North Country(25)

“Wow.” She eyes the basic farm tool in a new light.

“Yeah. So … everything.”

Isla bites her bottom lip as she regards me. She reminds me so much of young Emery when she does that.

“What?” It’s obvious she has more questions and she’s dying to ask them. Oddly enough, that doesn’t irritate me like I thought it would.

She hesitates but only for a beat. “Why was my mom crying last night?”

I falter, both at the sudden change in topic and the unspoken accusation. It rings as loud as a bell toll.

What did you do to her?

“I don’t know.”

Isla’s big blue eyes bore into me as if searching for my lie.

“I swear. I just said hello. That’s all.” That, and returned her hug.

And kissed her forehead.

And invited her inside.

Was that wrong? The fuck if I know, but in that moment, I couldn’t help myself.

I swallow against the bitter knowledge that I made Emery cry. Again. How many times have I done that in my lifetime? If she’s keeping score, the tally would surely gut me.

There was a guy inside serving time for armed robbery. Fred was his name. He took to marking his cell wall with a scratch for every day served. By the time he reached year three, it was a dramatic statement.

But I doubt his tally would have anything on Emery’s wall of tears.

Despite my best intentions to give her space, the urge to see her again is overwhelming. “Is your mom working today?”

“She doesn’t work weekends. ”

“She worked yesterday.”

“Only when they’re really short-staffed.” Isla pauses, as if reluctant. “She was on the sun porch when I left.”

I know that spot well. On any given summer afternoon, you could find Sandy out there with a cup of tea and a book. My mother would wander over, and we’d hear their cackles of laughter carry from across the field.

What would Emery do if I just showed up at her house, like I used to when we were kids, when our doors were revolving and always unlocked for each other?

Excited dogs bark somewhere outside, and the racket is followed by children’s shouts.

“They’re coming,” Isla sings in an ominous tone.

“I guess my work here is done.” I set the pitchfork down and shed the work gloves before veering off to the tack room. Now seems as good as any to go for a ride.

“I’m sorry about the whole rock thing,” Isla blurts suddenly. “It was stupid and … yeah, it was stupid.”

“We all make mistakes, right?” Who am I to scold anyone? I collect the pad and saddle, then the cinch and the reins, pausing a beat to work out the tangles. It’s a mess in here. The Holt Landry I remember would have banished us to this room until we straightened everything. “You can pay me back by letting me ride your horse.”

“Oh … okay.” Isla warns, “He doesn’t like most people.”

“Neither do I.”

“He threw Jon off once.”

“My kind of horse.” I’ve heard Jon’s an early riser. I’m surprised he’s not down here already. Maybe he’s on his way with his litter, which means I don’t want to be here when he arrives.

Jon kept his distance last night after that little showdown by the smoker, but I don’t doubt there’ll be a second round soon enough. “Get going on those hooves for me.”

Isla collects the pick and sets to work, running her hand down Biscuit’s front leg with a soft “up” command that he responds to without hesitation. She’s an old pro .

Meanwhile, I fumble with saddle buckles and the bridle. I used to be able to do this with my eyes closed.

While we quietly work, I think about Emery. What does she do with her free time these days? Besides drive her kid to hockey, which apparently consumes a lot of hours. Does she have friends? Hobbies? Is there someone in her life? My mother’s letters never mentioned any dates or prospects. Granted, the divorce was nasty, but that was years ago.

“Is your mom seeing anyone—”

“Who let Copper out?” a boyish voice hollers then, a moment before Thomas steps into the barn, followed by his twin brothers. All three wear wide-brimmed hats. At least they’ve balanced it with flannel jackets and practical rubber boots for mucking.

“It turned into the fucking Wild West while I was gone,” I mutter under my breath, annoyed at their poor timing.

Isla snorts.

Louder, I say, “I let him out and I cleaned his stall. You got a problem with that?”

Thomas shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear.

I temper my tone. “Good. You can pay me back by helping me set up my phone later.”

“Aren’t you gonna clean ours?” one of the twins asks—which one, who knows? They’re identical demons.

“Nope.” Grabbing my coat from the hook, I guide Biscuit out of the barn, past the corral gate, the sound of the twins’ whining fading the farther I get.

Biscuit tosses his head back with excitement as the wide-open field waits before us.

“Yeah, you know what’s coming, right?” I stroke his muzzle. “Go easy on me, boy. It’s been a minute.”

He answers with a huff.

I slip my foot into a stirrup and hoist myself onto his back. Just like riding a bike. But wouldn’t it be ironic, to survive so many years behind bars relatively unscathed, only to break my neck the morning after I returned home because I didn’t listen to a sixteen-year-old girl’s warning?