Shaddyr's Eclectic Collection > Pretender Fanfiction > Liz Shelbourne > Ghosts

 

Ghosts
by Liz Shelbourne

"The Pretender" and all characters included therein are property of NBC Entertainment, Pretender Productions and their assignees. All other characters, concepts and dialogue are Copyrighted 2000 by Liz Shelbourne. No compensation was made for the writing or publishing of this work.

*Note- this story takes place after Brick By Brick.

"I almost think we’re all of us Ghosts. It’s not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that "walks" in us. It’s all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same…There must be Ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sand of the sea. And then we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light." - Ibsen, Ghosts

The spoon clinked against the inside of my coffee cup, ringing musically throughout the small diner, over and over again. The waitress, having posted an order and spun it around toward the kitchen area, looked over at me where I was seated on the far end of the counter.

"Kelly, are you going to drink that coffee or just make noise?" Her voice was low, but not gruff, deep from years of second-hand smoke and fumes from the grill, but it held a note of friendly caring.

I looked up, smiled sheepishly and set the spoon on the saucer. "Sorry, Mags, I got lost in thought."

"That’s alright, hon," Maggie, "Mags," my cousin and best friend, walked down the length of the counter, filled the cups of the two elderly gentlemen seated silently at the other end and then continued on to the only other table in the diner with a customer at it. Having her offer of a refill politely refused by the dark stranger there, she walked back to lean on the counter in front of me. "What’s on your mind, kiddo?"

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at my friend’s most recent term of endearment. At twenty-eight, I no longer felt like a kid, in fact, it was the strain in my arms and the weight on my shoulders that were the cause of my consternation. I pushed a piece of dark brown hair out of my eyes and behind my ear, and sighed. "Jim Hutchins is moving to Texas. Tomorrow. He’s got an uncle down there who’s looking for a hand with his cattle."

My cousin frowned. "That’s no good. What are you going to do?"

"I don’t know, Mags, I really don’t know." I shook my head and lifted the spoon to stir the warmed-up coffee. "I’ve got to find somebody, though. I went over to the bank and looked over the loan – there’s no way I’m going to be able to keep up on the payments if I don’t keep up regular production. I guess Talia and I will have to make do for a while, until I can find someone else."

Maggie sighed with me. "If you’d like, you can put an ad up here. Not that we get a whole lot of people that would have the time or the inclination," she glanced over her shoulder at the two silent gentlemen mulling over their oatmeal, "but you never know if somebody might know somebody else who is looking."

I gave her a mirthless smile and picked at the crumbs of muffin left on my plate. "I guess I’ll do that, maybe put something in the town rag, but what am I going to do until then? I can’t handle milking sixty head all by myself, day after day, and Talia, well, she’ll help, but you know her, she’s not exactly made for this kind of work."

Maggie shook her head. She knew exactly what I was talking about. For years she had spent the summers at my family farm while both her parents worked, helping out with the chores as much as she got me in trouble, or at least that’s what I had told my father when he had caught us all those times. Two years older than me, she had been the one who convinced me that we could cut our own hair and make it look just like the magazine. Hers, of course, had turned out cute, how could a head full of auburn curls not, but mine had been a mousy brown disaster. She had been the one who introduced me to drinking, too, as well as cigarettes, but I had been smart enough to stay away from the second. Now, her caring eyes were permanently squinted from looking through a veil of smoke. Of course, on her, it worked.

She had married the man behind the grill and was contented in her life, running the café and playing mother hen to an entire town. It suited her and me; she was always there when I needed a friend and some comfort food. Lemon poppy seed muffins. I debated the wisdom of getting another.

The solitary man sitting in the nearby booth pushed his plate of food, barely touched, away from the edge of the table and rose. Standing up, both Maggie and I were surprised to see how tall he stood as we surreptitiously watched him move toward the register. He pulled a few crumpled dollars out of the pocket of his jeans, counted them and, with regret, passed the entire amount across to the waitress.

"I’m sorry, I don’t have any more right now, I can’t afford to give you much of a tip." His voice was as low as his head, bent over in shame.

"That’s okay." Mags’ voice was bright, she glanced over at his abandoned table and smiled. "You didn’t really eat enough to charge you full price anyway. Don’t worry about it."

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he reached into the other pocket and pulled out a bus ticket. He glanced at the numbers on it and for the first time looked up, to view the clock on the wall over my shoulder. Bringing his gaze back down to the tiny slip of paper, our eyes met for the briefest of moments, then his looked again at the ticket. "The bus stops on this corner?"

Mags gave him an affirming sound, but I was silent. Forced into silence, if truth be told. That instant of contact, that microsecond of exchange had been enough to freeze me in my place. I stared blankly in front of me as he walked toward the door, not seeing his movement as my mind pondered what it had seen in his eyes.

Pain. Guilt. Remorse, a man with a heavy soul and a broken spirit, and yet, something else. There was a fear, fear of strangers, fear of "being."

I thought over what his face had looked like as my eyes traveled to the back of his dark head, his broad shoulders hanging beneath the too-warm leather jacket. His cheeks had been thin, bordering on gaunt, his beard heavy from a few days growth. His dark eyes had been so expressive, but so overwhelmingly sad. At any other time, he would have been handsome, no, even more than that, but now all he looked was haunted. By what? The question whirled silently through my mind. What could this man be running from? He had a bus ticket, but no bag, no, wait…

"Excuse me!" I jumped from my seat and walked quickly back to the booth where the stranger’s meal lay unfinished. Reaching under the table, I pulled out a large, silver case. Everyone in the diner turned to watch me and I felt a blush force its way onto my cheeks. I held out the case. "You left this behind."

He looked at the case as if it were completely foreign to him, then suddenly recognition dawned in his eyes but at the same time seemed to bring sorrow anew. Mumbling a thanks, he moved over to take it from me, now determined not to make eye contact, then walked once again toward the door. He stood silently, looking into the bright summer sunlight for a bus that was never on time.

I climbed back on the stool at the bar and reached for my coffee. Maggie's glance caught me for a second, and I shrugged. The diner was eerily quiet until the chef announced that the two English muffins were now available for the only other patrons at the far side of the counter.

My mind battled itself; who was he, what was wrong, why did I feel this urge to help this strange, silent man? I could hear the sound of the bus from two blocks away, the driver downshifting noisily as he entered the small town. If I waited long enough, I knew, the object of my questions would get on the bus and ride away, and I would forget about him in a day or two. That would be one way to solve the problem, I thought, well, at least that problem. Maybe I was just thinking about his so that I wouldn’t have to think about mine. The thought depressed me once again – what was I going to do?

Three decades ago, in a flash of pragmatic creativity, the original owner of the diner had asked his wife to macramé a bright orange cord into a hanger for two sleigh bells, and he had hung it on the metal crossbar of the front door. Years had passed, the owner had died and his widow sold the diner to another, and the bright orange had faded to a mottled dark yellow, but the bells still chimed whenever a body passed in or out of the door. It was a sound that most of the town knew by heart – here the sound of sleigh bells brought back memories of meatloaf and mashed potatoes more than bobbed tail nags and shiny runners over snow.

It was this particular chime that brought me out of my reverie. With a barely whispered "God help me," and a frantic glance at my cousin, I grabbed my bag and rushed out after the departing stranger.

"Excuse me!" I called again, feeling foolish in repeating the words but having no others that seemed appropriate to get his attention. The stranger was only a few feet from the bus door; the driver, never one for accuracy, had pulled twenty feet ahead of the usual stop.

He turned around at my voice, and once again the pain in his eyes stopped me in my tracks. I forced myself to hold onto his gaze and vocally stumbled into my thoughts. "I, uh, you don’t…" My face flushed again stupidly and I mentally kicked myself. I nodded toward the bus and the exiting driver. "Are you going some place for work? I mean, I noticed you don’t have a lot of money, do you have a job, wherever you’re going?"

His eyes dropped once again to the ticket. "No, I don’t. I was hoping to find something when I got there."

"Well, I’ve got some work I need help with, I mean, if you don’t really have to leave." The words tumbled out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about them, and for once I was grateful for it. I knew that if I thought too long, figured out the risks, considered the dangers, I would never speak, but that look, that pain that I had seen urged me on. "I can’t pay you a whole lot, but I have a place you can stay, and I do need the help, if you want to do it."

The bus driver darted his eyes between us, waiting without patience as the tall man mulled over his options. "If you don’t take the bus today, you can use that ticket tomorrow, or next week," the driver offered, trying to be helpful. "But you gotta make up your mind, I have a schedule to keep, you know."

I rolled my eyes at the driver, knowing that more often than not, if he had no other passengers (and that happened a few times a month) he would spend a good twenty minutes over coffee and pie at the diner. His schedule was lax; if anything, it was just the inconvenience of another’s indecision that rubbed him the wrong way.

The stranger still stared blankly at the tiny slip of paper in his hand. What? I thought to myself, starting to feel more like the bus driver as the silent moments passed. Yes or no, it was easy, or was it? What was this dark man running from, what had my mouth gotten me into this time?

With a half-hearted smile thrown over his shoulder at the driver, the tall man walked away from the curb. "I guess," he spoke quietly. "There really isn’t anything for me there, I could stay and help you out. While you need it."

I nodded, and offered a tentative, apologetic grin. "I have to go back and pay for lunch, or my cousin will kill me, but if you wait here, I’ll bring the truck around." I walked toward the diner, glancing back as the bus moved away. He still stood there, looking lost in the middle of the sidewalk. For better or worse, I thought to myself (I tend to do that a lot) we’ll have some kind of an answer to those problems soon enough.

Ten minutes later, we were speeding along a long bumpy track in my late model Ford pick-up. The stranger sat upright in the passenger’s seat, the silver case wedged between his knees on the floor. He had been silent the entire trip, but not uncomfortably so, and I had left him to his reverie. We had driven past the new housing developments and ritzy subdivisions that had sprung up in the area in the last few years, then had turned off the highway.

The macadam road we were on, not yet deemed worthy for asphalt by the county, ran between two fields. On one side there was row after row of the faintly striped green leaves of the corn that would stretch up above the height of the truck in the months to come; on the other side the mixed earthy colors of the hay field, edging up toward the length for a first cutting. As we bounced along at a speed that was probably imprudent, he looked out the window and cracked a self-conscious smile. "Just what kind of work did you need done?" he asked.

"Oh," I laughed. "I thought you knew. I’m a farmer, a dairy farmer to be exact. I’m milking over sixty head of Guernsey and Jerseys right now, with a couple dozen others that aren’t currently producing for one reason or another." I looked at him, saw his expression and grinned. Oh, this was going to be good. "I don’t expect that you’ve ever done anything like this before then, have you?"

His eyes traveled along the rows of corn and the green pasture that had now replaced the hay field, finally catching sight of a large white farmhouse in the distance. "No," he admitted. "I can’t say that I have. Most of my work has been a little more cerebral."

I laughed again, but tried not to let it sound at all malicious. "That’s okay. It’s hard work, but it isn’t difficult, you’ll catch on." The truck slowed as we pulled into the yard of the farmhouse. Less than a hundred feet away, a red barn rose quaintly behind the house, with a long corrugated metal building running off behind it. A half dozen mocha-colored cows could be seen around a water trough outside their metal home, fenced in by white posts and wire.

The moment that I had climbed out of the parked truck, my old collie had run up to greet us, his tail wagging in delight. Seeing the stranger, he halted and looked hard at him, sizing up this new threat to his family.

"It’s okay, Max, he’s here to help." I cuffed the dog playfully, and he responded with a happy bark, twirling around to follow me toward the front porch. As we neared, the screen door opened and my sister walked out, her hands drying in a dishcloth, her teenage eyes appraising the new arrival.

