The Fence Line

Chapter 1

Following the death of his father, Ryan Gay's life came under attack, repeatedly knocked down, kicked in the ribs, and ground under life's hobnail boot. He tried to cope, to stand back up. Being thrown out of his home, and then peed on extinguished any flicker of flame within his breast to continue.

Perched on a boulder at the entrance to the grassy, two-track leading to the house called home this morning, knees drawn tightly against his chest, a drizzle began. He wanted to think someone or something cared, that the heavens felt his pain and cried. He knew that was a far-fetched pipe dream after all that happened in his short life. The misting sprinkle was a precursor to a heavier, early September rain. It wet his head, carrying the cold through a thin shirt. Tears mingled with the droplets to trickle down puffy cheeks as his gaze focused on a tree overhanging another, large boulder on the other side of the gravel road where a squirrel stood upright staring back.

A vision played clearly in his numbed mind, a variation of prior thoughts. He ties one end of a lariat to the trunk, climbs up on the boulder, and tosses the other end over a stout branch. Slipping his head into the noose, he tangles hands in another rope behind his back. Looking down at the three-foot drop, he inches forward.

A doable and relatively easy solution to the pain and misery ripping his breast—if he had a rope. Maybe I could steal one from that place up the road, he thought until vaguely remembering seeing some in a dark corner of the shed behind the rented house.

He’d envisioned using a lariat, one of those strong ropes cowboys use to lasso cows. What he discovered while nosing around after moving in yesterday was some old, limp hemp rope.

"I wonder if it would be strong enough?" He’d not touched it, unsure what might be living in its frayed coils. Is it even long enough? Dilly will yell at me for coming back to the house to take a closer look. To hell with him. He’ll be slouched in front of the TV, guzzling more beer by now, and won’t see me anyway.

Like a storm building on the horizon, growing in intensity and moving steadily forward to its final assault, Ryan’s personal storm began shortly after his father’s funeral.

Ryan, dear, you know Dilly Farnsworth from over Brian’s Hollar way, his mother cooed in a dripping, sweet voice. That tone always preceded something he wasn’t going to like.

"Yes, I know him. I don’t like him."

Dilly’s comin’ to help us. Yer papa dyin’ and all, well, this here house belongs to the minin’ company, and we can’t live here no more. There’s a place on the edge of town. It ain’t near as nice, but the roof don’t leak none, and the rent’s cheap. I’ll be goin’ to work at the restaurant down to town to help pay bills. With Dilly helpin’, we’ll make it okay.

Ryan was six when his mom pulled the smelly drunk out of some outhouse pit to move in. Planting his lazy butt in his papa’s well-used lounger in front of the TV, a can of beer perpetually stuck to one hand, Farnsworth added little to the household except to increase expenses and make his mama giggle at night.

Working double shifts, his momma wasn’t around to fix meals, and of course, Dilly wouldn’t, usually taking meals at a local bar. That left Ryan to scrounge something from the generally empty fridge. The cafe owner where she worked often saw to it he got something to eat. In appreciation, Ryan would stand on a box and wash dishes or sweep the floor.

Ryan’s dislike grew to genuine hate, and Dilly knew it, pleasuring in making him suffer. Constantly referring to his dad in some negative way he belittled Ryan to make him feel like a loser. That was before the physical stuff started—pulling down his pants and whipping him with a belt.

Say nothin’ ’bout this, or I’ll whup ya harder, maybe use this, he threatened, brandishing the big knife always carried on his hip. Dilly left no doubt in the boy’s mind that he’d use it, too.

They weren’t long in Shaftonburg, West Virginia, after the funeral. His grandfather had come. There were words between him and his momma. Not long after, something in a letter she received got them planning to move. The Sheriff came calling late in the morning a couple days later looking for Dilly, something about a fight at one of the bars on the edge of town the previous night. Dilly wasn’t to home, appearing well past dark to hurriedly load their meager possessions in his rusted, Chevy pickup. That began the frequent series of late-night moves over the next nine years, and the last time Ryan saw his daddy’s favorite chair where the two snuggled.

