Danger, Sweetheart Part 8

"Unexpected."

"She was eighty-four by then."

"This is a terrible story."

Natalie shrugged. "He never built anything else. But for a long time he meant to. The barn was nicknamed Main One because lots of people heard him call it that. 'This barn is the main one, but I'll add on a silo.' 'This is the main one until I build more outbuildings.' Like that."

"Again: terrible story."

"He did eventually settle for someone else and married her and fathered his first child at age seventy-nine."

"He must have indulged heavily in powdered rhino horn. Which was a legal indulgence back then, so the only stigma was one of humiliation, not societal."

"Dunno about that, but he was your great-grandfather."

"Ah." Blake took a moment to process the new data. A beautiful woman had on short acquaintance told him more about his family than his mother ever had. "So this farm belongs to my mom now?"

"No. His kid sold it and it's been changing hands ever since."

"Ah." This, then, was the moral: things come full circle. His grandfather, of whom he knew nothing save that he turned his back on his daughter when she needed his counsel and comfort as she never would again, sold the farm, and three generations later Blake tried to sell and was now penalized. As far as life lessons went, it was obscure and unhelpful.

"Thank you for explaining." Then a dreadful thought hit him. "Are you one of the families my mom told me about? Have you done things you never wished to do in order to hold on to your family's land, which has been in your family a century or more?"

She was giving him an odd look, but at least it wasn't a glare. "No. I'm not in one of those families."

"Excellent."

Later that same day, she had introduced him to the other farm employees, (field hands? was that PC?), all of whom had rhyming names ("Harry, Larry, and Gary? Really?"

"Really.") and were sullen and disinclined to be friendly. They made themselves very busy whenever approached, whacking nails into posts, using pitchforks to stir things around, starting up a tractor and driving away ... random farm ch.o.r.es he didn't yet understand. What Blake found interesting was that they didn't seem to care for Natalie, either. Perhaps she was a strict part-time foreman.

He heard scattered mutterings from Harry, (no, the redhead is Gary), one of which was, puzzlingly, "douche" and the other "Degas." He had no idea why a trio of male farmhands would be concerned about feminine hygiene, but such things were not his business. Nor had he been aware those same employees had a pa.s.sion for the works of Edgar Degas (was it Degas' uncanny ability to depict movement they found worth commenting on, or his penchant for portraying human isolation? must find out), but it was heartening to know that there was at least one topic they could all discourse on.

Well, more than one, but he was reluctant to chat about how they were nearly made jobless and homeless by his various dealings with the local bank, Sweetheart Trust. (Ah, the carefree days of three weeks earlier when he was in his comfortable Residence Inn residence, authorizing wires to Sweetheart Trust while indulging in a Cobb salad with extra bacon and pondering what not to buy Rake for their upcoming birthday, because Rake was terrible.) Natalie knew of Blake's complicity (he wasn't sure how but a.s.sumed it was the grapevine, something small towns were p.r.o.ne to, or so Updike's Rabbit, Run and Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird indicated). Natalie could have found out who he was in any one of a dozen ways; how she knew his ident.i.ty wasn't the puzzle.

Her continuing manner of strained but polite dislike made no sense. If she knew he had paid off the other mortgages and surrendered the t.i.tles to Garrett Hobbes, she must know that, days before the closing was to happen, Blake had left Heartbreak alone. She should be pleased with him, correct? Especially since he was there to try to save the farm by being worked to death. At least, that was what his mother's logic had indicated. So why the stiff, unpleasant manner with him, with only an occasional smile or laugh, and that given over most reluctantly? It was a conversation he wished for and dreaded in equal parts.

Bottom line: she no longer liked him, and it was driving him mad.

However things would play out, his first day at Heartbreak had been tiring, though he had done little more than explore the area and meet the employees, all of whom liked to discuss douching and Degas when they thought he was out of earshot. Perhaps it was being out in the fresh air most of the day, or perhaps his brain was demanding it power down to process everything he'd learned thus far. Whatever the reason, he collapsed onto the attic bed with a grateful sigh, and darkness began to descend almost at once. Before it took him completely, he reminded himself tomorrow was a new day, a new start, a new chance.

If I turn out to be even a bit good at this, perhaps Natalie will smile more. And if I prove to have no knack for this, perhaps Mom will relent, which would make me smile more. Either way, tomorrow is another beginning. Not a new beginning; everyone says that, which is odd, because by definition all beginnings are new, so they're merely indulging in redundancy, which is a waste of nnnnnzzzzzzzzzzz ...