"Hey, Tal," I called, trying to ease her mind with my voice. "I think I found a way to keep you out of the barn." I grinned and turned toward the man walking up the steps behind me. "This is our new hand…" then I stopped and stared, completely dumbfounded in my own stupidity. "I never even told you my name. I'm Kelly and this is my sister Talia."

The tall stranger held out his hand to my sister. "Jarod," he started, then paused, the flash of pain once again streaking across his eyes. "You can just call me Jarod."

~~~

Jarod walked into the kitchen of the farmhouse and caught me mixing a big glass pitcher of iced tea at the old butcher block-style table. At first I was oblivious to him standing in the doorway. I pushed the ever-errant strand of dark hair back behind my ear and poured out a glass. When I did see him looking at me, silently, I thought about what he saw. I had changed into a bright green tank top beneath the faded overalls, it almost glowed against my shoulders, brown from the spring months working in the sun. My hair was shoulder length, straight, dark brown but sun-lightened at the top, and mostly tied back with a red bandanna, except that one stupid strand. I never wore makeup around the house, and my fingernails were dirty and cracked. A real glamour girl, I mused.

After a little while I was reduced to smiling out of embarrassment at his gaze. "Are you ready to get to work?" I asked, then drained the glass of iced tea and reached for another to fill.

"Sure."

Handing a glass to him, I quite openly looked him over, as he had done to me. I'm not one to back out of a contest, and this seemed like it had the makings of one, or was it just my imagination? I took note once again of his black tee-shirt, denim button-down, jeans and leather boots. "I noticed that you didn’t have another bag. Is that silver thing a suitcase, do you have any other clothes, `cause those aren’t going to last long around here."

Jarod looked sheepishly at his wardrobe. "This is all I have. I lost my clothes a couple of days ago." He left the reason unspoken.

"Hmmm." I looked him over again, sizing him up, and I could swear that he blushed. Well, maybe it wasn't a contest. "I think some of Daddy’s clothes would fit you, but I’m not sure about the boots. We’ll just have to give it a try, I guess, at least for today. Tomorrow you can go buy your own," I grinned, "that is, if you decide to stay."

For a moment, he smiled, his eyes sparkled ever so slightly at my challenge. Then, without warning, his face fell.

Oh, good God, I thought, please don't let him be hypersensitive. "I’m kidding, you know. I mean, it’s hard work and all, but you’ll be able to handle it." I gave him my best lopsided grin and started to move though the doorway past him. "Come on, let’s see what the old man left for you."

I led him up the stairs and into the largest bedroom, a little stuffy with stagnant air. He glanced around and saw the large four poster bed with the hand made cedar chest at its foot, the heavy dresser and nightstand, all with a light layer of dust upon them. I walked over to the closet and opened one side. "You can look in the bottom drawer of the dresser, there should be a couple pair of overalls." I started searching into the depths of the closet while Jarod pulled on the wooden handle of the drawer.

I knew that "a couple" was a bit of an understatement. Neatly folded and stacked, six pair of blue denim overalls, all the same brand and size, but in varying shades of fade, filled the space. Jarod opened the drawer above to find a dozen blue t-shirts, again folded and filed neatly away.

I held up a pair of heavy work boots, barely scuffed. "I knew Daddy had one pair that he bought by accident a size too big. I think that was his first shopping experience after Momma died." I blew the dust off. "Thank God that man never threw out a thing. I think he thought he’d eventually grow into them."

Jarod pulled out one of the pairs of overalls and let them cascade down his front. Holding the straps to his shoulders, the pants legs stopped just shy of his ankles. I looked at them and frowned. "Well, you won’t have to worry about getting the bottoms dirty." I grabbed one of the blue shirts and handed it and the boots to Jarod. "Socks are in the top drawer, underwear, too, if you need it. If you want to get your clothes in the laundry, it’s in the basement. I’ll meet you out in the barn in twenty minutes." I gave him my best friendly smile and walked out to let him change.
 
 

Staring at the pile of clothes in his arms, Jarod stood for a moment, thinking. Here he was, in another man’s house, ready to put on his clothes and take up his job. This was strangely similar to pretending, yet different. He glanced around the room again. Whatever had happened to Kelly’s father had happened recently, the room, while stuffy, did not have the musty smell that comes from months and months of disuse.

He looked more carefully at the clothes. Kelly’s nameless father had been a relatively tall, trim man; the waistline of the pants belied his fitness. Jarod slipped on one of the blue shirts, pulled on the overalls and placed his feet into the tight boots. He looked at himself in the big mirror over the dresser, imagining the man who had last donned these garments; a neat, older gentleman, set in his ways, frugal but not to the point of foolishness. When he found something that he liked, he stayed with it, because it worked. Jarod loosened the straps of the overalls to extend the pants legs a bit further, and tucked the bottom cuffs into the top of the tall work boots, then thought about the man’s oldest daughter.

Kelly was an enigma. She was both reticent and without pretense. She seemed more than willing to allow him into her home, to wear her father’s clothes, but did nothing to explain why they were there and her father wasn’t. Her manner, at times, came close to brusque, but she meant no offense – she simply had no time for niceties past an ingrained polite streak. He thought about her invitation. Jarod had no illusions that she had offered him the job out of charity, he knew that he would have to work, and work hard, but yet, it was uncommon for a woman to be so forward with a strange man. To bring him onto her farm, into her home, she needed to have faith in her own judgement of character, and her assessment of him.

He recalled the other occupant of the house, Talia, her older sister had called her. In marked contrast to the athletically built Kelly, the teen was dark and petite, her eyes deeply set and wary, her hair black against pale skin. Her hands did not have the rough texture of Kelly’s, her fingers were instead long and thin, the nails manicured but without polish. The two sisters were an interesting contrast in types.

Quite unexpectedly, he looked up into the mirror and saw his own face. Trying on the clothes, he had been more concerned with their previous owner and how they fit. Now, he saw the man that stared back at him from the glass – thinner than usual, unshaven and pale except for the darkened areas under the troubled eyes. He would not have trusted himself had he known what he looked like, it didn’t even look like his face. What had Kelly seen to make her trust him? Should he even let her? His thoughts drifted back, (was it only a month?) to another woman who had trusted him, and the price she had paid. The pain rushed back at him, a physical assault, his throat tightened along with his chest, his hands shook, the tears burned behind his eyes. No, he told himself, this was not the time. The agony must wait, the regrets, the terrible blame, he had no time for them now. With effort, he forced them back into that place in his mind that held them barely at bay. There was someone who needed his help now, even for just today, he owed her at least that much.
 
 

When Jarod walked through the side door of the barn, it was obvious that he had no idea what to expect. Most people's knowledge of farm life has been culled mainly from books, and was usually pretty romanticized. The stories neglect to talk about the pungent aromas, the heat from the animals, the ever present rustling sounds, the dust that could hang in the air, all the things that pushed their way through his senses as he walked into the huge room. They also neglected to mention the abundance of stainless steel, in tanks and pipes and fittings, or the laptop computer that I was setting up in the walled off sanitary milking area. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Jarod as he walked carefully into the inner room, gazing around at the milking machines that hung suspended from the ceiling.

"Give me a sec, I’ve almost got this ready to go," I said, as I entered a few more bits of information, then walked over to Jarod, smiling. "I don’t suppose you have any experience with this sort of thing, do you?"

Jarod’s eyes wandered around the room as he silently shook his head. I almost told him that most people were as unfamiliar with the basic facts of modern dairy farming as he was.

"Well," I decided to go for the direct approach, "the best way to learn is hands on. I’ve got everything set up so that the machinery and the computer do most of the work, but you still have to get the cow into the pen and hooked up – and that can be the interesting part." I grinned. "Time to introduce you to the business end of Bessie."

Two and a half hours later, Jarod had coaxed, coddled and cajoled the herd through the front door of the barn, into the pens, and out the back again while I manned the milking machine and the computer. Although most of the huge animals had a good idea of what was going on and how it was done, even to the point of gathering near the barn as evening approached, some of them seemed to sense poor Jarod's lack of experience. There were two in particular who had definite ideas about exactly when and how they should enter the milking arena; I watched as he found himself wrestling with a creature that outweighed him by a factor of eight, and matched any four-year-old child for stubbornness.

The work was not easy, but also didn’t take much thought. After a time, we settled into a pattern, working together relatively easily to complete the milking. As always, the room was soon filled with the warm scent of fresh milk, faintly redolent of sweet clover and green grass, a smell I always associated with the height of summer. As Jarod washed the milking room down, I filled an old silver pitcher right from the last of the herd. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me as I finished milking this last cow by hand. He had the expression of a city-kid that had just been introduced to the mysteries of life. I found it hard to imagine that it was so fascinating, but then I’d been doing it for twenty-five years. Squeeze-pull, switch, squeeze-pull, switch. The rhythm was easy to get into, but at the same time it made me happy that the room was full of automatic equipment. I picked up the pitcher and handed it to Jarod. "I can teach you how to do that tomorrow, if you’d like. In the mean time, take that in the house and put it in the fridge, I’ll give you first dibs on the hot water in the shower while I finish up here." I walked over to the computer, gently slapping the last cow on the rump to move it out into the growing twilight of the barnyard.

I watched as he carried the warm pitcher away toward the house and set it down on the stoop outside the kitchen door as he removed his boots. By the time he had them off, I too, was at the house, having removed my rubber boots back at the barn. As he picked up the boots and the milk, we both walked into the kitchen and were greeted by the smells of home cooking. Talia stood over the stove, testing the crust of a loaf of bread that had just been taken from the oven. She looked up briefly as she heard the door close, a frown flashing across her features as she saw the two of us.

Jarod held the pitcher forward and she wordlessly moved across the big kitchen to take it from him and place it in the refrigerator. Just as silently, he walked up the stairs to the former master bedroom. I scowled at the two of them as I made my own way toward the back of the house. This, I did not need.

Jarod had asked earlier where he should sleep tonight, mentioning a basement or loft room. We didn't have anything like that, at least not anything habitable. I had motioned toward my parents' old room. "You might as well, " I explained. "It’s got the biggest bed in the house, and a connecting bathroom, it would probably be easiest for everybody." When he had protested, I had insisted. I don't like to be argued with.
 
 

He walked into the room once more and looked around. His clothes, now clean, lay folded neatly on the bed – Talia must have put them there. Looking at the queen size bed, it suddenly dawned on him how tired he actually was. The night before he had slept fitfully in the cheapest room of a cheap hotel, and the days before that…well, it was safe to say that his dreams, never very pleasant, had devolved into a kind of nightly personal horror show, not very conducive to a full eight hours of sleep. He sighed deeply, yearning to stretch out on the eiderdown comforter that topped the mattress, aching to lay his head on a pillow that he knew would be as soft as a cloud. Instead, he headed for the bathroom and a much-needed shower.

The bathroom was clean and bright, but far from modern. Dual spigots turned on a showerhead that had been run from the tap and two shower curtains ran all the way around the freestanding tub. On a small table near the shower, a new razor, bar of soap and towel lay out, obviously for his personal use. He turned on the faucets and filled the room up with steam, and thought about his strange surroundings.
 
 

An hour later, Jarod came back down the steps, clean-shaven, his hair still damp, and dressed in his own clothes again. I looked up at him as he entered, and gave him a broad smile as I looked him over. "Well, you do clean up nicely," I teased, grabbing a plate piled high with food and handing it over to him, then reaching for one myself. The smells from the kitchen had been added to and it was warmer there than in the rest of the house. I headed toward the porch door. "Come on, it’s too hot in here, we’re eating outside."

He followed me out to the small iron table that sat under the overhang of the porch where Talia was busy pouring milk into three glasses. We all sat in white painted chairs with bright cushions as Talia handed around a basket of bread. Jarod took a piece, looking grateful, and set it next to the tuna salad and fresh vegetables that filled his plate.

I picked up my glass of milk, raising it to him. "Welcome to the farm, Jarod. You did a nice job today. I think you’ll fit in just fine."

"Thank you." Jarod picked up his own glass and took a drink. I could tell that he wasn't used to the taste of the milk. Right from the cow like this, it’s thick and sweet, and probably fresher than anything he had tasted before. He put the glass down and looked at it thoughtfully.

"It’s from yesterday," Talia informed him quietly. "We take the butterfat off the top, but it still has more than anything you’ll find in the store. It’s an acquired taste."

He smiled at her; this was the most she had said to him since he had arrived. "It’s very good."

I broke in. "Talia and I have an agreement – she deals with the food and I don’t make her work in the barn. She’s a great cook, and she didn’t get it from me. Dad used to say that she could bake as well as Mom did, she makes all the bread from scratch and we’ve got a strawberry pie for dessert. I’m glad you came along, she never makes pies for just me."

Jarod glanced over to see Talia blushing furiously, hanging her head in a vain attempt to hide her flaming cheeks. I was hoping that he would reconsider what his original opinion of her was. At first glance, Talia has a tendency to come off as a sullen, silent teenager. And I'm sure she was even more so with him, especially since she was obviously uncomfortable with him in our house and in our father’s clothes. Hopefully, he would realize that that act just served to cover up the fact that she was actually just quiet, even painfully shy.

I think it was working. He smiled that sad little smile of his. "Then I’m glad I came along too."

The rest of the meal was had in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by Jarod's occasional compliment to the chef, which invariably brought on a new fit of pink-tinged shyness. Afterwards, I cleared away the dishes while Talia brought slices of pie out to the porch, now surrounded by a velvety darkness and the intermittent flash of fireflies. I took up my favorite place on the old wooden swing hanging from the beams of the ceiling, while Talia perched on the rail nearby. "Did you talk to the bank?" she asked quietly.

I nodded around a bite of pie. "Everything’s as good as it’s going to be. He said we could refinance the loan, but the points and closing fees would be almost as much as what we would save – I don’t think it’s worth it. We are going to have to keep up production, either that or…" I left the sentence unfinished.

My sister grimaced. "I know. Mr. Richardson," she said the name with palpable venom, "called again today. He wanted to know when you would be home. I told him that we were doing so well that you took a two week cruise to Tahiti and that you wouldn’t be available until next month."

My eyes opened wide in humorous disbelief. "Some days I can’t believe what comes out of your mouth. Who raised you to be such a brat?"

"If I remember correctly, you did."

We both started giggling then attempted straight faces when we remembered the newest member of our party. "Well, Daddy should have been a little tougher on you, that's all I can say," I teased. "You artistic types get away with murder."

Talia smirked at the mention of the word "artistic." "Yeah, yeah, I know. Well, this artistic type has to go practice, can you handle clean up?"

Jarod piped in unexpectedly. "I can clean things up in the kitchen, I have some experience in that."

I looked at him, not sure if he was joking or what. He was a little strange, but I still wasn't getting any red flags in the back of my mind. "Okay, you can help," I decided. "Tonight I'll show you where things go, and then from now on we can all take turns with the kitchen chores."