It seemed the noisy pickup’s engine never had time to cool as they moved every few months, from one small burg to another hidden in the hills of West Virginia. Then it was Virginia, and finally Kentucky. How they ended up in the small community of Gage Valley, Nebraska, is anybody’s guess. They drove mostly at night, and Ryan couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open. When they finally arrived, and he looked out the filthy camper window, he was slammed with culture shock—no mountains, no trees, nothing but endless rolling prairie.

Arriving shortly after lunch on a Monday, Ryan walked across the highway to a convenience store to get a candy bar breakfast while his mom responded to a tired-looking Hiring sign at the local café. Coming out of the store, a large, black bird lit within a stone’s throw stretched out its neck and cawed at him several times before taking flight.

Staring at the departing bird startled, he called out, And welcome to you, too.

Marvin Bastron, owner of the Wrangler Cafe, had a house for rent not far out of town. Before going there, Ryan was enrolled in school. It had been in session three weeks by this time. Betty Gay and Ryan then moved their stuff into the house while Dilly planted himself on the porch and got drunk.

"I’m tired. Did all the drivin’. Wears a body out," he claimed.

Yeah, Ryan groused to himself. Constantly looking for the cops.

That night the ever-persistent storm of adversity endured over the past nine years began its final, tornadic spin. Dilly watched a football replay on the TV full blast, yelling like some crazed fan in the stadium. Game ended, he passed out somewhere around 2 a.m. Finally able to sleep, Ryan didn’t hear the alarm. Despite dressing while running to the highway, he missed the school bus. Hitchhiking a ride, he arrived as the tardy bell sounded—a great way to begin the first day.

The first class was English. He wanted to sit in the back, but the only seat open was in the front, dead center where the teacher stood. She collected the previous day’s assignment as another student passed out a worksheet. The girl dropped them on his desk, wrinkling her nose.

"I took a bath last night," he thought, passing the papers back.

The teacher was nice. Stepping alongside, she spoke in a quiet voice, I’ll see if they have a different desk by tomorrow. She was the first teacher in a long while to accommodate his handicap. Ryan was left-handed.

The second class was math. There was a desk toward the back, allowing him to doodle to stay awake as the teacher droned on how to solve some foreign problem. Third period was World History. Again, he had to sit near the front. At least the topic became interesting when a girl with long, dark auburn-colored hair related an article from a science magazine about human history. The older woman teacher with a pencil protruding from hair braided and fastened into a bun became highly animated and adamant that such articles were the work of designing creatures of the devil.

You have in front of you the latest history book approved by the Secretary of this State’s Department of Education. If you cared to have read it, you would see that such notions that God’s creations are descended from hairy beasts that lived in trees is absolutely wrong and blasphemous. I suggest you throw that disgusting tripe in the toilet where it belongs and not bring it or such thoughts to this class again.

The girl’s face turned livid red but not from embarrassment. She was furious.

The class was divided between horrified and snickering. Ryan was neither. "Dang! She’s kinda pretty."

At lunch, Ryan sat away from the other kids, who clustered into various groups. He had no money or time to prepare a sack lunch, even if there was food in the house — not the first time he missed a meal. This provided an opportunity to view what were to be his classmates for whatever time they’d be in this town. The interaction was no different from all the other places he’d been—girls with girls, boys with boys, older boys and girls more or less sitting in small groups or alone. He did notice the angry girl from History seated away from the others with another strange-looking girl. He also noticed a big kid and two friends standing over a table of smaller kids, saying something not well received as the four sat silent, hands in laps. Tiring of that, the kid looked around, spotting Ryan sitting alone, and began bulldozing in his direction. Ryan knew the type. Because the new kid looked different in their perverted view, they were going to establish their position in the pack—dogs mounting another to display dominance.

