In the Land of Tea and Ravens (9 page)

Those words followed Lyric out of the door. They chased her to her car. Those words shoved her down the dirt roads to the old house that once belonged to her Ma’am. Those words helped her up the rotting steps. Those words carried her to the peeling rocking chair on the porch. Those words lifted her face, her gaze falling on the Kramer property.

You can’t drive a man mad when he’s already insane.

~12~

For weeks, the tea girl visited the king, talking to him, laughing with him, and eventually falling in love with him. For weeks, the king watched her while drinking the tea she brought. Mercy, he’d named her. The tea girl wasn’t a great beauty, but her compassion and her understanding transformed her. The cool feel of her hands against his forehead went from being a simple touch to a lingering connection. In that moment, the king realized something. Love is many things, but without respect it is nothing. He respected Mercy. He loved her.

~The Tea Girl~

For three days Grayson avoided the old Miller property, his work on the land taking up all of his free time and occupying his thoughts. It was good, the work. The sunny days, the sound of the tractor, the friendly shouts from hired hands, the repairs … all of it. He’d hoped the work would sever whatever fascination Lyric held over him, but late at night when he couldn’t sleep, he found himself standing at his window, his palm pressed against the frame and his gaze on the light beyond the field. Lyric seemed driven by the night. She wasn’t afraid of darkness. What then, Grayson couldn’t help but wonder, was she afraid of?

Sunday was his downfall.

For the past fifty years, Grayson’s grandparents had refused to work on Sundays. Other than the occasional emergency, it was a day spent at the church in town before congregating at home. Townsfolk crowded the
Kramers
’ kitchen, the sound of casseroles being unwrapped quiet among raucous laughter and murmured remembrances. Grayson hated Sundays. It wasn’t a day for sinners. It wasn’t a day for the
unforgiven
.

“You aren’t hungry?” a voice asked.

Grayson leaned against one of the white columns on the front porch, his arms crossed and his gaze on the fields. It was sunny out, but the wind was strong enough to keep the heat from being overwhelming. Blue skies full of white fluffy clouds hung over an earth turned green by the rain earlier in the week.

The voice called out again, breaking Grayson’s gaze on the land. His eyes fell to the porch. He knew that voice, and he dreaded it. Bridget Smith was a mistake he should have never made.
His
mistake.
Not hers. Bridget wasn’t a bad girl. His grandmother was certainly more than pleased with the woman. She was beautiful, smart, family-oriented, and ambitious—all wonderful traits—but ambition, while not bad, often drives compassion from people. It gives them the tools they need to succeed, but blinds them to what’s truly important. Success should never come first in life. Grayson had put success first, and it had destroyed his family.

“What’s gotten into you lately, Grayson Kramer?” Bridget asked. “You work like a demon, and refuse to enjoy time for yourself.”

Grayson glanced at her, at her perfectly glossed lips and loose summer dress. The skirt reminded him too much of someone else. “You shouldn’t say demon on a Sunday.”

Bridget started to snort, but instantly stopped herself. Women like her didn’t snort, they simmered. “What
are
you looking at?”

Her voice held an undercurrent that stiffened Grayson’s spine. That was something else about Bridget … she had a jealous streak. Jealousy is healthy, but Bridget had the kind of jealousy that harmed not just
herself
, but others. She was like a cat, sultry and quiet, until the moment she struck, her claws sprung. She had a craving for danger. Grayson had been her forbidden fruit, the bite full of rich flavor but with a sour edge that made one keep tasting to see if the aftertaste would ever go away.

“I’ll wager he’s hankering after the old Miller place,” Freddie Graham muttered as he sauntered onto the porch, a bottle-necked beer in one hand, a Styrofoam plate full of food in the other. “That place has got a strange pull to her.”

Grayson ignored him.

“That place?” Bridget asked.
“Or a particular woman?”

Grayson’s gaze went once more to the fields, to the healthy pastures ready for haying and the wild, overgrown ones next to them. His silence and straying attention was worse than any reply he could have given.

“They’re all witches!” Bridget hissed.

Freddie snorted. “This whole town’s a loony bin. It’s superstitious nonsense.”

Surprised, Grayson glanced askance at the hired hand. “You don’t believe the stories about them?” he asked.

Bridget threw up her hands. “Now he speaks.”

Freddie shrugged. “My Aunt Juliet has been friends with the family for years, and those women
ain’t
been
nothin
’ but kind to her. I spent a lot of nights at Old
Ma’am’s
knee. There’s no doubt there’s
somethin
’ funny about ’
em
, but they
ain’t
evil. And they make a damned fine glass o’ tea.”

A look passed between Grayson and Freddie. Freddie was a hard young man, but while education teaches people book smarts, it is life that teaches them about human character. Life had been a harsh teacher for Freddie and Grayson in different ways.

Bridget scowled. “It’s ’cause you haven’t been harmed by them, Freddie.”

Freddie took a swig of his beer. “
Ain’t
no point
arguin
’. Man’s got nothing in a fight with you. No matter how you spin it, I’ll come out
lookin
’ like a deer in headlights even if I’m right.”

“Bless your heart,” Bridget drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Freddie lifted his bottle. “I rest my case.”