~~~

I had to give Jarod credit. For a guy who had looked lost in his own mind when I met him, he sure found a way to make himself fit in well, and fast. Within a couple of days, he had pretty much figured out all of the milking equipment, and then he took on the rudimentary computer program that I ran to keep up on production and the like. Two hours later, he had a new program loaded and ready to go, and a whole helluva lot easier for me when it came to entering things while dealing with five dozen pig-headed cattle.

He amazed Talia just as much. Who would have expected that he understood the finer points of classical music, that he would have an eye for the nuances of phrase and orchestration that combined the talents of a mathematician with an artist? They discussed music until all hours, something that I certainly never had the knowledge or the inclination to do. Listening to them discuss Stravinsky and Shostakovich, I felt like the outsider, when that feeling should have been reserved for the man who had moved into our house just a week before.

It was apparent that one thing that Talia never told him, however, was her circumstances. That was left to the big sister. Jarod cornered me one day while we were cleaning out the barn. He knew full well that neither of us would leave before it was done, he had me stuck and he was going to get answers.

"Talia is very talented," he started. "You must be proud of her."

If I had a dollar for every time my father or I had been through this conversation…well, let’s just say that I wouldn’t be looking for pennies from heaven like I was. "Yes, she is, and I am. I wish the situation were different for her, I think that she could be really good if she got the right training. Unfortunately," I waved my arm around, gathering in the non-urban surroundings, "we don’t exactly have the Julliard Outreach Program here, and I can’t afford to send her away."

"That has to be frustrating."

I wasn’t really sure how to respond to his comment. Sometimes, he had the strangest intonation to his words, like they were automatic and he had actually moved his mind on to something else. It was frustrating, though. Talia’s teachers had unanimously praised her ability, she was a fantastic violinist, chock-full of natural talent, but none of those same teachers had come up with any great ideas about how to nourish it, other than the lessons that were already costing a small fortune. Unwittingly, I sighed out loud.

"I’ll take that as a yes." Jarod said, proving to me once again that I never really knew where his head was at. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part that I might be able to avoid the rest of this conversation.

"Yeah, for both of us." I sighed again and looked around the barn, looking for answers that never showed up. "But we were both born on the farm, the same farm that has been in my family for five generations. It’s not exactly conducive to the fine arts, if you know what I mean."

"Or to writing."

I spun around and faced him, my cheeks glowing red but my eyes blazing. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

Jarod walked over to the laptop and punched a few keys, exiting the production program we had been working on and going into my private files. I watched in a kind of horrified awe as one of my most treasured secrets was exposed.

"I didn’t mean to find this. I was looking for an old file to run some comparisons on, and I came across your writing. You’re very good, you know."

I sat down hard on a stool nearby and felt nauseous. Nobody knew about those pieces, not even Talia. It was what I did late at night when I couldn’t sleep, little snippets of fiction, a few faux magazine articles, just some literary dabblings that kept me from going insane between the drudgery of the farm and the never-ending cash crunch. And then there was the book. A hundred and twenty-two pages of fanciful romantic mush and still going strong. Even I was embarrassed when I read it – it was the ultimate trashy romance novel. I hoped to hell that he hadn’t found that too.

He looked up from the screen once again. "I only read through a few, I didn’t want to pry. At first I didn’t know that you had written them."

I stayed silent in my own private hell, waiting, waiting…

"I saw a file that was much larger than the rest. Is it a novel?"

Breathe, I told myself. He didn’t read it, you can breathe. And answer. "It’s, uh, personal."

He smiled that sweet half-smile of his. "I understand. I keep a kind of journal myself – not exactly for publication. I’m sorry that I intruded like that, but I thought it would be better if I told you that I found it, instead of lying."

Walking over to the computer, I closed out the program and shut it down. I could still feel my cheeks burning, but it was hard to hate him for something that hadn’t been deliberate. "It’s okay, it’s just that no one else really knows about it."

"Why not? From what I read, you should be able to get something published easily. You are very talented in your own right."

This was the part that I always hated, where I try to convince somebody that what I was doing was the right thing, and I always end up sounding like I’m trying to convince myself. This time was a little different, but the story was still the same. "Look, Jarod. I’m a farmer. I raise cows, I milk them, I sell the milk, end of story. The only thing that my dad asked me to do when he died was take care of Talia and the farm. That’s what I’m doing, the best I can. I can’t keep the farm and send Talia away, and I can’t not keep the farm. This place," I looked around, "this is my heritage, this is my life. I do what I can."

Jarod kept prodding. "But is this what you really want?"

I couldn’t help it, I rolled my eyes at him. Juvenile, I know, but he was getting exasperating. "Are you familiar with the term "get real?’ This, this is real. That," I grabbed the laptop jabbed at the cover. "that is fantasy. It doesn’t matter what I want, this is what I have."

Turning rather defensively, I walked back toward the house. The last thing I needed was someone echoing what already went through my head in the middle of the night.

I’ll admit it, I sleep for shit. Even before Daddy died, before I was saddled with all the responsibilities of the farm and a teenage wunderkind sister, I never slept more than four or five hours before I woke up. Sometimes, like when I was cramming for exams during my aborted try at college, it was a blessing. I function fairly well on sleep deprivation, but after a week or two, I look like hell. That’s when I usually would resort to an ancient bottle of sleeping pills that Momma had gotten when she was going through her chemo. They were far past expired, but still worked well enough for what I needed. Twelve hours of dead-to-the-world later I was ready to start the whole cycle over again.

The doc had given me a different prescription when I had finally run out of those, but whatever it was that he had given me, it never had the punch of Momma’s. I took them occasionally when things got really bad – more for a placebo effect than anything else. I kept telling myself that if I took the pill, I should fall asleep. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

I was on my way to the bathroom to take one of those glorified sugar pills when I heard the noise from my parents’ bedroom. At first, I couldn’t figure it out. It sounded familiar, struck a chord in my memory, but for the life of me, my brain refused to identify it. I opened the heavy wooden door just a crack (knowing that if I didn’t figure out what it was, it certainly would keep me up, pill or no pill) and peered into the darkness.

I could see Jarod’s form huddled under the blanket, his chest rising and falling spastically. That’s when I knew what it was, and why I was awake. I walked in as quietly as I could by the light of the hallway through the door, moving to the far side of the bed and crouching down beside it. Gently reaching over, I pushed the hair back from Jarod’s face, shushing him softly, whispering the same things that I had said to my father when he, too, cried in his sleep.

Demons. We all have them, but for whatever reason, I knew Jarod’s were bigger and badder than mine.

~~~

It was a week later, just after nightfall, late this time of year. An uncomfortable silence hung between us as we stood on the porch. I could feel my cheeks blazing in shame - what in the world had come over me to make me say such a thing? If Jarod was running away from something, it really wasn't any of my business, but in the past few days, I had thought that we had become, well, closer. Not romantically, no, I understood that that was not an option. But I had thought that perhaps someday he would open up to me, tell me the dark secret that stared at me from the depths of his eyes.

Maybe not. His retort had been vehement, almost violent. He had spun away from the hand that I had set on his shoulder, his voice rising as he shouted the cryptic words: "I have to be alone!" I had expected him to say "leave me alone," or something along those lines, fending off my intrusion, but he hadn't. I wondered what he really meant, and why he stressed the "alone."

Now I just stood there and stared at his broad back, my face burning. If he "had" to be alone, why didn't he just leave? The adrenaline of the moment suddenly drained out of me and I felt very tired. Pulling one of the chairs over, I sat down.

"I'm sorry, Jarod. I didn't mean to pry, or to accuse you of running away. You just seemed so…so sad. I thought I could help."

Jarod's shoulders slumped, his hands, gripping the rail, relaxed slightly. "I'm sorry." He turned toward me, his face filled with that haunted look that I had seen the very first day that I had met him. His voice was just as melancholy. "I know that you didn’t mean anything. I - I shouldn’t have snapped at you."

For a long moment, we simply looked at each other. I could see the conflict in his expression, the desire to unburden himself fighting with whatever reason he had for his reticence. With everything in me, I tried to appear as a friend: concerned, un-judgmental, wondering, with a simple desire to know, to help, to comfort, but with the understanding that he may be unable to accept any of it.

It felt like my heart was counting out the seconds. Never before had someone held my gaze so long. Usually, they were either intimidated by me, or too afraid to open up. I strained to keep from turning away, desperately trying to pass whatever kind of a test he was putting me through.

The battle finally ended. Jarod reached for one of the wrought iron chairs and pulled it away from the table. He sat in it backwards, his arms draped over the back in what usually would have looked carefree, but now only reflected his emotional exhaustion.

"I think you may be right," he started, his voice low. "I may be running away, but I don’t really know what else to do. Just a few weeks ago," I could see his mind cast back and his face hardened. "Just a few weeks ago, I was ready for revenge, able to take an eye for an eye, get some kind of retribution for what they did to…" He left the sentence unfinished.

I waited as long as I could for him to continue, but I was impatient. He finally seemed to be opening up, but it felt like I was getting more questions instead of answers. I was also getting a little frightened. Never before had Jarod shown me this side of himself; for a moment, when he had been talking about revenge, he had looked pitiless, a man hardened against life. It sounded like he was thinking of – my mind didn't want to take it any further. I tried to move the subject away from the frightening thoughts. "What happened to change things?"

Once again, Jarod's head dropped, this time into his hands. "I realized how much of it was my fault, how nothing would have happened if I hadn’t been there. I could have walked away, you know, when things turned out to be different from what I thought they were, but I didn’t, and because of me, they had to suffer."

I just looked at him, my mind reeling, my heart breaking for him. "My father always said that the pain never goes away, the knife just gets a little duller with time. He was talking about when my mom passed away, and it’s true. But it does get a little easier." When he said nothing, I reached over and placed my hand on his shoulder once again. This time, he didn't turn away.

"I've never felt this way before, even when I thought my parents were…" He stumbled over the words. "I feel so empty inside, like nothing will ever fill this void. And I know, I know that it is my fault, I was the one who brought this down on her, on them; me and my arrogance." He sighed again, a crushed, hopeless sound.

I watched him, now completely unable to speak. He had opened up to me, allowed me to see the torment of his soul, but not the reason. I wondered what could be so terrible that it would drive him to such despair. Someone had died, someone obviously close to him, and he blamed himself. What a burden to lay upon his shoulders, no matter how strong. I thought about my decision to keep the farm, how I struggled daily with it: we both had our crosses to bear.

My hand reached across and pushed through the hair of his still bent head, a gesture of tenderness but without intimacy. "Let yourself mourn, Jarod, but don’t be so quick to blame yourself. There may have been nothing that you could do."

He looked up finally, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He grasped my hand in his own and held it tightly. "You're very wise, you know, but there are so many things that you don’t understand." He rose. "I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning."

"Will I?"

The tone of my question made him turn around - I had meant it to. Right then I wasn’t sure if I had pushed too far, if I had dredged up memories that would send him wandering again. He smiled sadly. "Yes, you will. You need help here and I need something to occupy my mind. Goodnight."

I watched him as he walked inside the house, the sadness following him like a vapor. I felt sorry for him, and a little worried. Tomorrow, I thought, he should have something different from the monotony of the milking schedule and barn chores. I smiled to myself, thinking.