Thirteen.

Myocardial Infarction Farm was like the apple Queen Grimhilde presented to Snow White: lovely on the outside while hiding the excruciating death within.

Blake realized this when he attempted to get out of bed and at least 400 of his body's 642 muscles seized in protest. His usual disorientation upon waking in a strange place (ow everything hurts did I work out in my sleep? or get run over? in my sleep?) kicked in and it took him a few seconds to recall where he was. Sweetheart, North Dakota. The farm. The attic, facedown on the bed. Fully clothed, shoes on. Natalie had delicately suggested he invest in a pair of cowboy boots ("You're not dressed right; you're not shod right; you look like a cruise s.h.i.+p tourist in those tennis shoes, G.o.d, why am I putting up with any of this?") and his verbatim reply had been equally courteous ("Never! I would literally, literally and not figuratively, literally die before investing in cowboy boots. And where do you keep the Band-Aids?"), if also vehement.

Sweating, because the sun had been s.h.i.+ning on him for hours (in Natalie's defense, she had warned him of the perils of east-facing windows when one lives on a planet that rotates in that direction). Right hand clutching a tube of BENGAY like a smoker clutched a pack of cigarettes. Left hand clutching his cell phone, as he had been in the middle of texting Rake his threat du jour, because Rake was terrible. Blake cracked one eye open and squinted at the last text he sent.

The deepest darkest depths of h.e.l.l await you, little brommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm Text sent 7:45 P.M.

He slooowly began allowing his muscles to obey his brain's command to cease their complaining and get to work and calmed himself by pondering his position.

Must have collapsed on the bed and sank into sleep like I was sucking down ether.

He wasn't dying. He hadn't been in a coma. He hadn't been in a horrific accident (probably; he hadn't quite abandoned the cherished daydream that this was all a train wreckinduced delusion). He had worked harder than he ever had in his life, and that included the summer he spent a.s.sisting the University of Leicester unearth Richard III's skeleton from its parking lot prison.

Working Heartbreak Farm was more difficult than digging up a dead body. But his muscles would adapt, making it easier to get through days like yesterday.

"Oh G.o.d," he groaned, stumbling to his feet like a drunken octogenarian with two sprained ankles. "My muscles will adapt! That might be the worst news of my week. I'll get used to this." The thought was as staggering as it was horrifying.

He hobbled into the small bathroom just off the stairs, hands pressed to the small of his back (so this is why the elderly often walk this way! it's the only way to curtail the agony. that and an IV full of morphine), and groaned at his reflection (kill it! kill it with fire! and make it brush its hair) and found even the muscles in his fingers had been affected. It took over a minute to finesse the cap off the toothpaste and another before he was brus.h.i.+ng his teeth. m.u.f.fled groans bubbled from his lips along with toothpaste, making it look like he was in the final stages of rabies.

He changed into inappropriate work clothes (according to Natalie Lane, but he hadn't had a chance to upgrade, or would that be downgrade? he'd only packed three outfits in the first place) and limped down the stairs into the kitchen. He was in agony, yes, but at least he could look forward to a hearty breakfast, since he could smell bacon and other wondrous things and oh no no no no!

"What time is it?" he demanded, and it didn't sound like a whimper at all, dammit.

"Time to miss breakfast," Gary chortled, slooowly finis.h.i.+ng the last piece of bacon, because even on short acquaintance it was obvious he was a heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"I'm ravenous."

"Prob'ly should've gotten up in time to eat, then." Gary was-was he? He was! He was positively savoring the bacon, which, Blake could not help but notice, was cooked perfectly to his taste. It stood stiffly in Gary's grip, crisp and dark, and shrank with each chomp. It looked so delicious Blake was giving serious thought to yanking Gary's plate away and then licking it.

"That is it." Blake wondered at the thump, then realized he had stamped his foot like a child having a tantrum. "Fission has been reached."

"Eh?"

"I'm getting a hot plate. Or a microwave. Or a fireplace. Something with which I can cook in the attic so I don't have to suffer breakfast before dawn, lunch before ten, and supper at four."

His outburst seemed to amuse Gary to no end, and the man let out a blatant chuckle as Blake limped to the refrigerator to extract orange juice and pour himself a gla.s.s the size of a flower vase. To think there was a time when he eschewed all fruit juice because of the unnecessary glucose high. Now an unnecessary glucose high was the only thing keeping him from constructive manslaughter.

