In the Land of Tea and Ravens (15 page)

Grayson yawned. Leaning over, he placed his cup next to Lyric’s; there was nothing except leaves in it now. Grayson felt relaxed, not pain free, but suddenly less burdened by it. The pain death leaves behind never goes away, but it gets easier to live with.

He glanced at the cups on the floor. “No nightmares, huh?” he asked, his eyelids drooping.

The smile Lyric gave him was soft and small. “It’s said chamomile also brings good fortune, and when bathed in, attracts love.”

Grayson’s head fell back against the couch. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you don’t need tea to attract love, Lyric?”

She stared down at him. “My whole life has been about tea.”

His eyes fell closed. “You make a mean tea,” he agreed, “but even if you didn’t know what a tea leaf was, you’d still attract people to you.”

She grew still.

His head rolled to the side, but he didn’t open his eyes. “They’d be drawn to you because you care. People just haven’t gotten close enough to you to figure that out.” His lips twitched. “I’ll make you a promise. I’ll try to smile more if you promise to live life at a run.”

He suddenly fell silent, his breathing deep. For a long moment, Lyric simply watched him while listening to the sounds of the crickets, frogs, and distressed ravens’ caws beyond the camper.

“Quit trying to chase him away,” she whispered to the birds. She leaned over, her lips near Grayson’s ear. “I promise,” she breathed. The caws beyond the camper grew louder, but Lyric found herself smiling. “I want to make love to you, too,” she added.

Somewhere beyond the cawing ravens, a decaying house sat, the structure overlooking the small camper. They were breaking the law camping here—they were trespassing—and living a moment they shouldn’t. Maybe Lyric was never meant to meet Grayson, but she was glad that she’d been standing on the porch clutching the cup that could kill her family when he’d pulled up on his four-wheeler. In retrospect, he’d met her while she was holding her life in her hands, and instead of driving away, he’d asked if she needed anything.

She was going to keep her promise to him.

From this day forward, she was going to live her life at a run. She’d often been told she shouldn’t live life fast, that she should take the time to enjoy it. Yet it seemed right, taking each moment and running with it, pausing occasionally to truly enjoy it before running again. Running meant she couldn’t question herself. Running meant freedom.

She’d been told to quit running, but she wasn’t running
away
this time. She was running
toward
.

She was going to keep her promise.

In that moment, as if he’d sensed her, Grayson snored.

When making the tea, Lyric had snuck willow bark into her cup, so she heard when one of her aunts groaned outside of the camper.
You had to find a loud one.

In all honesty, Lyric liked the sound. She liked his flaws. Flaws often kept people rooted.

“Give me a chance,” Lyric begged.

The ravens all moaned. One voice stood out amongst the grumbling melee. It was a soft voice, one Lyric hadn’t heard since she was a child.

Run, child. Run free …

~22~

Like with anything else in life, there are bad batches of tea …

~The Tea Girl~

In Hiccup, Mississippi, on a humid night in August, a group of townspeople lounged within the old church in the center of town. There were clouds obscuring the moon but no rain. Occasional flashes of heat lightning lit the sky, a backdrop to the muted voices inside of the church.

“You don’t think you’re overreacting?” a small-voiced Reese Newton asked. She was the wife of Sheriff Richard Newton, and the only voice of reason in the room.

“They’ve been a plague on this town too long!” Bridget Smith railed. “There’s
somethin
’ wrong about them, and we all know it.”

“Do we?” Reese asked. “Don’t you think you might be
lettin
’ your feelings for the Kramer boy color how you feel, Bridget?”

The younger woman glared. “This
ain’t
got
nothing
to do with me and Grayson. It’s logical is
all.
How many of you lost men to that family?”

Reese snorted. “
There’s
been three men in over a hundred years who’ve been involved with those women.
Just three men.”

“And my brother was one of ’
em
,” Mildred Kramer said softly. The room fell quiet, all eyes going to the elderly woman. “I’m not much of one for hysterics, but can you tell me where all three of those men are now?” Her bespectacled gaze rose to meet Reese’s. “Two are dead and the other hasn’t been heard from in years. That’s three families affected in a town the size of Hiccup. Now, my grandson …” Her words trailed off.

Richard Newton stood behind his wife, his expression conflicted. Unlike Reese, he’d always felt a healthy fear for the women in that family, but he also had a healthy respect for the law. “Grayson’s a grown man, Mildred. The choices he makes—”

“He’s my grandson, Richard! I’ve already lost my brother to that family, and I’ve lost one grandson to tragedy. I won’t lose another.”

Reese glanced up at her husband before gazing at Mildred. “Maybe he needs this,” she said carefully.

Mildred stood abruptly, her old legs shaking.

Her husband rose next to her, using his arm to brace her. “Now, Mildred—” John Kramer began.

She pulled away from him. “You think he
needs
her! She’ll destroy him!”

Daniel Stevens, the Kramer’s hired hand, rose from a pew he’d been sitting on at the back of the room. “She has a point. That family has a dark history. There’s
somethin
’ incredibly
disturbin
’ about them. We’re not talking about murdering the girl. We’re just
talkin
’ about ridding the town of their presence. We’ve put up with it long enough.”