~~~

The next day, oh, what a day. Honestly, sometimes I am a genius. I’m not sure what it did for him, but I’ll tell you my state of mind was much improved.

All day long, I could barely keep my eyes off of Jarod. It was really quite amazing. Last night, it had seemed like a good idea to introduce him today to the not so subtle intricacies of hay baling; I had thought that it would be two or three days of mind-numbing hard work that might just keep his demons at bay for a while. Instead, Jarod had attacked the project with an enthusiasm that I found hard to match. Now, late in the afternoon, we had a field completely baled, half of it loaded into the barn and Jarod still hard at work on the rest.

The hard labor seemed to suit him more than the simple chore of driving the tractor, something that I actually enjoyed. I watched as he swung the 80-pound bales into the back of the trailer and once again congratulated myself on keeping the smaller old-fashioned rectangular baler. Once Jarod was gone, I would be able to handle the bales by myself, but the larger, more modern rolled style would have been much too unwieldy.

The sun was still warm in the sky, even though far past its zenith. For the fiftieth time, I wiped the sweat from my face and looked over at my companion in the field. He had long ago shed the blue tee-shirt, wearing only the jeans that we had bought him last week and my father's work boots. It was difficult not to stare at him as he hauled the heavy bales onto the trailer. His skin, glistening with hard-earned sweat, had begun to turn a golden brown in the summer sun. He had lost the gaunt look he had worn when I had first met him, a testament to Talia's cooking. Now he looked healthy, strong, and, I had to admit it to myself, more than a little desirable. I sighed in frustration, the sound thankfully drowned by the sound of the tractor. Here he was, an attractive, hell, gorgeous, intelligent man, who wasn't afraid of a little hard work: the perfect catch, working in MY field, living in MY house.

Well, I may be a genius, but that also meant that I saw what was obvious. That gorgeous man was also completely and totally out of reach. I forced myself to once again acknowledge the ghostly presence that I knew still held Jarod's heart. Until he was able to get past that pain, I understood that there would be no one else in his life.

Oh, well.

~~~

The lemony summer moon was just rising over the crest of the far hill, competing, it seemed, with the last rays of the sun. I sat on the porch, a mug of home-brewed hard cider in my hand, a pitcher of it on the floor near my seat. I sipped, allowing myself the rare pleasure of the drink, and of self-pity.

Today had been a very bad day. Richardson had come over uninvited once again, but this time he had changed tactics. Instead of his usual smarmy bonhomie, gushing promises of great fortune and freedom, this time he had begun to threaten. I had desperately wished that Jarod had not been fixing one of the ever-broken fences at that time. It wasn't that I needed a man to help deal with the developer; I had simply wanted someone else to witness the transformation. Where Richardson would have usually joked and cajoled me, now he had made veiled threats and intimidating remarks. My neighbors, he claimed, were all for the project, they were waiting on me, the last holdout, to agree to sell. And if I didn’t, he intimated, things could get ugly.

I understood that, to an extent. Peter Olafson was certainly eager to sell, and why not? He ran his farm like some kind of a medieval butcher - moving out the product with very little care about how it looked or smelled, and smelling none too good himself. It was a wonder that he hadn't declared bankruptcy years ago.

The others I wasn't so sure about. The Carlson's, Renee and Paul, were relatively new to the area. They had bought one of the smaller farms and done little with it, agriculture was more a hobby to go along with Paul's importing business, now largely done on a computer at home. I had to wonder if the "glamour" of the rural setting had worn thin for the "city folk."

The other four homeowners in the area - well, I really couldn’t tell. The Malakov's had lived here forever, but they had talked about travelling, visiting their native St. Petersburg and touring through Europe. The profits from the sale of the house could finance quite a trip around the world. The other families I knew only briefly – I had returned from college to find them moved into the homes of my now-gone friends. I wasn't sure what effect the "gentle persuasion" of the developer might have had on them. None of them had actual farms, just an acre of land or so with a garden, so their ties to the area did not bind as tightly as mine did.

The cider we make is best sipped slowly, that is, if you don’t have ulterior motives for drinking it. I drained the last of my second mug of the night, (I had been at this for a while) and waited for Jarod to return. He had downed one large glass of the amber liquid, then run inside for a moment when I had started talking about Richardson. Only God knew why he had left so suddenly, but I was getting used to his personal quirks.

At least he wasn't so melancholy today. I was low enough for the both of us.

I sat and rocked in the old porch swing that had been my grandmother's favorite seat, looking out over the land that I had inherited and pondering.

The slam of the screen door brought me partially back to reality and to the empty glass thrust in front of me.

"This cider is very good," Jarod explained. "May I have another?"

I poured the drink without thinking, my mind subconsciously noting the sound of my sister's evening practice, the just beginning-to-peel paint on the porch steps, the one field that could use a dose of anhydrous ammonium… So many things, I thought, so much that needed to be done, that needed money to do. I sighed and poured another mug of my own.

We sat on the porch in a companionable silence, each lost in our own thoughts until the sun disappeared completely. One of the cows lowed softly nearby and Jarod laughed, reaching for the pitcher.

I smiled too, my mind wondering through the golden glow of the cider what exactly was so funny. "I haven’t heard you laugh much before."

Jarod sat low in his chair, and when he looked up, it seemed to take a moment for his eyes to focus. "I didn’t have much practice when I was young, and lately, I haven’t had much chance." He grinned nonetheless and drank deeply from what was left of his refill.

"So what were you laughing about, or is that a secret too?"
 
 

Looking at her, Jarod could detect no malice in her eyes, just a questioning. Stop it, he told himself, she's not out to trap you. She's a friend, an interested friend. Don't have that many of those that one can go offending them.

How long has it been, he thought, since there was someone to trust?
 
 

He smiled. "I was just thinking about what an acquaintance of mine would think of this place, and of the cows. I can't see her here with her Italian shoes and her designer suits. Besides, I don’t think even she could intimidate those cows, gun or no gun."

"Just what kind of friends do you have out there, with guns and expensive shoes and all?"

Jarod stood, grabbing the porch rail as he steadied himself. "They're not friends, well, not anymore." He stared off at the last blue-grey clouds on the horizon, then turned back toward me suddenly, but not, I noted, smoothly. "Do you dance?" he asked.

I let my head, heavy with the drink, fall back against the railing of the swing, and shook it gently from side to side. "No, never really found a need for it."

"Oh." The dejection was as evident in his voice as it was on his face. He looked like a little boy who had had his toy taken away.

As if on cue, the sounds of Talia's practice changed from a tarantella to a gentle waltz. Jarod's eyes lit up and he held out his hand to me. "Come on, I'll teach you."

It took a few tries, but before the song was finished, I found myself gently gliding around the wide porch, following Jarod's sure lead. His hand rested gently on my waist, the other held my hand as we stepped and turned, carefully avoiding the pitfalls of our rather unassuming dance floor. As the piece finished, he twirled me quite expertly, but the combination of the cider and the dance was too much and I couldn’t help but to fall, giggling, back into the swing.

He sat down beside me, rocking the swing with his weight and bringing on a new chorus of laughter. Reaching one arm across the back, he steadied himself and the swing, then left it there casually.

"Thanks."

I looked at him quizzically, my head still feeling like it was spinning. "Don’t you think I should be thanking you?"

Jarod's eyes never left the spot on the horizon that he had been staring at since he had sat down. "No, thank you. I haven’t danced in a very long time. It was nice."

I could only sigh as my head fall against his arm. "Did you use to dance with her?"

His eyes fell down on me as he smiled silently, then returned their gaze to the distance. We listened to the crickets attempt to accompany the violin that now played a quiet melody in the corner of the house.

Without warning, Jarod shook his head, trying to steady it after it continued to wobble.

I looked up at him. "What? What's wrong?"

He leaned forward and squinted into the moonlight. "I know that there is only one apple tree out there, but it seems to have multipled. I mean, multiplied."

Chuckling, I patted his hand, now resting lightly on my shoulder. "Oh, good, more for next year's cider."

Jarod shook his head again, then looked shakily in another direction. He moved off the swing and stood, needing a few steps to steady himself. "I have studied physiology and neurology," he announced with all seriousness. "And a number of branches of biochemistry, and I think I know what is wrong. I'm drunk."

"That makes two of us," I admitted, stretching out cat-like to lie down across the length of the gently swaying swing. I stayed like that for only a moment, then sat up abruptly. "Whoa," I laughed. "Not a good idea."

Laughing with me, Jarod leaned against a nearby post. "So, what do we do now?"

I tried, I truly tried, but that delicious thought ran through my head and out my eyes before I could stop it. Jarod looked at me, and I could tell, gratefully, that he didn't catch what that particular look was about. With effort, my expression softened. My voice was quiet as I deliberately picked through the words. "Think we should probably both get some sleep, those cows won't really care if we have a hangover or not tomorrow morning."

"S'right, they don't care." Jarod walked over toward the swing, his feet shuffling slightly, and held out his hand to help me up. I took the hand gratefully and jumped out of the swing, subsequently losing my balance. Jarod steadied me while we both laughed, and he wrapped one arm around my waist protectively as we walked back into the house.

Talia met us at the foot of the stairs, one eyebrow arched in wonder.

We both greeted her. "We're going to bed," I offered, the words slightly slurred. As an explanation it did little to comfort her, as she watched us struggle up the stairs together. I didn’t really care.

We walked along the hallway until we reached my bedroom door. "I think this is your stop," Jarod announced.

"I'd invite you in for a nightcap, but I left the stupid pitcher downstairs."

"S'okay, I don't think that I need any more." He looked deliberately into my face now, his brow furrowed. "Do you have any idea what a good friend you are?"

I turned away, painfully aware of the blush on my cheeks. "Cut it out, before I start cryin' or something."

Jarod reached around me and pulled me tightly to his chest. He kissed the top of my head and then released me, pushing me toward my bedroom as he turned away. "Good night."

"Good night," I mumbled in response, really fighting the urge to cry now. I stood there watching him walk down the hall toward my father's room. "Jarod?"

He turned around.

"If things were different…"

He smiled. "If things were different, I wouldn't be walking away."

