Danger, Sweetheart (24 page)

“I cared about you, you deceitful shrew! I've been killing myself on Heartbreak in an attempt to earn the respect of a
banker
.”

“I'm not the villain in this piece, pal.” Probably. That was Garrett, right?
Right?
“If you keep on like this, pretty soon I won't be able to stand the sight of you!”

“And pretty soon I will
adore
the sight of you!” he snapped back.

“Don't you dare adore me! You take that back!”

“Never! I
will
adore you and you can't stop me!”

“Blake—”

“Son—”

He cut them off with a rough chop through the air. “Enough. I have no interest in discussing this any farmer. Further, I mean. That was a farming slip.
Freudian
slip. I've got nothing to say to either of you farmers. Ladies. What–the fuck–ever.” He rounded on Natalie. “Or you! I am no longer speaking to you or spending time with you! You are dead to me, Natalie Lame. Yes! That's what Rake calls you because he is
not
terrible—”

“Don't say things you don't mean,” Blake's mother had the gall to warn.

He ignored her, which he should have done starting about five minutes after exiting the womb. “Rake was wise! He knew the truth even though he had no idea what the truth was. I will not see you or speak to you or touch you again, Natalie Lane. Now come with me.” He seized her hand, ignoring her startled squawk, seized his mother's sweater from the back of her chair, and rushed from the porch into the main house.

“Blake, first off, why did you just mug your mom? Second, this is the opposite of not seeing me, and third, what are we—”

“Here.” He dug in his pocket and handed her the keys to his Supertruck. “My condition may be detrimental to driving.”

“On account of how shit faced you are? Good call. What are we doing?”

He'd pulled her through the parlor, the hallway, and found the room with all the fainting couches. And …

“Ah-ha!”

The White Rose of York, who had been stretched out snoozing in the afternoon sun, twitched, rolled over, saw him, trotted up to them. He wrapped her up in the sweater and she squeaked a greeting.

“Blake!” Natalie hissed. “That's cashmere! And a pig that doesn't belong to you. What do you think you're doing?”

“Not letting her be slaughtered and devoured. The scene of my humiliation is now the scene of the piglet's rescue. Take us back to Heartbreak.”

“Then what?” Natalie stood in his way, clutching his keys in her small fist while he hugged the White Rose of York to his chest.

“Then I don't care what you do. And drive carefully. Do not startle her. A pig's scream can hit one hundred and fifteen decibels.”

“I
know,
Blake!”

“Ah, yes, I forgot how bankers are required to take animal husbandry courses.” She opened her mouth, then closed it at his cold stare. “Time to go.”

 

Twenty-eight

She let a day go by before she dared approach him. The Amazon delivery gave her the opportunity she had been waiting for, and dreading.

Shannah and Ruth had come out twice to see him, and he had locked himself in the attic and refused to come out until they left. He didn't say a word to any of them, not even to command he be left alone. Natalie had hovered like a useless idiot and brought Miz Tarbell cup after cup of tea. She couldn't look at the women's pinched, sorrowful expressions. They were too close to the expression she saw in the mirror.

She couldn't even take refuge in calling him out for being childish; the last thing she had was the moral high ground.

He wouldn't speak to anyone, wouldn't interact or so much as smile; he simply buried himself in chores and Natalie wasn't sure why. Because the work was the only thing he had? Unlikely; whatever point his mother had tried to make, she either felt she had made it or had given up. If he flat-out asked her for control of his money back, Natalie bet his mother would have given in. But he wasn't doing that; he wasn't doing anything. Just working.

“Um, Blake, this came for you? The UPS guy brought it?” She could hear her tremulous upward inflection and hated it.
Man up, Nat, you conniving bitch.
She held up the long brown tube. “Do you want it now?”

“It's for you.” He didn't look up. “I ordered it for you a week ago.”

Oh God.
That made it so much worse. “It is? Thank you. Um, I wasn't expecting— What is it?”

Silence. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You know, you're doing a good job. I didn't tell you that enough. Before, I mean.”

“Well, you had your work at the bank to occupy you.”