Teachers monitoring the room were huddled at the far end clutching coffee mugs and talking, too engaged to notice anything. The approaching bully became diverted when the bell rang, ending the lunch period. The state of affairs didn’t improve when pulled from class to the principal’s office.

We can’t verify your school records, he said from behind a big, fancy desk, something like an aircraft carrier. Ryan stood meekly in front of a gold, metal, nameplate—Mr. Sorensen, Principal. Elbows resting on the polished deck, fingers touching one another with measured precision, he continued. Your last school was unable to get any transcripts from your previous school. You were only there the last two months, and they didn’t have transcripts from the school before that.

We move a lot, Ryan said.

Obviously. The man was sarcastic and cold, thin lips pulled down in a disgusted frown which appeared a permanent fixture. You will take some placement tests. Ryan didn’t like the man, hoping his burgeoning anger didn’t show.

With that, he was handed a stack of tests and a pencil and ushered into a small room. Staring down at the first, blurry question, anger and frustration swirled up. The pencil snapped in half, shaking him back to the moment. He lost count of the bells starting and dismissing classes while struggling to stay awake until the janitor opened the door.

School closed an hour ago? Nobody tell you?

No, sir.

Scatterbrains. Come on, I’ll let you out.

What about all these tests?

Just drop ’em on Sharon’s desk. How in Sam Hill could she forget and let you get locked in? Then mumbled, I should have to ask. More calmly but still perturbed, You live far?

A couple miles west of town.

Would you like a lift home.

No thanks.

You sure? Looks to come up a storm.

It’ll be okay.

Well, if you ever need something, let me know. I’m Lars Short, full-time janitor and part-time soccer coach.

Ryan liked Mr. Short right off. Soft-spoken, sincere, he obviously liked kids. His name was applicable, too, standing 5-feet, 5-inches, man and boy looked at one another on the level. What Ryan learned later was that the thick, snow-white head of hair was premature. Mr. Short was old—fifty-five.

The storm clouds continued to build still some distance off, so he didn’t feel any urgency to get home. That was the reason for stopping at a convenience store near the south edge of town to get a drink of water. Unfortunately, the three boys from the lunchroom were milling about outside, looking to brew up trouble. Unlike at school, their pants were pulled down a good three inches to show off the brand name on the elastic waistband of their underwear.

Hey, it’s that new, slant-eyed, girlie kid from History class, the leader said. Ryan didn’t respond. He wouldn’t after the fight two schools back. Why don’t you say somethin’. I love that girlie voice. Makes me get all wet. His laugh was coarse but in harmony with the two shadows as he rubbed the front of his pants. Ryan remained silent.

The leader was a couple years his senior, fairly large both in height and breadth, still battling a case of acne. A long, thin nose was definitely out of place on an otherwise pleasant face. If anyone might be classified a girl, it was this jerk. He sported a large, curly Afro. One follower was also tall but not as heavy. A case of Chicken Pox left his face scarred with the additional whammy of pimples. Long, straight, blond hair parted down the middle hung off the sides. The second boy was shorter and slender, with a crew cut. More the observer, he hung back.

We don’t like slant-eyed, girlie boys in this town. He poked Ryan’s chest with an index finger with each word.

Ryan stepped back with each jab because it hurt, failing to notice pock-marked drop to all fours directly behind until falling backward over him.

Sorensen, knock it off. I told you before, no fighting, an older man shouted from the store’s entrance.

We’re just horsing around.

No horsing around, either. Move on, or I’ll call Officer Carl.

Sorensen muttered a foul epithet, flipping a middle finger at the man, not so it would be seen while rounding up his goons. Starting to move off, it was not without reiterating the warning. Little foreigners aren’t welcome in my town. Keep your distance, or the next time won’t be so pretty.

Ryan slowly sat up, knees to chest, holding his head between both hands.