~~~

I don’t have hangovers. Really, I don’t. An occasional headache, maybe a stomach that isn’t quite as receptive as usual, but I don’t get dog-sick like some people I know. Like I had in college. I figure that it’s because I don’t drink anything but our little home brew anymore, the cider, and I avoid all those nasty little toxins that float around in the commercial liquors and beer. Or maybe it was the fresh country air and clean living. Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t working for poor Jarod. He came downstairs looking like death warmed-over. From the pallor of his face, I wondered if he had been sneaking a nip or two of the hard cider when I wasn’t looking. He hadn’t seemed that drunk, but maybe that finely tuned body of his just wasn’t up to metabolizing a quantity of alcohol.

"Jarod?" I watched as he sat down ungracefully on the kitchen table and pulled on his socks. This in itself was odd; he always came downstairs fully dressed and ready to go. He usually had a smile for me, too; this time all I got was a lopsided grimace.

"Oooh, not good." I walked over to the stove and turned off the skillet that was heating up for breakfast. Somehow, I didn’t think that the idea of eggs over-easy would appeal to him right now. Instead, I brought him a large glass of orange juice, playing mom. "Here, drink this, slowly. You have to get the waters in your body back in equilibrium, and the sugar will help you feel better, too."

He reached for the glass with a hand that was ever so slightly shaky. Yeah, he was in a bad way. I hoped that he could keep the juice down. Just when had he been sneaking all that cider?

"Where’s Talia?" he asked in between sips.

"She’s getting ready to go into town, she has an interview with the rep from the civic orchestra in a city about forty miles away. We both thought it would be nice if she had a little more exposure to playing in public, and this way she could still live at home."

"Is that what you want for her? To play in a community band and live at home?"

I turned around from the toast I was buttering and just stared at him. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I tossed the toast on a plate and plopped it down in front of him. "Of course not, but we have to be realistic here. We have to deal with the farm, that sort of precludes moving to New York to train with the Philharmonic, doesn’t it?"

There was a silence in the room, except for the plates that I was crashing about. This was new to me, I had never been mad at Jarod before. Maybe it was because he was hung-over that he was so, well, so rude, maybe it was because he really didn’t understand. It was amazing what a difference one night could make. I looked back over my shoulder at him and glared.

His head was resting in his hands, his elbows on the table. He mumbled something.

"What?"

"Do you have to be quite so loud?" he spoke up. "You aren’t usually that loud."

I thought about being mad at him some more, I’m really quite good at holding a grudge, but he looked so pitiful sitting there, slightly green and squinting in the morning sunlight, I just gave up.

"You don’t have much experience drinking, do you?" The answer was obvious in his red eyes. I shook my head. "Why don’t you take Talia into town, then. She could use the company and you could use the fresh air. I’ll deal with things here on my own, I can do that this one time."

For a second, the relief on Jarod’s face was so glowing that he almost looked healthy, but that faded fast. "I can stay," he said weakly, but I could tell that his heart wasn’t into it.

"No, go." I had other reasons for wanting him to go, one of the biggest being to avoid where our most recent conversation had been going. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the keys for the truck and tossed them to him. He managed, amazingly, to catch them in mid air. "If you’re up to it, you might want to drive, it’s better than being in the passenger seat."

He stood up and gave me that little half smile of his. I turned and walked out to the barn alone.

~~~

The first really muggy night of summer. I dreaded this night every year, knew that I would never be able to sleep. We had all of the windows open, the holes in the screens patched against bugs, but there just wasn’t any wind blowing to make a difference. The smells from the barn settled into the house like a miasma, if felt as if the cows were sleeping in the kitchen or out in the hall, hot and sweaty and altogether a little too earthy.

I had given up trying to sleep an hour ago, and instead sat at the computer in my sleep tee comforted by the world’s largest glass of lemonade. I hadn’t bothered to turn any other lights on, the glow from the screen was enough. Near my feet I had the pygmy-sized fan that I used in the kitchen. It didn’t do much but give the illusion of wind, but in my mind, I was a little cooler.

I flicked back and forth between the farm accounts and the story that I was working on, or, more appropriately, not working on. It seemed that my muse had flown off to find someone who had air-conditioning, the words were as still as the breeze. Now, if I had wanted to write a tragedy, I had all the motivation I needed right there in the accounting program. I sighed and reached for the lemonade, leaning back in the old wooden swivel chair and making it creak. "Oh, Daddy," I called softly to the night. "I just don’t know how I’m going to do it."

"Do what?"

The sound of Jarod’s voice startled me so much I almost poured half the glass of lemonade down my front. "Good Lord, Jarod. Don’t do that to me."

He smiled and walked over toward me. "Sorry."

"That’s okay. Can’t you sleep either?"

"No."

There was an awkward silence for a moment, filled only with the incessant sound of the crickets and the low thrum of the fan.

"What are you trying to do?"

I turned back toward the screen. "Oh, just keep this damn farm away from that greedy s.o.b. Richardson, and find some way to send Talia to a decent music school. I just don’t think that they both can be done."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Only if I can ask you one." I never give things away for free.

Jarod laughed softly standing behind me. "Fair enough. So, just whom are you trying to keep the farm for? Is it for you, or for your father?"

I leaned back in my chair and ran my hands over my face. Without warning, I felt Jarod’s hands on my shoulders, slowly beginning to massage the muscles along my neck. I twisted my head to the right a little, raising my shoulders and letting them fall. I didn’t know if this was some new kind of persuasion technique or what, but it sure felt good.

"I guess I’m doing it to honor my father’s memory," I finally said. I was milking this massage thing for everything I could get, I certainly didn’t want to answer too soon. "This was his family’s farm, he and his father even built the barn together, and it was all he ever knew as home or work. But it wasn’t like work to him. I mean, well, he really loved it." Now I wasn’t trying to draw out my response. It really was difficult to explain. "He knew every inch of this house, every foot of the pasture. He put his whole life into this place, and yet he never resented it. This was his world. I just can’t let some developer come in and turn it into a bunch of condominiums."

"So you’re doing all this, living your life this way, letting it determine how your sister lives her life, to honor his memory."

I sighed. It didn’t sound as nice, as noble, if you will, when he put it that way.

"Do you always questions people’s motivations this way, Jarod? What are you, a travelling psychologist?

He chuckled, a nice quiet friendly laugh. "No, not a psychologist. Not today. I just see the ghost of your father everywhere on this farm, and I wonder who really owns it, the living or the dead."

There was a pause. I wasn’t sure what to say to that, I just sat there while he gently rubbed my shoulders, then he continued. "I have a…friend. I’ve been trying to get her to see the reasons why she is living her life how she is, and why she shouldn’t be. She is devoted to something, someone, who doesn’t deserve that devotion, and I’ve been pushing her toward that realization. Honestly, with her it hasn’t been easy. She’s as stubborn as a few of those cows out there."

"Is this ‘Armani woman?’"

"Yes, that is a good way of describing her." I could hear the smile in his voice. "She has a very refined exterior, but the quality is actually on the inside. One of these days she will realize it. He paused. "So, was that your question?"

"Huh?" I turned around and looked up at him, at the grin he was throwing at me. "No!" I said in my best indignant ten-year-old voice, then couldn’t help but to grin back before I turned around again. I wasn’t going to give him any excuse to stop rubbing the muscles in my shoulders, this was heaven.

"Well?"

This was harder than I thought. The question had been rolling around my head since I had first seen him in the diner, but I was still loath to ask it. I listened to the crickets for a minute, and when I finally did get up the nerve, my voice was barely louder than they were.

"Whose ghost runs your life, Jarod?"

His hands stopped their gentle kneading, and rested on my shoulders. My heart dropped. I could feel his hands rise and fall as he breathed, then they slipped away and I turned in my chair to watch him walk over to the nearby couch. He sat down and laid his head back. With only the blue light from the monitor, I could barely see him.

"Have you ever made a decision that felt so right at the time, but turned out so completely wrong?" The question was obviously rhetorical; I sat silently waiting for him to continue. I did that a lot with him, I thought to myself. Waiting.

"For the past nearly five years, I’ve been trying to help people with their problems. Trying to help the weak, the abused, right a few wrongs, to find some justice in a world that too often seems to have little. I did what I could, because I thought it would make me feel better about the things that I had done before that. I’ve made a few mistakes here and there. You see, I’ve had very limited experience with people before, and I had to learn about them."

Jarod raised his head and I could see the shine in his eyes. "This time was different. This time I tried to help, but I did more than that, I got involved. And because of my involvement, an innocent woman and her child died." He looked over at me. "There is no righting that wrong. At first I thought that if I punished those who killed them, that it would make things better. Then I realized that I was just as guilty as the ones who did the deed, so I punished myself."

We both sat in the heat for a while, listening to the sounds of the crickets outside, both lost in our own thoughts. When he spoke again, he startled me.

"Guilt is a terrible thing. If you let it get strong enough, it can drive you insane."

I looked away, at the computer, at the window, at the little fan on the floor, anywhere but at his eyes. There had been something there, when he said the word "insane," something frightening. I knew he had been there, he had seen the other side of sanity. His guilt over the death of this woman and her child had driven him over the edge at one time, and even now, he sometimes found himself walking the line.

But at the same time, I realized something. Weeks ago, when I had picked him up at the diner, the look had been stronger, the memory of that journey into the abyss much sharper. The haunted look that I had seen before had been a combination of his awesome guilt, and the realization that his hold on reality was tenuous, at best. Now, even though his dark eyes were so deep I was afraid I might be lost in them, they held the light of rationality, the guilt was no longer all consuming, he was beginning to live again.

"I’m better now," he said quietly, trying to catch my eye. "In case you were wondering."

I glanced back at him and he rewarded me with one of his crooked smiles. I smiled back – what else do you do with a man who has just unburdened his soul to you?
 
 

Jarod sat on the edge of the bed and twisted the ring on his finger. A remembrance, he had told himself, something to keep the vision of her in his mind until the day when he was able to avenge her death. He wondered just how many rings he should be wearing, how many people had died because of his mind, that powerful weapon so well used by the Centre.

Now it was his weapon again, he had wrested it back from the demons, and he was in control. He thought about the talk he had had the night before with Kelly, when he had admitted to her, and to himself, just what had sent him over the edge. He had always felt powerfully about right and wrong, truly incorporating the morality he had constructed since his escape. Some saw it as harsh, but in the end, justice was served, wasn’t it? Perhaps that was what had pushed him past the lines of reason -–that same harsh morality turned upon himself. He was an accomplice to murder; without his existence, another’s would have continued. In his grief stricken mind, he had been as guilty as the bastards who had killed her, and so he had to be punished. Punished in a way that circumvented the will to live, short-circuited the desire for continued existence – and so his mind had sent him into a hellhole of nightmares and ghosts.

But he was getting better, it was true. This time on the farm had been good for him, brought him back from the cerebral to the physical, left him with little time to ponder his guilt. Kelly and Talia, their friendship, they had brought him back to the land of the living. And once he had pushed through the black haze, he could see the reality behind the grief. Yes, it was because of him that they had died, and without his intervention, they would never had been exposed to the dangers of the Centre, but he was not a murderer. They were: Lyle, Parker, Raines, the whole group. Miss Parker? He still wasn’t sure. But now he could focus his anger at them once again, instead of at himself. They had to be stopped, and now he could go about figuring out just how. It would take time, but he was patient.

He had done his penance, at least for now. No one else would be hurt because of him, he would make sure of that. Even if he spent the rest of his life alone, he swore silently to himself, it would not happen again.
 
 

After we had that little discussion, I found myself a tad uncomfortable around Jarod. Not because of what he had said about himself, although I still shuddered inwardly at the thought. No, instead I was thinking about what he had made me say, admitting that yes, I was keeping the farm to appease my father’s ghost, that I was forcing Talia to do the same thing, to live a dream that was not her own.

I hate being shown the folly of my ways.

We were mucking out the stalls on another hot afternoon, and the dust and smells hung in the air between us like a cloud. I watched Jarod work, stripped down to his jeans again, and half-heartedly poked at the hay myself. He worked so damn hard at this (and looked so damn good) but I knew that he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer for the rest of his life. He was just too smart for that.

The question rose inside me once again – was I?

Not smart, I mean, let’s get real, but was I cut out to be a farmer? It was all I had ever done, except for those few abortive months in college. Hell, he’d got me thinking again – I really was wondering if he was a travelling psychologist, out on walkabout to recover his own sanity. And he was driving me nuts in the mean time, just like the dust, and the manure and the hay and the bills and the…

"Screw it!" I flung the pitchfork into an empty stall and stormed out of the barn. I had had enough.

Jarod found me about a half hour later, sitting on a tree trunk that had been uprooted in a storm a million years ago and was too big to bother cutting up. It rested not far from the pond where half a dozen or so of the herd were wading in and drinking.

He sat next to me silently. He must have rinsed off with the hose because the droplets still hung from his hair and his jeans were water spotted. I didn’t blame him, I was still covered in dust and I felt disgusting.

"I finished up for you."

I nodded.

"Anything else I can do?"

I turned on him a little more violently than I wished I had. "I think you’ve done enough, thank you." The sarcasm was not subtle. "Before you came along, I was perfectly content to stay here and fight off that bastard developer, now…oh, hell, how can you understand? You can just pack up and move on to, to whatever…and leave me here with eighty cows worth of shit."

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy. I only wanted to make sure you knew why you were doing what you did."

"Like that makes any difference? I’m still stuck here, unless I want to give everything to Richardson and watch him turn it into luxury condos." I threw the rock I had been playing with, narrowly missing one of the cows. Like one of my bovine captors would have even noticed, they barely knew I existed except when it came to milking time. Stupid cows, stupid farm. Still, it was mine…

"I can’t do that, Jarod, I just can’t let him ruin this place."

Now it was his turn to nod.

"It really isn’t that bad, you know. It’s still mostly quiet out here, and it’s pretty as all getout. I mean, there are worse places to work, and the commute is short…" Now who was I trying to convince? I was sick to death of the place, but now I sounded like a travel agent, trying to get Jarod to stay for the six-month tour.

He picked up a rock and tossed it into the pond. "If you could sell it to someone else, would you? I mean, if they would buy it and keep it as a farm?"

"I don’t think you’ve been reading the papers, city boy. People don’t buy farms, they sell them, because they can’t make a living at it anymore. The only ones buying are the bigger farms next door and the developers. America’s Dairyland – ha! More like America’s Foreclosure-land." I pointed to a house on the other side of the pasture. "See that house? That used to be our property, too, but Daddy had to sell it to make payments one year, and they bought an acre and put a house on it. I don’t want to become another statistic, Jarod, another failed farm. I can do it, if things go okay, but much as I’d love to, I can’t do that and send Talia away to school. And when you leave, I’m going to have to find someone else, because I can’t do it alone."

I stood up and faced him, seeing him sitting there bare-chested and still glistening in places from the water and completely oblivious to what he was putting me through, mentally, physically. At this point, I had two choices – either I was going to jump him right then and there or…

"You are leaving, aren’t you?" I snapped angrily. "I need to know when, so I can find somebody to replace you."

For a second I saw the hurt in his eyes, and then it was replaced by an understanding look. Damn him, I had just finished telling him that he couldn’t understand me, and there he goes and does it. It was like he took my life and tried it on for size for a second, and came away with a total comprehension of it. It infuriated me even more, and to my ultimate horror, I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes. Oh hell, this was the last thing I needed right now.

I was turning and heading back toward the house when he called after me. "I’ll be here as long as you need me, then I’ll leave." I ignored him, it was the only thing I could do and still keep a shred of my dignity. If I thought about it, if I turned and looked back at him and saw the look in his eyes, the friendship and compassion that I knew was there, I would be a quivering sobbing mess right there in the middle of the pasture.

He understood. He knew that my feelings were more than his, knew that I knew that he could never return them. He knew I was scared and tired and in way over my head.

Damn him.

