "I guess that settles that then."

            "I'm free tomorrow evenin'." I offer, my hand finding the small of her back as I guide the pair closer to my pickup.

            When I notice her muscles tightening along her shoulders, I remove my hand. Too much, too soon. It's difficult not to feel eager around the girl you've loved for well over a decade. Despite the desires coursing through my veins, I restrain myself and rein it in.

            She says, "Tomorrow's fine," as we both reach to grasp the handle on the passenger's side.

            Our eyes collide.

            She responds, "I've got it," as I release my breath and say, "Allow me."

            Pearl's gaze is fixed on the two of us. She's acutely aware for a child. "Cowboys are supposed to open the door for us ladies, Mama," she says between us, playing with her mama's loosened locks, "It's what Nana calls curtsy."

"Courtesy, Peach." June corrects with an amused smile painted across her plump lips.

"Courtesy," Pearl coos with a partially toothless grin. The girl's eyes find mine. "Daddy doesn't have courtesy so Mama's not used to it. But Daddy's not a cowboy."

I bite my tongue, my jaw working incessantly by the grinding of my molars. I give the handle a harsh jerk and widen the door for them. June avoids my eyes and her daughter's admission, instead piling the young girl in the cab of my truck and sliding in right after without another word.

I stand by my previous claim: Spencer Beckett's always been a fucking idiot.

            The Dean's List might've garnered him a degree, but it didn't give him a lick of common sense. He wouldn't be miles apart from one of the greatest women of God's creation if it had.

            I try my best to ignore the selfish feeling in the pit of my stomach, relieved by her presence, relieved that she's here with me rather than with her cheating, son of a bitch husband.

            I settle into my seat and spark the engine. When the truck sputters to life, Shania Twain's voice filters through the small space.

            Even with burning cheeks, I don't reach to turn the nozzle. I'm an unapologetic, die hard Shania fan. The tiny bit of shame subsides when Pearl stage whispers into her mother's ear, "I think I love him, Mama."

            "I bet you do. What's not to love?" she replies in an equally dramatized whisper.     

            My cheeks are two flames, my heart is a hearth, and the selfishness pools into my bloodstream with impenitent gratitude for the girl I once knew's unexpected return.