Hey, kid, you alright? the man at the store called out.

Ryan silently waved one hand. His head had kissed on the concrete and needed a minute to put everything back in line and the tiny, white dots to go away. Finally, he stood. Not bothering to dust off, he continued down the highway, turning off onto the dirt road where they lived.

Just like all the other places. Angry about it happening again, an old acquaintance, hopelessness, invaded his mind.

Fingering his shirt. It was open to the breastbone, the top buttonholes ripped. It was his favorite shirt, his only button-up shirt he bought from the Salvation Army store in the last town with money earned picking up beer cans along the highway. Anger and frustration bubbled to the surface.

Chapter 2

Turning up the gravel road, their rented house was a short half-mile further on. With each shuffling step, he wanted to cry, but fifteen-year-old boys don’t cry. He tried to think of another excuse not to go home. His mom would be there getting ready for work while engaged in another argument with her man. His appearance would only escalate it to World War III. His mind was cloudy, his body tired. Curling up alongside the road was tempting.

A flicker of light sparked his attention. The aged fence bordering the left side of the road had acquired new, shiny, barbed wires on the bottom two rows since that morning. A third hung slack, occasionally bouncing, reflecting the pin-sized flashes of light. Ahead, an old, dark green pickup angled so the front end set partially on the edge of the road, the back in the shallow barrow ditch. Someone was moving between the truck cab and tailgate. As he drew closer, Ryan saw a shirtless guy some older than him trying to stretch the new wire. Almost a head taller, there was a faint red tinge across freckled shoulders, tufts of light, reddish-brown hair poking out from under a worn and sweat-stained straw cowboy hat.

Hi, the guy called out.

Hi. Ryan’s reply was hesitant, barely audible.

You in a hurry?

Not especially.

Wanna give me a hand? The handbrake on The Beast here doesn’t hold so good, and it’s a bear to start, so don’t dare turn the motor off. If’n you’d put a foot on the brake to keep it from rollin’ back, I can git this wire cinched up.

Okay. The response sounded flat, matching the appearance of being tired, more mental than not physical.

Within a couple minutes, the guy called out, Okay, you can let off the brake. He came up to the driver’s side, where Ryan sat. Name’s Martin. Live up the road in the white house. You with the new folk moved into the old Gunderson place?

If you mean that old house over there in the trees, yeah.

Martin extended a hand. Ryan rarely shook hands with someone, but this guy had an easy, friendly manner.

Been in a fight or fall off a truck?

Fell off a truck, Ryan said, a voice dripping bitterness.

Yup. Happened to me a time or two. Could use some help nailin’ up this wire. The Beast got me behind. Should’ve been done by now, and sure’d like to finish before that storm blows in. The big clouds were moving closer, the fresh smell of rain heavy in the air, occasional thunder rumbling in the distance.

Ryan had nothing else to do, and this was a perfect excuse to not go home right then, so with a quick lesson on how to nail barbed wire to a fence post, he donned a nail sack. Hammer in hand, he followed Martin, taking every other post. It went pretty quick especially when it became a competitive race. He understood what Martin meant by the truck not starting up very well. He accidentally killed the engine while turning around. The starter ground the battery down until sounding as if about to die before the engine fired up. They drove the truck back to the highway post along the inside of the fence, tacked the last wire on top, and then drove back slowly as the wire played out, where Ryan held the brake again for cinching up.

I didn’t see you at school, Ryan said.

And ya won’t. Got suspended last spring. Uncle John says I’m persona non gratis, a high fallutin’ word for yer outta here and don’t come back.

Wha’d ya do?

Beat the crap out of the principal’s piece of manure. Got sick and tired of him mouthin’ off, so I broke his nose. Martin laughed. I guess the jerk thought jist ’cause I’m gay made me a pushover. Ryan’s heart skipped a couple beats. Apparently, his expression sent a message. Does me bein’ gay bother you?

No.