~~~

The next day I waited until after I had finished all the morning activities in the barn, then came back and took a long, cool shower. The sun wasn’t up high yet, and the humidity had fallen a little in the last few days so it wasn’t so sticky, but the shower still felt good. I also needed the time, I mused while I let the water cascade over my shoulders, to steel myself for what I thought might be going on.

I thought about what Jarod had said yesterday as I pulled on my everyday wear for summer; a tank top and short-alls. He had said that he would stick around while I still needed him, but who knew what his estimation of that might be? It left me frosted, and still completely unsure of what I was going to do.

Last night, I had found it hard to be civil to anyone, pushing everybody away, I knew, but it was one of my best defenses and I had been working on it for years. Jarod asked to take the truck the next day. He didn’t tell me where he was going, didn’t say when he’d be back, just that he would need the truck all day, and could I handle things alone for tomorrow? I had grudgingly agreed.

After dinner, I had cleaned up and then snuck off to my room to have a good cry. Alone, all alone, where nobody could see me. Sometimes it feels good to act like a five-year-old.

Now I stood outside the bedroom that had been my father’s, nervous about going inside, afraid of what I might find, or as the case may be, not find. I could hear Talia practicing an arpeggio or something downstairs, the notes like background music to my own little personal drama.

The door creaked open just like it always had, on the very last part of the swing. We had learned that young – on the rare days that Daddy stayed in bed late (usually due to snow) we could sneak into his room and surprise him, as long as we didn’t let the door open too far. Now the sound reminded me more of Jarod than my father. I realized that I had looked forward to hearing the squeak every morning while I was getting ready, knowing that if I heard it, Jarod would be waiting downstairs for me.

The room was as tidy as a pin. Just like him, I thought, not one for clutter. I wondered if his mother had taught him to make hospital corners on the bed as he had, then I realized that there were so many things that I didn’t know about him. Where was he born, where did he go to school, did he have any brothers or sisters?

Was he coming back? My heart fell a little every second that I looked around. Everything was put away, my father’s overalls back in the drawer, each shirt folded just right. He had left before I had gotten up, left before dawn, I had no idea what he was wearing, but anything that had been here before was here again.

I opened the closet door. Empty except for my father’s boots. I could feel my heart starting to race and the little voice in my head started yelling – you did it! You scared him off, you and your puppy-dog eyes. He’s gone, gone for good!

And he took the truck, another voice, this one more analytical, told me. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I screwed up big time," I said out loud in answer, leaning over to look under the bed to see…

The silver case. It was still there. I found myself laughing in relief as I pulled it out and swung it up on the bed. He wouldn’t have left without this, I told myself, this was the only thing that he had with him when he got here, it must be important. I debated opening the case – it was heavy enough that I knew that there was something inside, but then I thought better of it. Running my fingers over the top I smiled. He would be coming back, sooner or later, he would be coming back.

~~~

We were sitting outside on the porch for dinner the next night – searching for the breezes that sometimes kicked up around dusk. Talia had made a pasta dish, Jarod had grilled some fish from the market and we were enjoying it with the fresh lemonade that I had made, my one and only recipe. There was a reason that Talia did most of the cooking.

The two of them were sitting on the porch swing, balancing their plates on their laps and discussing more music intricacies. Once again, Jarod amazed me, he knew harmonics and progressions like he knew computers, or at least, to this simple farmer, it sounded as if he did. Talia knew her stuff too, from their conversation. I smiled inwardly, she was a smart cookie, not that I had much to do with it.

I watched them silently for a while, eating my dinner, watching the interplay between the two. Talia looked to him like an older brother, even though, from what I could figure, he could have been her father. How different he was from my dad, so cerebral, so understanding of "art," yet at the same time, he was similar. I pictured my father and I, sitting on that same swing fifteen years ago, while he explained to me how different feed made different tasting milk and why we had the breeds of cattle that we did.

Jarod would know that by now, I told myself. He would have picked it up from somewhere, done some kind of research. I guess we must have the right mix, or he would have given me a well-meaning suggestion how we could improve.

And right there, right then, it happened. I’m not sure how, but it did. I’d heard about it happening from other people, other friends, usually as they described why they were getting a divorce, but I’d never thought that it would happen to me. Sitting on the porch in the twilight, listening to him talk with my sister, thinking about my father and the cows, I fell out of love with Jarod. How very, very odd, I thought to myself. Granted, I’d been working my way toward this moment for days, if only for the sake of self-preservation, but I didn’t expect it to be so sudden. Maybe the realization was the sudden part, the understanding that I had passed beyond some fancy romantic kind of love to something a whole lot more important. I loved him like a brother, like a best friend. It was going to hurt even more when he left now.

Talia’s laughter brought me out of my reverie. "What is this, a test?"

Jarod smiled at her. "Well, sort of. I wanted to know how far you had gotten in your studies. I’ve heard you play, but I didn’t know how far you had gone as far as theory."

"Well," Talia stalled, sounding very much like a teenager. "My one teacher goes into it a little, the other one just sends me home with books and tapes and stuff, maybe a video. I’ve studied what I can, but that’s one of the reasons I wanted to get into the community orchestra. I figured that some of the other musicians might have been out beyond the sticks here, maybe they had some books or something I could study, before I tried to get into college."

"You’re much to good for a community orchestra, you know."

I watched as Talia turned a bright red, then I stood up and walked over toward them, holding out my hand for their plates while giving Jarod a very meaningful look.

"You should be seriously studying music now, not when you get to college," he continued, despite the warning in my eyes. "I think that you have the ability to play on a national level."

"Jarod!" My voice was barely controlled, but for Talia’s sake, I was attempting a subterfuge. "Could you please help me in the kitchen?"

So much for brotherly love, right now I wanted to kill him.

He followed me into the house and I whirled around at him as soon as I had plopped the dishes into the sink. "What the hell do you think you’re doing? We talked about this already, why are you getting her all worked up about a dream that just can’t be?"

His smile was as warm as his hands when he grasped mine. "It doesn’t have to be that way. It’s your decision, but I think I found a way for her. Come on," he pulled me gently back outside to the porch and set me down on the swing next to my sister.

"Years ago," he started, leaning against the rail of the porch, "I met a man in New York City, a conductor. In fact, you could say that I worked with him and his orchestra exclusively for about two weeks. He is a wonderful man, someone who truly loves music and appreciates talent.

"The reason that I wanted the truck yesterday is because he was the guest conductor for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra last night. I went down to Chicago to see him, to give him a copy of this," he pulled a cassette out of the pocket of his shirt, "and to ask him what he thought of it." He presented the tape to Talia, his tone serious. "This is your demo tape. I’ve been recording you when you were practicing, and this is some of your best work. I didn’t do it to offend you, but you have a rare talent, and it needs to be nurtured and grown. My friend agreed. He’d like you to meet him in New York next week so that he can hear you play for himself."

Talia took the tape, silently unbelieving, while all I could do was flip my head back and forth between her and Jarod. Strange half words fell out of my mouth before I could get a decent sentence together. "You drove to Chi…when did…how…New York? What do you mean New York? How is she supposed to get to New York?"

"That has been taken care of, there are two tickets waiting for Talia and whichever one of us you want to go with her. You can go or I can, I know the city and I know the people. I’ll take good care of her, or you can go and I’ll manage the farm while you’re away.

"I think that she has a very good chance to make it into the Philharmonic’s Youth Program on full scholarship. This could be an excellent opportunity for her."

Talia had been staring at the tape the entire time that Jarod had been explaining things to me, but she suddenly burst out of the swing, nearly sending me flying, and flung her arms around him. "Oh my God!" she cried, over and over again, "oh, my God, I don’t believe this, Jarod, I don’t believe this!"

Next she turned toward me, or should I say on me. "Kelly, oh my God, Kell, you have to let me go. Please! I promise, I won’t do anything other than practice and play, and, oh my God, New York, Kell, the Philharmonic, oh please, please let me go!"

I scratched the side of my head, pretty much overwhelmed by this point. I think that might have been Jarod’s plan, because he stood over at the rail smiling like some benign Buddha while my sister practically threw herself at my feet. "I guess," I said, trying to put as much doubt as possible into my voice. "I’ll have to look into it, I mean, I want to know exactly what this will cost us and everything, but I guess, if the tickets are already there, you can go and play for this guy, whoever he is. With a chaperone."

"Thank you Kell, thank you!" Talia reached over and hugged me, nearly pulling both of us off the swing and onto the floor of the porch. "I have to call Paula, oh my God, she is never going to believe this!"

"She’s still a teenager," I muttered under my breath as she bounced inside and up the stairs to her bedroom, and the waiting phone. "Still so young."

Jarod came and sat next to me. "I wouldn’t have approached you both with this if I wasn’t sure that she would be accepted into the program. She has incredible talent, Kelly; it shouldn’t be wasted out here on a community band. My friend will take good care of her, nurture that talent, point her in the right direction. She will be fine."

"I want to know who this guy is, Jarod, up front." He nodded. "And I need to know how much it’s going to cost up front, so I can try to get the money somehow. If she is as good as you say, I guess we have to make the sacrifice."

"You’re thinking about selling the farm."

The statement hung in the air between the two of us. I was afraid that if I agreed, there would be no turning back, it would be gone before I knew it, but I also knew that there was no other way that I could come up with the money I figured that this was going to cost.

"You missed what I said. I said ‘full scholarship.’ That means tuition and a stipend for living expenses. The last thing they want is a violin player with dishpan hands because she has to make the rent. They will take care of her, trust me."

I looked into his face, those deep brown eyes and the tender smile that nearly made me cry. "I guess," I conceded, still wondering where this whirlwind had come from, and who had left me this tall, handsome genie and his magic lamp.