Ouch.
“So d'you just want me to open it here, or…” She swallowed a gasp when he looked up at her from where he was spreading out fresh straw. Those weren't shadows under his eyes, they were trenches. And the swelling! “What's with the bump on your forehead?”

“Margaret of Anjou objected strenuously to the saddle this morning.”

“Cheer up.”
Oh God, did I really just say that? Buck up, li'l buckeroo!
“She objects to pretty much everything. You know that. It's not personal.” A ghost of a smile was all Natalie got, which was a 10,000 percent improvement. She plunged ahead, eager to keep the connection, however tenuous, from breaking. “In fact, I think she hates you the least.”

“Ah.” He tossed the last of the soiled straw into the wheelbarrow and leaned on the pitchfork. “So she only hates me with the melting intensity of lava engulfing an ice-cream cone.”

“You're so odd,” she said, not without admiration.

“Is that your professional opinion as a banker, or as a faux farmhand?”

“Okay, that's fair. It's my opinion as … as a human being.”

Blake said nothing, just rested and looked at her. Now that he was finished laying down clean straw, he'd check the raised beds for weeds, and check on the kitchen garden on the south side of the house (before long they'd be ass deep in basil and mint, but the B and B would buy lots of it for juleps and pesto). He'd make sure the White Rose of York had freshwater and slop to her liking (thank God Roger had weaned her before they'd stolen her—liberated, according to Blake). Natalie wondered why Roger didn't call, or come in person to collect his piglet. Their getaway had not been subtle or quiet. Shannah had probably told him what was going on. Who knew, maybe he was off on one of his sinister vacations again, enjoying his freedom.

Gary or Larry or Harry would be working beside Blake as he did those things. They never worked
with
him; they always stayed parallel: never meeting. She knew he was growing on Larry and Harry. And he could never grow on Gary, nothing to be done about it. Blake could invent a vaccine for male-pattern baldness and never grow on Gary.

“You're working too hard. Seriously, you're barely cute anymore.”
Lie
. Rugged exhaustion was an excellent look on him. It made her want to plop him in a hot bath, wash his hair and scrub his back, then refuse to let him have any clothes, so he would be forced to prowl the attic in a (small) towel.

She tried again. “Margaret of Anjou doesn't throw you
every
time.”

“No, she's not like Lucy at all.”

“Lucy?”

He blinked at her slowly, like an owl. Cripes, he looked done-in and it wasn't even lunchtime. “Charles Schulz.
Peanuts.
She snatches the football away every time, which proves Charlie Brown is something of an idiot. Margaret of Anjou doesn't do that; she cooperates once in a while. She prefers to lull me into thinking she's finally decided to go along. Her method is much more psychologically devastating.”

A perfect description of the pony from Hell. Time to switch tactics. “Listen, I'm so sorry I misled you about—”

“Talk about something else, please.”

Natalie switched gears as smoothly as she could. “Not even Larry puts in the hours you do.”

“Larry hates me.”

“Not as much as when you first got here.”
God, I suck at this cheering-up stuff.
At his skeptical expression, she added, “Well, yeah, a little.”

“As do Gary and Harry.”

“It's not personal,” she said again, like that made any of this easier, or better.

“No? I assume they knew you were an impostor, and said nothing. They probably laughed almost as much as you did.”

“I never laughed.”
Bitched, yes. Raved, insulted, cursed his name and all Banaans, uh-huh
. He'd scored a bull's-eye with impostor, though. This farm was the one place in the world she had never felt like an impostor. Whites thought she was playing for their team when she didn't whip out her Native American Decoder Ring. Dakotas thought she was passing when she celebrated St. Patrick's Day. “That's not hate. It's indifference. They're just marking time and they know it. Please, I don't blame you for thinking like this, but you don't have to look for conspiracies everywhere.…” She trailed off and pondered the stupid thing she had just said.
Yeah, I just lied, half the town abetted my lie and never bothered to clue you in, which led to your humiliation in front of your mom and grandma, and maybe all your work out here was for absolutely nothing, but don't be paranoid, it's not personal.
Why, he was bound to feel better soon!

