My mind flickers back to the patch of scarred skin on his neck that should make him unattractive but instead adds a dangerous edge to his good looks. “What’s his story?”
“Don’t know. Don’t ask. He showed up at a job site ’bout two months ago, offered a hand, did good work, could tell it wasn’t his first time on a job site. Kept showin’ up, so I hired him.”
“Hmm.” I take another peek at the pencil sketch in my dad’s hands.
The scene is of the mountains, Payson mountains. Douglas fir and blue spruce trees peppering the edge of a creek where elk graze, some drinking from the stream while others stand at attention, as if on lookout for predators. The different shades of gray cast shadows and give the sketch a three-dimensional quality that will become two-dimensional in wood.
“How’d you know he could draw?”
“Didn’t. One day while he was on a break he just picked up a piece of scrap wood and starting whittling away. Next thing we knew, he was holding a wooden bear. Got my attention, so I asked if he could do more. He did a mantel.”
The man barely speaks, seems close to terrified in benign situations, and he creates masterpieces with his hands.
It’s official. I’m intrigued.
EIGHT
SHYANN
How does anyone survive without Wi-Fi?
I drop my cell to my side on the bed and groan. Stuck in my old room surrounded by frill and dusty eyelet curtains and I’ve got nothing to do. Even the crickets have gone silent, mimicking my boredom.
I’ve raked through my boxes and pulled out my mountain-friendly clothes for the week. It’s not much, but with a few tank tops and some old flannels I found hanging in my closet, it’ll do.
After the long day I had, I came back to my dad’s place where he made Cody and me another meal consisting of the only two food groups he’s ever acknowledged: meat and potatoes. If his intention is for me to pack on some pounds, a few more meals like that should do the job.
Tonight was the first family dinner I’ve had since my brother and Dad came to Flagstaff for my graduation. But tonight’s dinner was not as awkward as that last. After all, my dad hated the fact that I gave up Jennings Contractors to go to college. It’s not that he begrudged my getting an education as much as he despised that I wanted to do it in another town. Away from him, my mother’s memory, the Jennings legacy. What’s more, it drove him nuts that I refused to take his money for the five years I was gone.
Momma used to say I was like a dog with a bone. Once I had my sights on something, I went for it. It would have to be pried from my cold dead grip for me to let it go.
Which is why crawling home begging stings like a bitch.
I roll to my side, shove my hands under my pillow, and stare at the doorway. Even with the door closed, I can see my mom standing there. She’d lean a hip against the wall, tilt her head, and listen to me complain about the stupidest shit. She was vibrant, opinionated; she’d yell using her hands and laugh with her whole body. But those are the memories I have to dig for. As soon as I find them, they morph into haunting images of the end. Her useless arms curled into her body, her regal Native American cheekbones overly pronounced and standing out against her sunken, pallid cheeks. Her skeleton protruding beneath paper-thin skin. Heat burns my eyes, but not a single tear falls.
“Knock knock . . .” Cody raps twice on the door. “You decent?”
“Yeah, sure.” I sniff and sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Come on in.”
He cracks the door and peeks inside. “I’m takin’ off.”
“Game’s over?” I push up off my bed.
“Yeah.” His eyes narrow. “You all right?”
I shrug. “Sucks not having service out here.” I snag my phone off the bed. “This thing’s useless,” I mumble.
He purses his lips and for a moment I see Momma. Cody got most of her Navajo genes—darker skin, black hair, and compassionate eyes. “What’s really bothering you?”
I hold up my phone and give it a weak shake, avoiding Cody’s stare. “Trevor’s annoyed he can’t get in touch with me . . .”
“So? That guy’s an idiot.”
“. . . could be getting e-mails back from all the résumés I sent out, but I can’t check . . .”
“Not sure that matters at ten o’clock at night.”
I huff out a breath.
“Come on.” He rolls his hand through the air. “We can do this all night or you can spit it out.”
I sag in on myself, knowing he won’t give up until I fess up. “Just hard, ya know, being home.”
He drops his gaze and nods. “Yeah.”
“I just . . . I see her everywhere and I don’t see the healthy her, but—”
“The sick her.” He pushes into the room and props a thigh on my old desk. His massive leg, dirty denim, and a sheathed hunting knife clipped to his hip are laughable against my pink desk covered in hand-painted butterflies. “Me too.”