~~~

A hectic week later, Talia had been to New York with Jarod and come back. I trusted him, maybe too much for some peoples’ liking, but I did, and so I had sent him to guard my one and only sister from the wolves of the Big Apple, and everything had gone wonderfully. She was now packing up her things to move out there next week. I was still reeling from that one. Just a few days ago, she had been my somewhat obnoxious but mostly good baby sister, now she was the latest ingenue to hit the orchestra pit. She was excited and nervous, but not nearly as much as I was. I had spent two hours on the phone with Jarod’s conductor friend and another with the director of the school. It had cost nearly as much in phone bills as a plane ticket out there, but I felt a little better about it than I had before.

My baby sister, a virtuoso. Or was it virtuosa? I’d have to check that out, before the press started beating down my door for "what was she like when…" interviews.

Now I had other problems on my hands, literally. I won’t go into details, but take it from me, I have been up to "here" on my arm the wrong way in a cow, and it is not a nice thing. Saves the cow, yes, but pretty much kills the rest of the day for me.

Jarod had been helping me out, much to his discomfiture (which always made me giggle) and was returning from putting the cow back into the "sick" pen. "She seems much more comfortable now," he said, watching me hose myself down.

"I’m glad. At least one of us is." I shivered from the icy water on my arms, then decided to take the plunge and let the water run over my head and all the way down. Nothing was going to make me feel clean for a while, but this at least helped.

"Next time, by the way," I gurgled through the water. "It’s your turn. I’ve given you the practical demonstration, I’ll give you the book. You’re a genius, you can handle it."

"Uh-uh." Jarod backed away, his hands upraised. "I’m just a farm hand, I don’t have the expertise you do."

I looked at the hose, then at him, one eyebrow raised in question. The water was still running, clear and ever so cold."

"No, no way. I’m not doing it."

I raised the hose even higher, poising my thumb over the opening.

"I don’t care, you can hose me down all you want, I’m…"

That was really all he needed to say. I was just looking for an excuse anyway. Pushing down on the stream, I sent an icy sheet spraying all over him. He hooted and jumped back, but not far enough – I had fifty feet of hose here!

The war lasted almost ten minutes, and left that area of the barn pretty saturated. At one point, he somehow managed to wrest the hose from my hands, but I beat him to the faucet and that ended that. By the end, though, we were both completely drenched and laughing so hard my stomach hurt.

We sat on the step of the porch, the sun baking the wet out slowly, warming our bones from the chill of the hose water. "You look like a drowned rat." I told him.

"Have you ever seen a drowned rat?"

"No, but I imagine that they look a lot like you."

He gave me a mock pout. "I look better than you did with your hand up…" He, thankfully, left the remainder unsaid.

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks. For a minute there I had almost forgotten about that."

"You’re welcome."

I wondered when he had turned into such a brat. Maybe Talia had given him lessons.

"Do you need to do that, um, procedure, often?"

"No, thank God. It’s just one of those things that comes with bein’ a dairy farmer." I picked up a piece of long grass that had been too close to the deck to be caught by the mower, and put it between my teeth, doing my best impression of a hick. "Ya gotta deal with them things now `n then."

"You’re not that way, cut it out."

"Jarod, I’m a farmer. I’m not exactly a Rockefeller here. I am a hick."

Out of the blue, he started reciting something. It sounded like a cross between poetry and fiction, Jarod’s deep voice rolling through the metaphors, caressing the descriptions, all the while sounding vaguely familiar. It was pretty, evocative, was it a play I had seen, something that I had read?

"You son of a bitch!" I stared at him, partially in anger, partially in embarrassment. "I wrote that ten years ago – where did you find it?"

"It was in the bottom drawer of your father’s dresser. He had a number of your papers from school, and Talia’s, saved in there. He had a reason to be proud, it’s excellent."

I was torn between wanting to strangle him and wanting to hide. I’d never been one much for compliments, they never rang true to me, and as far as my writing was concerned, that was deeply personal. Very few had ever seen it, and those who had I had practically sworn to secrecy.

"You’re not a hick, you are a talented, intelligent writer, just as talented as Talia is on the violin. You don’t belong on this farm any more than she did."

"What, do you have some editor in your back pocket now, who’s going to come and whisk me off to New York to write for The Post or Broadway or something? Some publisher you helped out a while back who owes you a favor, so you’re going to pitch me to him and get my career going?"

"No, I don’t, I don’t know anyone like that. I just think that it time that you realize that you can be something other than a farmer, that you’ve never really been one in the first place. This is what you have chosen to do, not what chose you, there is a difference."

"Lots of people have talent, Jarod. Very few can make a living at it."

"You could, if you wanted to."

We were back to the same old discussion. Would I ever give up the farm? What was keeping me here, was I doing it for me or for my father’s memory? With Talia going soon, the equations looked different, but the answer always came up the same. I knew why I was here, because while I didn’t love farming, I loved this farm, and I was going to fight tooth and nail to keep it from becoming some asphalted, square blocked parking lot for a bunch of condominiums.

I told him so.

This time, he had an answer.

~~~

I felt awkward. He had told me not to worry, told me not to get dressed up or anything, but I had fished out an old cotton print dress that still fit and ironed it up while he was away. I didn’t have any dress shoes anymore, hadn’t had a need for them in years so I had given them to Talia and she had taken the whole kit and caboodle to New York with her. Who knows, someday my old shoes might be standing on the stage at Carnegie Hall. Just for practice, of course.

Instead, I settled on a pair of white anklets and my least clunky boots. I figured that there was a good chance that we might end up walking through the pasture or something, so I might as well be prepared. I threw a pair of bike shorts under the dress for the very same reason. That and because I felt nearly naked without any kind of pants on. Right, Jarod, I’m not a hick at all.

They pulled up in my truck just after noon, and Max and I met them at the door and invited them into the kitchen for lemonade. Jarod introduced me George Harper and his son while the collie gave them a thorough sniff-over. I looked at the computer magnate/millionaire – he didn’t look like much, wearing jeans, lightweight shirt and a baseball cap. In fact, he looked kind of like…a hick. In the corner of my mind, I granted Jarod a silent "touché."

"Well Miss-"

"Kelly, please, call me Kelly, Mr. Harper."

He smiled genuinely. "As long as you call me George. Jarod tells me that you have a farm for sale here."

I glanced back and forth between the two men. "I may, depending upon the circumstances."

The boy tapped on his father’s hand. "May we see the cows now?"

"Just a minute, son." George’s tone was kind but firm. "We have to get permission from the owner first."

"Oh, um, of course."

"Why don’t we move this out to the milking barn," Jarod offered, grasping the boy’s hand. I was flustered and it was pretty obvious, and he was coming to my rescue, well sort of, if you consider leaving me alone to talk to a multi-millionaire a rescue. "You two can discuss things on the way and we’ll go see the cows."

Walking toward the barn, I could see the elder Harper breathing in deeply. "I know, it’s crazy, but really like the smell of a farm."

I was ready to agree, it was crazy.

"When I was just hitting my teenage years, I was running into a bit of trouble. That was before I found the computer thing, you know," he explained. "I had an uncle or a cousin or some such relation, we just called him Hector, and he owned a farm in California. Every summer for three years, the day after school let out, I was packed off to that farm, and brought back just as the bell was ringing for class to start again. They worked me hard there, up early every day, tired as hell by sunset. But you know, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. While I was there, I was my own man, no one took responsibility for me but me, and if something didn’t get done, I had to suffer the consequences. I learned a lot those three summers, in fact I’d say that they were instrumental in getting me where I am today."

We both pondered this little reminiscence as we walked into the milking room. George looked around and let out a low whistle. "Things have changed a little bit since I was young, haven’t they?"

"Yes and no." I pulled one of the automatic milkers from its hook on the wall. "We use computers and other equipment now, to measure flow and fat content and the like, but you still have to get it out of the cow, and cows still pack a helluva lot in one end, and a helluva lot comes out the other."

He laughed. "Until you change those numbers, it’s going to be pretty much the same, isn’t it?

"Yes, sir, I think it will."

He looked around a little more, counted the stalls, checked in on a cow that was quarantined in the sick pen with an udder blockage, then we wandered out toward the pasture and the sounds of his son and Jarod.

"Dad! Can you believe how big these things are?"

George laughed again. "Yes, I can, and some of them have stubborn streak to match, I remember that much. Taught me a lot about working with obstinate vice presidents."

We walked along the fence for a while, all the time he scanned the area. In one field he kicked over a clod of soil, then picked it up and broke it apart with his hands, in another he tried to pull up the hay, testing the root strength. I’ll admit, he was completely different than what I had expected. I’d been waiting, fearing a bunch of philanthropic suits afraid to get dust on their Ferragamos, but George Harper seemed to enjoy the dirt, the grass, even the cow pie he accidentally found.

"Tell me what you want to do with this place again?" I was still having trouble believing what Jarod had told me, even when Mr. Megabucks.com had shown up.

"I’d like to offer some kids an alternative to the violence, to abuse, alcohol, drugs. You know the story, they start out on the wrong path and end up in jail, simply because no one had the time or the guts to pull them back on the straight and narrow. I want to offer those same kids what those summers gave to me – the chance to be responsible for myself, for what I needed to get done, to learn a little about the world outside of the tv.

"The idea is to have a home for at-risk kids, a place where they can get away from the bad influences, live in a structured caring environment, and work the land until they’re exhausted." He grinned at the last remark. "I think that’s an important point. There’s nothing like falling into bed at the end of the day, absolutely worn out, to give you a sense of accomplishment. It also makes it difficult to get into trouble."

"So you want to put these troubled teens up in the house, and have them run the farm?" I shrugged. I’d heard worse ideas, but it seemed that the scale of the project was so big for just a few kids.

George nodded as we stood on the far side of the field, able to see the house where Jarod was taking the boy back for lemonade. "So all the field here is yours, correct?"

I pointed to a tall tree in the northwest corner. "The other farm starts there, that would be his pasture, if he ever chose to use it properly." I didn’t bother to disguise my contempt for Pete Olafson, but there was no way I could have covered up the surprise that registered with Harper’s next comment.

"Do you think he might want to sell too? And the other families, the ones who were thinking of selling to the developer, are they still interested? I’m thinking that we could use their places as foster homes for some of the more troubled kids, give them a little more attention, and they could help out on the farms. We would have a few kids living right on them, with a supervisor, of course, and the other kids could come in for a few hours between their studies. How many bedrooms did you say you had?"

"Uh, um, five, if you count the one in the cellar we always used for hands." I shook my head to try to clear it. I guess I was wrong about the scale of the project. This guy meant business. "You mean you want to buy all the properties?"

"If they’re willing to sell, of course." He smiled again, like it was no great thing to buy half a dozen properties on a whim. "I don’t want to force anyone out, I’m trying to make homes for people here, not destroy them."

Funny, Richardson had said almost the same thing once, but his meaning had been so very different. George Harper wanted to make homes for kids in trouble; Richardson wanted only to make a buck.

"So you’re talking about leaving the farm, the herd, the pasture, the fields, everything intact?"

He nodded. "I want the farm, not just the land. I want to give back a little of what the world has given me, give it to the kids that need it. Everything will stay the same, that’s the important part. If you want, you can stay, I’ll hire you to run the farm. Or if you don’t want to do that, you’ll be welcome back any time you’d like to visit, it will be here."

"Once I sell, Mr. Harper, I’m gone." I paused, mulling over the possibilities of my farm, and the surrounding area, in the hands of this visionary. "I like your idea. I think that my father would have liked it too."

"Does that mean that we have a deal?" He held out his hand.

"Yes," I held mine out, too. "Yes, I believe we do."