You’re gay, too, I’m guessin’. Ryan flashed a panicked look at him.

No.

"Ahh, still in the closet. That’s okay," Martin said to himself.

Ryan fell silent, retreating inward to that safe place. It seemed everyone acted as if he had a big, lighted billboard on his forehead that flashed ‘Queer.’

Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. Is what it is and nobody’s gonna change it . . . lessin’ it’s with a knife. Martin laughed again. Ryan liked the sound, the lightness tending to push away persistent depression. Comin’ out is more for the guy than anyone else. Stops all the denial so to git on with life. ‘Course, it’s probably best sayin’ nothin’ ‘till you’re sure that’s what ya want. It’s not somethin’ a guy can unsay afterwards. Leastwise, that’s what my shrink says. Truth is, it puts a big target on yer back, and ya find out who yer real friends are. A hint of bitterness slipped into his voice. But it’s damn hard to hide as ya git older. Has to come out sometime, I guess. That’s a big conundrum. Ryan looked puzzled. Conundrum. Found it on the computer. I like big words. Makes me sound edgycated. He laughed again. Means problem or puzzle. Ryan had to crack a faint smile.

They were about half finished setting nails on the last strand of wire when Ryan’s mom drove past in their old Chevy pickup camper, obviously in a hurry. His wave wasn’t returned. In fact, she didn’t even turn her head, instead looked straight ahead, both hands on the steering wheel, cigarette dangling from her lips. His eyebrows knitted together, wondering why? Practically standing on the road, she had to have seen him.

Your mom?

Yeah. Heading for work. She’s a waitress at the eaterie in town.

Finished, they began the walk back to The Beast when a tan pickup came up from the highway and stopped. It bore the County Sheriff’s logo on the side. Ryan’s heart kicked into overdrive.

Hi, Uncle Reuben, Martin called out.

Martin’s uncle leaned out the window. Looks like Tom Sawyer corralled some free labor.

Yup.

Watch out for that nephew of mine. He can con the whiskers off a housefly. He looked skyward at the boiling clouds. Better hurry, or you’ll get wet. See you up to the house.

I gotta go, Ryan said, leaving the nail sack and hammer in the truck bed.

No problem. I owe ya for the help.

That’s okay. It was fun. See ya around, he called back, hurrying away, leaving a puzzled Martin standing by the truck.

At first, Ryan thought the Sheriff was headed for his place, which meant another move. Instead, the truck whistled past and on to the white farmhouse at the end of the road. Almost trotting the hundred yards to where the grass-covered path led to the dilapidated house, he wondered why his mom didn’t wave. Getting closer, he understood. Her man stood on the porch with the perpetual can of beer in his hand, sporting that insipid grin Ryan despised. His few clothes were strewn on the ground out from the porch.

Mind numbed from being driven out of the house, Ryan gathered up the clothes, his only possessions, making it as far as the large boulder next to the road where they were dropped at the base. Perched like a little bird on the slightly rounded surface, the rain began as a fine mist.

"Where can I go?" circulated through his mind as if on a loop. What did I do this time? As the mist increased to a drizzle, his whole miserable life of failure boiled up. Finding a rope came to mind, determination to just end it all growing stronger when something odd happened. A large crow, nearly the size of a chicken, landed on the boulder across the road and sat by the squirrel to stare at him. Presently, it hopped up and, with two beats of its wings, perched on a fence post, continuing to stare in his direction, oblivious of the rain beading up on the shiny, black feathers and rolling off. Cocking its head first to one side and then the other, it loosed two loud caws before flying off into the gray mist. A momentary distraction, Ryan had the impression the bird had been speaking to him.

Seconds later, the old, green pickup truck pulled alongside the road. Martin looked through the side window before leaning over to roll it down. The kid reminded him of a puppy seated in the middle of the road, hunched over in a driving rain. Lost, alone, hopeless, it appeared the most pathetic thing in the world waiting for some car or truck to come along and end the anguish.