A short man, red haired and freckled (and how his job wasn't murder on the man's complexion Blake did not understand), tanned and lean, Gary was wearing Natalie Laneapproved work clothes: ancient jeans, a clean but faded red-and-black plaid s.h.i.+rt, broken-in boots, a grimy baseball cap. As he chewed bacon his jaws moved laterally, like a bovine's.

"Prob'ly you should just hang it up already." Grind, grind. "Head on back to Vegas."

Blake paused in mid-gulp. Orange juice had never tasted more glorious. He could almost hear his starving cells groan their grat.i.tude. "How do you know where I'm from?"

Shrug. "Ever'body knows."

Hmm. I feel so ... what's the opposite of comforted? "I'm not hanging it up." Yet. "It hasn't even been three days." Yet.

"Don't worry." Gary stood, bussed his own plates, cutlery, and coffee cup to the sink, then stretched, yawned, and ambled to the door. "It gets worse. Gotta get to work. You, too, I guess. Or, dunno, have more juice or something. Either way, like I said, it'll get worse."

Don't you threaten me, Gary! I could buy and sell you a thousand times over if my mommy hadn't frozen my accounts. As a manly threat, it left much to be desired. Perhaps something like when my mommy hears you've been mean she'll make you sorry! Perhaps not.

Blake sucked down another vase of orange juice, liberated some bread from the pantry, ate two slices in twenty seconds, then shuffled out to face another day of Dante's Inferno.

Fourteen.

Are you one of the families my mom told me about? Have you done things you never wished to do in order to hold on to your family's land, which has been in your family a century or more?

Well, no. Not at all. Natalie Lane knew exactly who she was: the town boogeyman.

She had known Blake would have no idea who belonged on Heartbreak and who didn't. And because she wanted a closer look, she presented herself as his part-time foreman. It wasn't as though she couldn't make the time; the bank had already cut her hours to fifteen a week. And it's not like Gary, Harry, or Larry would care enough to notice, never mind rat her out. They'd be saving most of their ire for Vegas Douche, and thank goodness.

Okay, so he's here and you're here and your sinister disguise has fooled him completely and now what?

She had to make Blake see the folly of his check-writing ways. Which meant she had to make him love Heartbreak. Love it for itself, not the golf course it was in danger of becoming. Which was impossible. But Sweetheart was in the state it was in because too many people gave up. She was in it to win it, if "win it" meant "eventually slink away in defeat."

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Einstein was right about that, even if he'd never gotten the hang of teaching.

Regardless: time on Heartbreak made for a nice change from foreclosing on people's homesteads. Which was the inherent irony of her position: The bank didn't want farms. The bank wanted-needed-money. There was a reason foreclosure was the second-to-last stop. What would Sweetheart Trust do with a bunch of farms not being farmed? There were only three options, and they all sucked.

1) Keep the farms and rot along with the rest of the vanis.h.i.+ng town. No.

2) Let Garrett Hobbes finish the job he started, which would lead to strangers in hideous outfits stomping around in cleats whacking small white b.a.l.l.s over land her ancestors lived for and bled for. h.e.l.l no.

3) Felony murder. Good short-term plan, bad long-term plan. Nuh-uh.

Oh, and here he came, limping out the door, then pausing on the porch and blinking up at the sun like he didn't know what the big yellow thing in the sky was. He slowly gazed around the dooryard, taking in the barn, the other buildings, the sky, the ground. Then he shuddered, honest to G.o.d s.h.i.+vered all over, then limped toward her. It was, she had to acknowledge, a purposeful limp.

Gotta give him some credit, he knows what we all know. Knows he's not cut out for this. Hasn't quit. The fact that it had only been a few days didn't tamp her admiration; she'd seen people quit Heartbreak after two hours, never to be seen again.

And what was she doing, admiring Vegas Douche? Cripes. She didn't admire his stubbornness, the inevitable genetic trait of any Banaan offspring. And she definitely didn't feel sorry for him as he painfully made his way across the yard to her. No, she was cold; she was an ice queen; nothing touched her; nothing mattered but her mission, she was unmoved by the gentler emotions.

So she greeted him with, "Unmoved!" and then wanted to slap herself in the face. A lot.

"Good morning." Dammit, why did his voice have to be so pleasingly deep? He didn't talk; he rumbled. He'd probably sound like a gravel truck during s.e.x. Which shouldn't have sounded hot-gravel didn't do anything for her, s.e.xually-but was.

