“May I?” She motions to the dog. “Figure you’re not going to eat it now.”
“You can try. He’s not mine.” I follow her as she walks to the porch and crouches low. “I’ve tried to get him to come out, but he won’t budge.”
“You scared, little guy?” The light, almost singsong tone of her voice is tender and calming.
“I call him Buddy.” My face warms for some reason I can’t name.
“Hey, Buddy.” She holds out the food. “I won’t hurt you.”
She waits and I drop to sit on the step, leaning back on an elbow to watch her try and entice the dog out with her gentle encouragement. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to her voice and enjoying this peek into her personality. Such a contradiction to the cursing, teasing, tenacious woman I’d glimpsed before.
“Atta boy, come on.”
I push up and see the dog has his nose and two front paws poking out from beneath the deck.
“There ya go, boy.” He licks Shyann’s fingers and waits while she grabs more. “Oh, you’re hungry.”
The dog inches out a little more and I take the opportunity to inspect him for injuries. His snout is filthy, chest and neck the same, but I don’t see any wounds or dried blood. His coat is longer than I originally thought, but he doesn’t seem to match any particular breed, probably a mutt.
I lean in, propping my elbows on my knees. “How’d you do—”
The dog retreats back into the shadows.
“Sorry.”
She twists around and grins. “It’s okay. He’s skittish. Probably a man who traumatized him. He seems okay with me.”
“Yeah.” Funny, I find it’s women who are far more dangerous.
“I’ll just leave this here.” She dumps what’s left of the taco in the dirt. “Mind if I toss this in your trash?”
My heart pounds. Shyann in my house? “Uh . . . sure.”
TWELVE
SHYANN
My fingers are covered in dirt, dog slobber, and the remnants of a green chili taco. Probably not the best meal for a dog, but he seemed hungry and I couldn’t let the food go to waste. Chances are, if that dog has been homeless for as long as his dirty fur dictates, he’s probably eaten much worse.
Lucas gets up from the front steps and walks stiffly to the door.
I assumed my dad had rented the river house to one of his buddies, down and out, probably kicked out by his wife for being a drunk asshole. It would take someone as defenseless as Lucas, young and desperate but hardworking, to crack my dad’s protective shell. Looking back, Lucas living here makes perfect sense.
I trail behind him and the wood deck creaks beneath my weight. I try to push away the images of my mom laying each plank by hand with a nail gun. My dad would say, “Don’t fuck those hands up, darlin’,” then kiss her on the head. Little did he know there was something way worse working inside her that would fuck up a lot more than her hands.
“It’s under the sink.” Lucas stands in the open doorway and studies me through narrowed eyes. “Garbage.” He nods to the messy Styrofoam in my hands.
“Right.” I step into the open living room and my breath catches.
The wood floor has been stained, the walls painted in an earthy taupe that accentuates the bright white molding. A woodstove acts as the centerpiece, loaning its rustic look to the modern space. My muscles release a bit of their tension.
“You do all this?”
He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s beautiful. She . . .” I swallow hard. “My momma would’ve loved it.”
To avoid looking like an emotional wreck, I stick to the task of finding the garbage and move to the small kitchen.
The cabinets are white and the countertops and backsplash are black and white checkered tile, like something out of the 1950s. But that’s not the most remarkable part.
Every single handle pull is different. From cupboards, to drawers, to glass-encased shelving, all of it is a mix of hardware. Wrought iron, gold, silver, and even ceramic, and all in the shape of something found in nature. A gold leaf, a silver sand dollar, bronze stick, some of them are even animals. There’s a fish on one, a bear on the other, and— A flash of turquoise catches my eye.
I squint. “Is that . . . Oh, Lucas.” At the far end of the kitchen is a small pantry and the door handle is something I’ve seen so many times before it’s practically haunted my dreams. “It’s her pendant.”
My mom had an amazing collection of Navajo jewelry, including large pieces that were weighted by enough silver and turquoise to sink a boat. As much as she loved them, she never wore them. She always said they’d make better decorations for houses than people and swore she’d put them to use here at the river house.