Reese’s jaw tensed. “Old Ma’am helped a lot of people in this town,” she argued. “She brought tea and a kind word to many a sick folk.”

“But she wasn’t cozying up with one of our men,” Bridget Smith countered.

Reese threw up her hands. “Oh, for God’s sake, we
ain’t
living in the past. This is a modern world with modern principles. Quit
actin
’ like you want to lynch the poor woman. She came here ’cause her grandmother died. She didn’t come here to steal a man.”

Sandra Calhoun harrumphed from her spot near the front of the church. She’d always liked it near the pulpit even when the church was empty. “How can you be sure of that, Reese? I’m sure the three men this town has lost didn’t think those women were here to steal a man either.”

Her husband, Henry, lounged next her, his eyes drooping. “
Ain’t
no
harm in what we’re
plannin
’,” he said. “Let’s just get on with it.”

Richard Newton glanced at the group. “There’s paperwork I’ll need to look into, and a—”

“This is Hiccup,” Bridget’s father, Robert Smith, interrupted. “You really need paperwork for that? We
ain’t
doing
nothing
they won’t have to do later anyway.”

Richard frowned.

Reese stood. “I won’t be a part of it.” She looked at Richard. “And if you are, then you can find a nice comfy place on the couch to call home for a while.” She glared.
“A long while.”

She marched to the door, her gaze going over the room. “You are
lookin
’ for ghosts that may or may not exist. Any of you ever thought to ask what part those men played in
this?
It
ain’t
always the woman’s fault, for God’s sake.”

“There
ain’t
no reason to
God’s sake
us to death, woman,” Richard muttered.

His wife threw him a look. “Let’s see how that couch is for the
sake
of your health.”

The church door opened and slammed closed, the sound echoing throughout the room. For a long moment, no one said anything. There was only the slam and its echo.

Mildred Kramer stood, her head held high. “I
ain’t
a mean spirited woman. I
ain’t
never done wrong by nobody
. I love my family. I’ll do anything to protect them. Judge me all you want, but you’d do the same.”

Everyone in the room stood. “I’m with you,” Bridget Smith called out, “and I don’t think there’s a single soul in here who’d disagree.”

There were a lot of
yeahs
, somber pats on the back, and Sunday afternoon dinner talk before people sauntered toward the door. The humid night met them in all of her dark-cloaked glory, the heat lightning racing across the sky.

~23~

There is history in tea. Imbibed by many cultures for many different reasons, tea has witnessed poignant moments, tragic moments, and pivotal moments. There are a bevy of tea-soaked records that have passed away with the men and women who drank it. There have been battles fought over it, memories made with it, and long nights comforted by it. There is history in tea.

~The Tea Girl~

Lyric was gone when Grayson woke the next morning, his night dreamless. For the first time in years, his sleep had restored him rather than draining him dry. He owed it all to the tea girl, to the woman who’d snuck her way into his life with a sip of tea.

Standing in the camper’s open doorway, Grayson peered through the overhanging tree limbs to the open fields beyond the old Miller house. Sun-touched dew sparkled, lighting up the world, the air cooler than normal for summer but no less warm and humid.

Ravens cawed.

“I won’t bother you if you promise not to bother me,” Grayson mumbled. The birds screeched, and he rubbed at his neck. He’d slept well, but his back hated him, the small couch cramped and uncomfortable.

A flash of color caught Grayson’s attention, and he shaded his eyes, a smile spreading across his face.

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, his gaze tracking Lyric as she ran across overgrown fields full of wildflowers, her skirt whipping around her, the fabric leaving a trail of colors like those crazy kaleidoscopes Grayson had once squinted into as a child. She was alive. Lyric was alive.

The ravens cawed, but there was something different about their calls today, something wistful.

Grayson stepped free of the camper, his gaze rising to the birds. “It’s her turn,” he said.

He walked away then, his eyes on the woman in the distance. This had turned into a surreal summer, full of tea and stories so outlandish it seemed like a dream, but if Grayson was dreaming, he was counting on not waking up. He was counting on drowning in tea. For the first time since he was nineteen, he wasn’t engulfed by shame and guilt. It was still there, the regret, but he’d realized something: life was about taking your burdens and standing with them, about climbing off of your knees and
running
with them.

He ran, his blue jean-clad legs tearing through wildflowers and open sky, the wind pushing against him. His lungs were on fire, but he kept going. Lyric was right. Running was about getting angry with life, about burning away all of the fury and leaving it behind. It was about dusting yourself off and starting over.

He’d almost caught up with her when she glanced back and caught sight of him. Her sudden grin caught him off guard. There was no guile in her expression, nothing flirtatious or suggestive. There was only a wide-open smile and laughter.

This was what life was. Hurting for the things you can’t change, but holding on to what you have left. Grayson had no intention of letting go.

Truth was
,
he was falling for the tea girl.