Long, scraggly, dark brown hair now hung in wet strands over Ryan’s eyes. The gaunt, reddish-brown, oval face accentuating wide cheekbones tapering to a strong chin. Martin’s first thought when they met was that Ryan was Asian but somehow different.

Somethin’ wrong? he called through the open passenger window. There was no response. Shutting the engine off in gear to assure the truck didn’t roll away, he got out and came around the front, eyeing the pile of clothes thrown in a heap on the ground. Got kicked out, huh? Still no response. Martin folded arms across his chest, an open, plaid shirt now hanging from the freckled shoulders. Leaning buttocks against the rock, he looked off into the distance. I’ve been there. Come on up to the house with me. You can spend the night.

No, thanks.

You gotta place to go?

Maybe. Ryan looked across the road. Martin’s eyes followed.

If ya don’t do it right, it takes forever. Read that in a book once, so let’s toss yer stuff in back of The Beast and head up to the house before it gits to rainin’ harder. We can figure something better out.

That’s okay.

Martin sighed. Let me put this a different way. I plan stayin’ right here, get soaked to the bone, and probably catch the death of cold if not pneumonia ’til you git in that truck. So, less ya wanna be responsible for my death . . .

Ryan looked at the young man, who was starting to shiver. With a shrug of resignation, he began moving with the stiffness of a condemned man, sliding off the boulder to pick up the clothes. Martin helped toss them into the pickup box, then jumped behind the oversize steering wheel.

Turning toward the boulder, he called out, Hey, squirrel. You’re gittin’ wet. Wanna ride, too?

It jumped off the rock and disappeared as Martin turned the ignition key. The starter growled, stalled, and complained some more, again sounding as if about to die.

Ahh, come on ya . . . , the engine sprang to life. Well, I’ll be damn, that was fast. Come on, Beast, giddy-up.

Accelerator mashed to the floorboards, rear tires spun, throwing mud in a long arc behind, catapulting the truck into a fishtail. With a whooping laugh, Martin gained control, straightened their flight, and headed toward the big white, two-story farmhouse at the end of the road as if the hounds of Hades were in pursuit. And for good reason. The truck’s heater didn’t work, and pea-sized hail began covering the ground sending the temperature plummeting.

As The Beast hurtled through now driving rain, Ryan vaguely wondered what Martin meant when he said he’d been there. He seemed to know a lot about hanging. Did he try hanging himself? He’s living with his aunt and uncle. Did he get kicked out, too?

Chapter 3

The ranch house loomed up as an eerie, dark silhouette through the downpour. Ryan squint, vaguely making out the sheriff’s pickup as it left. Almost immediately, his heart revved up, breathing coming in short bursts as a twinge of heightened apprehension upset his stomach. He’d never had trouble with the law personally, well maybe once—he didn’t start the fight—but the mere sight of a cop triggered panic thanks to other issues. His attention was averted when Martin wheeled sharply across the wide, open space toward the house, much too fast, causing the truck to slide sideways.

Yahoo! Martin’s glee almost sounded maniacal.

The house with horizontal wood slat siding and lots of windows on both floors loomed head-on. A covered porch span the width of the front before wrapping halfway along the side, protecting a round table and several chairs. Martin braked, locking the wheels, causing the truck to skid over the mud on a collision course with the house. Straightening, it finally came to a stop toward the back, where a small, enclosed porch jutted out from the back.

Come on in. We’ll git yer things later. Want ya to meet Aunt Flo. Martin’s enthusiasm increased Ryan’s anxiety, already shivering from the cold. Shy, accepting others was a slow process, sometimes painful. Sliding across the seat and out the driver’s door, he made the porch in three giant leaps right on Martin’s heels. They still got wet.

This is the mudroom. We park our boots here so not to track up Aunt Flo’s kitchen. She gits kinda cranky about that, he said, toweling off his hair and then handing it to Ryan.