She tried again. “They'd hate anyone doing what you're doing. But they hate you less now.”

“And what am I doing?”

He sounded wiped and looked like he'd been in a fight with straw and shit and shit won. “Making it right. Fixing things. They know you didn't have to stick it out. You did, though. That's worth a lot here.”

He stripped off his gloves and looked down at his hands. Large and tan, broken fingernails and freckles on the backs. Some blood from a burst blister that hadn't become a callus yet. Raw, and trembling a bit.

“Okay, you need to take the afternoon off.” Natalie tucked the tube beneath her armpit, caught both hands in hers and gave him a gentle squeeze, then remembered she was wearing gloves, too, and grinding dirt into his wounded palms, and took them off, and then blew on his palms, getting rid of the dust. Blake sucked in his breath; it probably stung like crazy. “You're wiped; you're done for the day. I get that you're upset, you've got every right to it, but driving yourself to a total physical collapse won't solve a damned thing. I want you to take the rest of the day.”

“Pardon me, but a banker who doesn't own this farm cannot dictate when I rest and when I don't.”

“Please!” she burst out, and he looked up, startled. “Please, I'm sorry. Please don't punish yourself for my bullshit. Be good to yourself; you deserve the day off, you deserve a month off. I'm so sorry; please,
please
rest for a while.”

He sighed. “I dislike seeing you upset. I especially dislike being the cause.”

Yes, okay, she could work with this. She had no idea why he wouldn't glory in her being upset but wouldn't question it. “Gary brought a buttload of lemons from the grocery store this morning for God only knows what sinister purpose—”

“He prefers fresh-squeezed lemonade made with a pitcher of well water, a dozen lemons, and a cup and a half of sugar. He makes it at night and lets it chill, then sips it all the next day.” He managed a small, a very small, smile. “No vodka.”

“Well, let's make some and guzzle it all down. He'll be superpissed. Vengeance will be yours.”

He gave her a look. “I'm not interested in further antagonizing a man who could run me over with a tractor.”

“He wouldn't dare.”
Probably.
“Look, I didn't explain myself very well.”

“Sometimes you don't explain yourself at all.” At her wince, he looked away. “I apologize. I'm tired.”

She put out a hand, then let it drop. “It's okay; listen, like I was saying before, it's not personal. You being here really screws him.”

“A familiar refrain.”

“No.” She felt a bit desperate, he sounded so tired and … and
dull;
that was the only word for it. Like he not only didn't care about anything but also didn't care he didn't care. The marked change was startling; she kept running across it and being surprised all over again. From the very first day he'd been vital and interesting. Now he was a shadow. “Not for the reason you think. He was counting on Heartbreak's foreclosure.”

Blake politely raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“C'mere and sit down. Give me that.” She made him sit down. Well, she couldn't
make
him do anything, but he allowed her to do it. She hurried over to the small boxed-in area he'd made for the White Rose of York, scooped up the piglet, then practically thrust her into Blake's arms. She had seen him last night, sitting by himself in the barn and holding the White Rose of York and not looking at anything and not saying anything and oh,
fuck,
what a balls-up this all was.

She fetched his battered water bottle from one of the posts, gave it to him, watched him drink. “Gary
wants
to quit; he wants to leave. But he's tied to this place same as a lot of us. Unlike us, he doesn't want to be, but his wife does. He's too whipped to put his foot down, he's not driven enough to make a fresh start somewhere else, so he just goes along. All the farms going belly-up is his chance to get out without his wife getting pissed. If Heartbreak shuts down, he's off the hook. Can't feel guilty for abandoning a place if it's sold out from under you, right? Easier to tell your wife, ‘Hey, there's no jobs around here; it's not my fault; let's go where the work is.'”

There was a long silence while Blake sipped water, scratched the piglet behind her ears, and pondered. Then: “So much of the town loathes me for selling off treasured family farms. But the employees of the farm I'm trying to save are also pissed at me because they're trapped in some sort of hellish agricultural limbo?”