“Think you could run any faster?” he panted.

Lyric threw him another sunny smile, her hair whipping in front of her face. It was hopeless now—her hair—full of intricate knots that would take forever to brush free.

Grayson finally caught up with her, his jeans damp from dew, his stride barely keeping him next to her. For a small woman, she was fast.

“Damn, woman,” he choked.

She
laughed,
her gaze on the sky, on the black ravens that had followed them.
Wildflowers below, ravens above.
Sun and clouds, and dew and flowers … and ravens. It was a surreal world.

Then, as quickly as she began, Lyric suddenly stopped. She simply quit moving, her chest heaving, her strange hazel eyes almost turquoise in the dawn-lit world, her arms rising above her head.

This was it
, Grayson thought.
This was the “new”. This was the moment when the storm blew itself out and enjoyed the fury it left behind
.

Leaning over, Grayson gulped in air, his hands going to his knees. “I’m trying to enjoy the new,” he gasped.

She peered down at him, her eyes bright. “I’m supposed to run.
You’re
supposed to smile.”

He grinned at the wildflowers. It was a start. “The weeds are getting quite the show down here.”

She chuckled. “I said smile, not scare them to death.”

His head lifted, his gaze meeting hers. “You’re beautiful when you look like a disaster.”

She grew still, her gasps growing less erratic and more even. “I think that’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

“Oh,” Grayson puffed, “you
definitely
need to get out more.”

She grinned. “Let me try my hand at this compliment thing.” She perused him critically, her dark brows lifted, her eyes trailing his hunched figure. “You look decent when you’re wheezing.”

Rising to full height, he shook his head. “I think your pick-up line needs work.” He stalked her, his figure drawing nearer to hers.

Remote sirens interrupted them, the sound growing in volume. Their heads lifted, their eyes going to the road, to the cloud of dust rising in the distance.

“Really,” Grayson murmured.

The ravens flying overhead suddenly vanished, their wings beating furiously, their cawing overwhelmed by the patrol car coming down the lane. It came to a halting stop at the edge of the field. Grayson wedged himself between Lyric and the car, his chin lifting.

Richard Newton stepped free of his vehicle, a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. The lenses reflected the field, a dark mirror into a beautiful morning. There was something uneasy about the way he stood, his fingers falling to his belt loops.

Richard cleared his throat. “I’ve warned you, Grayson.” His gaze fell to the dark head just beyond Grayson’s shoulder. “You’re trespassing.
Both of you.
Legally, I have every right to escort you from this property.”

Grayson stiffened. “There’s been no harm done here, Sheriff.”

Richard ignored him. “Ms. Mason, we’ve been very generous in letting you go through your
Ma’am’s
things, but this property doesn’t belong to your family anymore. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Grayson started to step forward, but Lyric stopped him.

“Perhaps you’re right, Sheriff,” she said suddenly. Both men gawked at her.

Stepping around Grayson, she nodded at Richard. “I apologize for the imposition I’ve caused. If I could burden you for a day or two longer, I’ll leave.”

For a moment, Richard stared—disconcerted—before his lips melted into a frown. “I don’t think—”

“Could I offer you a cup of tea?” she asked.

Richard froze, his gaze going from his car to the field to the decaying house beyond. The morning felt darker somehow now, the clouds greyer, the sound of ravens in the distance eerie and disturbing. Manners bade him to accept her offer. Fear made him reluctant.

“I need both of you off of this land. Today,” Richard insisted, his face hard.

Lyric lifted her damp skirt. “How about that tea?” she asked.

Richard stared, his hands gripping his belt. Clearing his throat, he muttered, “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Lyric stepped toward him. “Excuses, Sheriff, are like dandelions. Pick one up, blow, and you can watch the seeds spread with no sense of direction. Eventually, they land, but it can be in the middle of a field, a puddle somewhere, or even a heap of cow dung. Quite frankly, excuses are dangerous. I’d rather know where mine will land.”

The sheriff’s hand found the door of his car. “I’ll give you a little time,” he said finally. “No more than three days. Understand? What happens after that I have no control
over.
”

Grayson frowned, his gaze trailing Richard Newton as he climbed into his car.

The older man rolled down his window, his gaze finding Grayson’s. “You should go home, boy. Your family’s worried.” His eyes slid to Lyric. “Family is important.”

With that, he drove away, the tires throwing gravel and dirt. Lyric and Grayson watched him leave, the joy they’d felt from the run forgotten.

Lyric glanced at Grayson. “It follows me, you know,” she said.

He looked at her. “What’s that?”

“My family’s story.
It’s a dark one, and it often drags down anyone who gets involved.”

She started to walk past him, but his arm snaked forward, his grip catching her by surprise. “A wise woman once said excuses are like dandelions. Don’t make them, Lyric. You are not your family. You may be a product of your family, but they don’t define who you are.”

She stared at him. “Make me a promise,” she whispered.

He peered down at her.
“Anything.”

Her hand found his on her arm. “Don’t go insane.”

He smiled, because he was good at keeping promises. “I promise.”