A flash of color in the overgrown fields caught Grayson’s eye, and he stared, his gaze narrowed.

“There you are,” a shrill, lilting voice called out.

Grayson groaned. He knew this voice, too. Margaret Thames was Bridget’s closest friend and had been trying to get inside of Grayson’s pants since he’d arrived in Hiccup. Bridget had succeeded, but Margaret was nowhere near accomplishing it. For one, Bridget had been a moment of weakness. Secondly, Grayson had long since discovered he was nothing more to the women than a game. It was amazing what a tarnished reputation could do for a man. He’d been seeking solace in the country and discovered infamy instead.

“There
ain’t
enough alcohol,” Freddie mumbled. “There just
ain’t
enough alcohol for that.”

Grayson’s gaze remained on the pasture, frozen on a wisp of purple fabric amongst a field full of wilted corn stalks. Ravens circled.

“All of that food and y’all are
standin
’ out here!” Margaret exclaimed.

Grayson glanced at Freddie, at the full plate he held. Inhaling, he glanced from the plate to the field and back again. “You know, I think you’re right,” he mumbled. “I am feeling a little hungry.”

Margaret clapped. “Wonderful! I brought the squash casserole.”

Pushing past her into the house’s crowded hallway, Grayson dodged townsfolk and conversation, using the swarm of people to conceal his intentions. He had food on a covered plate and was out the back door before anyone noticed him, his feet carrying him around the anterior of the house to the tree line. From there, he stepped into the fields, wading through waist-high grass. Bugs buzzed, a dragonfly diving at his head and then swooping away. Sweat beaded up along his brow, his breath growing deeper as he walked, navigating the pastures under a sky with too many eyes. Ravens cawed. The birds lost some of their eeriness during the day, becoming the scowling, too nosy matrons he supposed them to be.

“I see you,” he snapped, scowling in their direction.

Entering the overgrown cornfield, his gaze searched the array of brown and green stalks for an outrageous chunk of violet.

In the end, it was the birds that gave her away, their circling black bodies lowering over a portion of the field closer to the Miller property.

Stalks rustled, the driest ones cracking under his feet as he stepped over some and around others, the movement bringing Lyric Mason into view. She stood with her head
bent,
her long, wild hair down for the first time since he’d met her. The curls swept downward past her breasts, the humidity coiling the mass into something living. She wore a bright blue tank top with a tiered violet and blue skirt.

“I made a promise,” Grayson said.

Lyric’s head didn’t rise. “I wish you’d quit,” she replied.

“Quit?”

Her gaze lifted, her strange eyes blue-violet, the color off-set by the tank top she wore. It was disconcerting how her eyes changed. Grayson wondered what mood blue-violet stood for.

“Making promises,” she answered.

Grayson nodded at the plate in his hand. “I brought food.” His lips twitched. “I figured you could provide the drink.”

She stared at him, her gaze raking his jeans and olive green T-shirt. Around his neck, he wore a silver chain that ended in a pendant, a swirl of Celtic knots that resembled a horse’s head.

“And if I have none?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Then we’ll eat it dry.”

“There’s only one plate,” she argued.

“There’s enough food for two,” he countered.

Lyric sighed. “There’s no getting rid of you.” She spoke as much to herself as she did to him.

He watched her. “I’m trying to decide if I should ask you what the devil you’re doing in this field or why you always wear these confounded, layered skirts.”

“You have an interest in fashion?” she teased.

Grayson flinched. “Colorful rags sewn together are fashionable?” Lyric frowned, and he immediately regretted his words. “Look—”

“Because life is brighter with color,” she interrupted.
“Because if you spend your life washing all of the color out of your life, then you’re left with grey.
I love grey, those stark moments when there is no color. And yet, there is nothing more beautiful than the moment when all of that grey is suddenly touched by color. It’s like watching the day rise from the dead.”

Grayson’s fingers tingled, the pads of his hands suddenly tempted to grab her skirt, to watch the way the blue and violet looked against the wilted cornstalks.

“What are you doing here?” he mumbled.

Lyric glanced at the sky. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You do a lot of strange, questionable things.”

She fought not to smile. “The house becomes too much sometimes. I thought I’d be done here by now. This town’s patience is only so long.”

Grayson’s gaze followed hers. “You’re a complicated mess, Lyric Mason.”

“You can go home, Grayson Kramer.”

“I think that’s what intrigues me,” he said.

She glanced at him, surprised. “What?”

“You keep trying to send me away.” He lifted the plate in his hand. “The food is getting cold.”

Lyric eyed the foil wrapped plate before turning, her tiered skirt drawing him through the field, the fabric a beacon in the bleakness. They were walking through a war zone, a field full of history fed by both of their families.
Hers especially.

There was an old oak tree on the edge of the field, and Lyric stopped there.

Leaning her back against the trunk, she faced Grayson. “Why do you keep coming?” she asked.

Grayson pulled the foil off of the plate and held out one of two plastic forks. “You never got a chance to tell me about the ravens.” She accepted the fork, and he gestured at the plate. “Just eat whatever you’d like. I’ll eat what you don’t.”