That comment didn’t help. ‘Cranky’ conjured a mental picture of a thin, wrinkled, shrew of a woman with a narrow face and long, pointy noise. He slipped off tennis shoes. The right one had duct tape over the toe to keep the sole from separating any further and coming off. He taped the other to look the same. The right big toe poked through a hole in a dirty sock adding embarrassment to his problems.

Aunt Flo, we got company, Martin hollered while opening the screen door and going inside, dragging Ryan along by the wrist.

The boys came into a large kitchen, bright, cheery, painted white with Chinese red trim. It had all the modern conveniences except for one anomaly, an old wood stove near the door. Obviously not for show. It radiated a lot of heat that penetrated his wet clothes to straight off displace the cold chill racking his body. A large wood table with hunter-green legs and trimmed with white occupied the open area to the left. It was covered by a dark blue tablecloth with silver salt and pepper shakers in the middle and three flowered table mats, but no plates.

Aunt Flo, this here’s Ryan. He was livin’ in the Gunderson place, leastwise ’til gettin’ kicked out.

What?! She said, turning away from the counter next to a double sink where she’d been chopping greens to look at the new arrival over the top of small, rectangular glasses.

Her round face was tanned and wrinkled some, but brown eyes exude instant warmth and kindness all at once. Eye-level height with Ryan, the stout woman gave Ryan the impression of being larger. Wiping hands on a flowered apron, she immediately stepped toward him.

So you’re with those folk that moved in up the road? She saw the fear in his brown eyes.

The shock of becoming homeless had worn emotions thin as a lump swelled in his throat. Head bowed, all he could do was nod, yes.

I am so sorry. She said, taking both his hands in hers. Don’t fret none. We’ll get this all straightened out.

Through all his years, Ryan never cried where someone could see him, even when scraping a knee or the time he cut his hand with a pocket knife. The burden of abandonment came crashing down like the collapsing mine tunnel that killed his papa. Pulled to her shoulder, he wept as she stroke the back of his head, feeling his much too thin body quake.

After a time, he backed away. I’m sorry, he managed, wiping reddened eyes.

For what? You got every right to cry. God gave us that blessing to shed our pain, and any fool who says men don’t cry will have to face Him and explain their meanness. And the Lord gave woman broad shoulders to receive the tears of their men, so don’t be narrow-minded, I have big shoulders.

He looked at her, a weak smile coming to his lips. She didn’t really, but big enough. Her soft smile was comforting, her eyes filled with understanding and compassion.

Ryan can have that room next to yours, Martin.

His clothes are in The Beast. They got throwed on the ground and are all soaked from the rain, Martin said.

I’ll take care of that. Go upstairs. You’ll feel better after a nice hot shower. It’ll chase off the chill. Let Ryan borrow some clean clothes, then toss these things down the clothes shoot. I’ll gather up the rest and give them a wash, and I’ll mend this shirt proper. Now scoot. It’s almost milking time. When you’re done showering, Ryan, you come on down and help me get supper ready. There was a firm, gentle take chargeness in her voice and something Ryan had little experienced—a feeling of love.

The second story was given to five bedrooms, two on either side of a central hall with a bathroom between each pair, and two more side-by-side at the end. Ryan stood in the middle of the spacious room that was to be his, feeling overwhelmed, confused, and still numb from the day’s events, shivering.

Unless yer weird and take showers in yer clothes, better get neked.

Where Aunt Flo’s voice projected compassion, Martin’s was almost impish. Stripping to his shorts, putting dirty, wet things on the brightly colored comforter felt wrong, and dropped them into a pile on the floor. Martin returned with clean clothes, eyes widening to stare at the boy standing by the bed.

Something wrong?

Not at all. I’d love to have a tan like yours.

It’s not a tan. Ryan came off defensive.

"You’re damn lucky, then. I’m jealous. We’re near the same width, but