During s.e.x? Lane! Get your s.h.i.+t together! Don't make me come down there!

Good advice, brain.

"Morning." An improvement over unmoved, at least.

"There are two bees on your head."

"Why are you counting the bees on my head?" She reached up, slowly pulled off her hat, and blew softly at the fat striped things, who buzzed at her in a we'll let this go because we're in a good mood, but we could f.u.c.k you up if we liked, and flew away. They were all over this time of year; Natalie didn't mind. It was the idiots who shrieked and jumped and flapped at bees, scaring them, who got stung. Bees were picky; they didn't want to eviscerate themselves unless they thought it was worth the cost. She could relate. "Sleep well?"

"Comatose well." He stood before her and braced himself. "What are you doing at Heartbreak today?"

You. Not we. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Like that, she was annoyed all over again. Annoyed by his silly clothes, his silly voice, his silly face. She'd been saving the worst ch.o.r.e to give the big jerk time to settle in but at once abandoned that plan. "Yeah, c'mon, there's one more thing that's going to be your responsibility. Too many people have quit, and I don't have to tell you this farm doesn't have near enough employees. There's three times the jobs for not near enough people."

"You certainly don't have to tell me," he agreed, falling into step beside her. "And yet you did tell me."

"Foreman prerogative!" she snapped back, and was surprised when he laughed.

"Agreed. I await my list of labors with giddy antic.i.p.ation and what the h.e.l.l is that thing?"

They had stopped at the small corral behind Main One, a small fenced-off area about forty feet in diameter. Inside, a stocky, s.h.a.ggy pony was standing in the middle of the corral, glaring at them. Her coat was the exact color of dust, her tail and mane the exact color of s.h.i.+t. Her head was proportionately large to her body, and the legs were st.u.r.dy and looked capable of any task the animal might demand from them. Small ears, big eyes. Most animals with large dark liquid eyes looked adorable; the pony's eyes appeared to be filled with rage, or at least scorn.

Blake, standing beside Natalie a prudent distance back from the corral, tried to speak, coughed, tried again. "What is that?"

"Six Two Six Nine Nine Three."

Another dry bark of a cough. "That's her name?"

"That's her PIT tag number." At his look, Natalie elaborated. "Pa.s.sive Integrated Transponder."

"So when she runs amok on a blood-soaked rampage, you can track her down and blow her up? Christ, she looks like a barrel with legs. A large barrel."

"She has to be; she's a breed of pony-"

"That thing was a pony before she ate a barrel? Where did she even get a barrel?"

Natalie giggled and managed to finish. "-that can carry adults."

"Pity the adult."

Exactly, Vegas Douche.

"And see her glare at us!" Blake seemed unable to look away from the game of chicken stare 626993 had initiated. "She's all by herself, too, back here." Blake looked past the corral at the great field of gra.s.s spread out behind Main One, which took up the better part of an acre before disappearing into the far tree line. It was peaceful back here, yeah, but he was right: lonely, too. "Why even buy the thing in the first place?"

"Because at the time, 'the thing' was to have plenty of company." Natalie managed, barely, not to kick him in the s.h.i.+n. "She's the last, and her purchase made sense at the time. Ponies eat a lot less hay than horses, and often don't need grain at all; they're much cheaper to keep. And pound for pound, they're strong for their size."

"Ah. An economical equine."

"Not bad," Natalie said, and snickered. To give Vegas Douche his due, he bounced back pretty quick and had a way with words. If anyone else had talked in that stuck-up way of his, they'd be laughed at. Vegas Douche pulled it off, somehow. G.o.d, if she wasn't careful she'd start to like him, which would screw things so completely it didn't bear examining.

Don't worry, Nat. He'll say something douchey any minute, and you can go back to being annoyed. The thought was honest, but she couldn't miss the inherent b.i.t.c.hiness in it. Is that the kind of woman I am? Or does Vegas Douche just bring that out in me? She decided it was the former. She hated it when people blamed their behavior on other people.

They both watched the ill-tempered pony trot away from them after baring her teeth in what Blake probably a.s.sumed was a friendly smile but what Natalie knew was a I've got no problem biting if you give me s.h.i.+t, and even if you don't, display.

"What does Six Two Six Nine Nine Three have to do with me? If the thing is so much trouble and the last pony? Do you- Oh G.o.d." He reached out and clutched at a post to steady himself. "You don't- Do you require me to kill it? I did not sign on for slaughterhouse duty. Come to think of it, technically I didn't sign on for anything Heartbreak related."