~~~

Jarod sat on the edge of the porch, occasionally swatting at a mosquito if it buzzed too close to his ear. He thought about his time here, in this strangely perfect sanitarium. When he had arrived, he had barely begun the process of dealing with his feelings, coping with the horrors of the recent past. It was ironic, really. Sydney had taught him so many things, how to do this and that, to be like this person, to feel like that one, but he had never shown him how to deal with interminable sadness when he couldn’t simply take off the mask, end the pretend. He questioned if there really was a particular way to deal with it, or if it was simply something that must be lived through to be conquered.

He sometimes wondered if the combination of grief and guilt had simply been too much for his psyche. Perhaps. Perhaps it was just a journey through madness that everyone had to make to some degree or another. And perhaps that which made him a pretender made him doubly vulnerable.

It didn’t matter now. He felt as good about himself as he had for months, well, at least since…it was still difficult to say, even in his mind. But he was better, once again aiding instead of being aided. He had helped out both Talia and Kelly, set them on paths that would let them truly live their lives and reach their considerable potentials. That made him feel good – to nurture a gift, instead of stealing and keeping it, as they had at the Centre.

There were things that he still wanted to do, still needed to do, when it came to that place. Miss Parker had been out of his watch for months now, he wondered how she fared in her own journey of grief, and guilt. As for the others, well, their time would come. He was a patient man; he had learned that from them. Now he would turn it against them.

But for now, he had a farm to say goodbye to, and a friend. It would be hard to walk away from Kelly, but she needed to be on her own, to explore her new life, just as he needed to be alone to do what he had to do. He would always be grateful to her for bringing him back to the land of the living.

~~~

Jarod and I strolled back from the field toward the old farmhouse, our arms casually draped around each other's waists. It was amazing that we could be so completely relaxed with each other now, but our relationship was so purely platonic that it was almost invigorating. There were times when I caught myself laughing about how I had felt before, like a lovesick puppy at Jarod’s feet, but then I took one look at him and realized that it was an easy thing to do. He would be quite the catch for the next woman, if there ever were a next one.

At my request, we had taken a long walk around the fence, a last long look at the land before we both walked away from the farm. Talia was settled in New York, as safe and sound as I could make her from a distance. The two people who would be taking over the farm were coming later today, and after a day’s worth of showing them the ropes, we would be free to leave.

I looked up at my friend, relieved to see a smile on his tanned face, a smile that tended to be there more often than not nowadays. It was just one of the signs that I could see, the myriad little things that together created a man completely different than the one whom I had picked up in the diner five weeks before. In the darkness before dawn, I could hear that he was still haunted by the nightmares, but at least when the sun was shining, his soul no longer seemed tortured by the demons that had plagued him so ruthlessly.

"So," Jarod asked. "Where are you going to go first? Now that you've got all this freedom."

The question had been rolling around my head for a few days. Without the responsibility of the farm, of my sister, of my father's legacy, I was feeling a little disconnected. "I'm not really sure, but I think I want to see some mountains. I've never seen mountains before. And volcanoes. Then I think I might enroll in school again and see if I can finish that degree."

Jarod nodded. "There are some truly beautiful mountains out west, or, if you like to hike, there are some smaller, more accessible ones in and around Maine. Hawaii is probably your best bet for volcanoes."

"I'm still finding it hard to believe that in two days this place won't be mine any longer." I looked around the farm. "It's been the only thing in my life for so long…"

"Are you going to miss it?"

"Yes, and no." I sighed. "I will miss the animals, and being in the sunshine, but I won't miss all the hassles and the work. And I know that if I really want to shovel manure, I can come back and visit."

"Yes, it's nice to know that some things won't change." Jarod laughed with me.

"So, now that you've lived it up as a farm hand, where are you off to?" I tried to pass the question off lightly, but the truth was, I was a little concerned. From what I figured, he didn't have a whole lot of money. I had offered him some, as a finder’s fee, but he had declined. He said that I had done enough for him, "nursed him back to health" is what he said, but I still felt like I owed him, not the other way around like he was portraying it.

I knew that he was intent on leaving when I did, and he never had explained why. A little part of me wanted him to have no definite plans so that I could invite him along with me. I didn’t really want to tell this man, this friend, goodbye.

He breathed deeply. "I've got some things that need to be done, some things that need to be fixed, and then I'm going to go look for my family some more." He glanced over at me, saw the expression in my eyes. "Don't worry, we're not talking about guilt here. I think…I think that I'm past that now. There are just things that I need to do."

I watched him for a moment, looking for some sign to tell me that what he said was true, but I couldn’t find it. Positive or negative, he was still a mystery to me, as was what he had planned. I guess I would just have to accept it – he started walking again with no indication that he was about to explain anything further. Sometimes he just about drove me nuts.

We both heard the sound of the gravel crunching in the driveway, the unmistakable sound of a car arriving. I thought that I might have heard two, and I could hear Max, hiding from the heat inside the house, begin to bark half-heartedly once or twice. The new caretakers, I thought to myself, here so soon. My heart flip-flopped a little. Here we go, this is the moment your new life begins.

Jarod waited for me at the corner of the house, putting his arm around me once more. "Are you ready for this?" He might drive me nuts, but he could be so sweet. I squeezed into his shoulder and nodded silently.

We rounded the corner that way and suddenly stopped. Under my arm, I could feel Jarod’s body stiffen. I followed his eyes to the driveway, to two dark sedans parked incongruously on the gravel, completely blocking the passage out. The doors on each opened and men in dark suits emerged. What was this? Some last minute legal thing, a pack of lawyers descending down on us to flummox the deal? That was what I thought, until I saw the guns.

Three of the four had them drawn, powerful looking handguns, and the two in the rear car took up shooting positions while the two men from the first car walked a few feet toward us. One of them, a tall, good-looking man with, that was odd, one leather glove on, spoke first. Just one word. "Jarod."

"Jarod?" I felt stupid repeating the man, but it was what came out. I looked at the newcomer, then back at the object of our strange little conversation. "Do you know these people?"

The gloved man, obviously the leader, answered for him. "Of course he knows us. We’re old friends, aren’t we Jarod?"

"Lyle." Jarod made it sound like a curse. "How did you find me?"

The one he called "Lyle" continued toward us, his voice smooth and dark, like an oil spill. "It wasn’t very difficult, really. We’ve been tracking the bank accounts of all your recent," he paused, glancing at me, "acquaintances. I figured that sooner or later one of them would help you out, repaying a debt, you might say. It looks as if George Harper did just that. Such a generous man.

"I see you have a new friend here. Does she know what happens to your…friends?"

Jarod pushed me behind him. "Leave her alone, Lyle. She has nothing to do with this."

Lyle gave him a little mock pout. "If you insist. That is, if you’ll come with us."

I felt stupid standing behind Jarod. I was instinctively afraid of the guns, and especially of this man Lyle, but dammit, this was still my farm. I pushed Jarod’s hands away and walked toward them. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my farm?"

"A feisty one." Lyle looked from me to Jarod again. "Just trying to protect you, miss. You see, this man is an escapee, a very dangerous man. I’m here to bring him back."

For a moment, I had my doubts. Escapee? If he had said that Jarod was a criminal, I would have dismissed him at once, but an escapee? Had Jarod escaped from some mental institution, was that why he had looked so harrowed, so spooked when I had first met him? It would have explained the lack of money, but what about the silver case? Had he stolen that from some unfortunate soul?

"Don’t listen to a word he says," Jarod voice was low and harsh, and looking back at him, I could see that his body was as taut as the wire along the fence. "He takes the truth and he twists it to suit his own needs, it’s what he does best. You know me, Kelly. Don’t listen to him."

"Kelly." Lyle smiled malevolently. He could see that he had sown the seed of doubt in my mind. "Kelly, Jarod needs to come with us. We have to take him back."

"I’m not going anywhere with you, Lyle! Especially not back to that hell hole."

Now I was really confused. Back? Jarod had said "back to that hell hole." Which meant that he had been there once before. Was Lyle telling the truth? Was Jarod really a dangerous escapee? It just didn’t make any sense, my head was reeling.

"Listen, I don’t know who the hell you are, but nobody is going anywhere until I sort this out." I was doing my best "brave" act, the same one I used with the loan officers at the bank, hoping that they all bought it. "So you can just put the guns away and we can talk this out, okay?" I started backing toward the house.

Lyle rolled his eyes and looked heavenward. He gestured casually toward me and looked over his shoulder at the gunman nearest him. "Sam?"

Before I knew what was happening, "Sam," was running toward me. He looked about twice my size and should have been playing football with the way he ran. I tried to get to the house, but there was no way. He grabbed me from behind and wrapped me up in his arms. I screamed and yelled and tried to kick him, but he only squeezed me tighter and spun me around toward Lyle. This guy had grabbed people before, he knew what he was doing and I was scared to death.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jarod run toward me, but Lyle pulled a gun out of nowhere and called his name. Jarod pulled up short.

Lyle sneered. "Come on, Jarod, you know me better than that. I wouldn’t shoot you." He turned slowly and aimed the gun at my head.

My brain alternated between screaming in mad panic and taunting me with savage irony. This is the moment your new life begins, and ends!

"Let her go, Lyle, let her GO!" Jarod’s voice was even harsher than before and tinged with a note that I didn’t like.

I wondered if Lyle heard it. I wondered if he was listening at all, I prayed that he was. He just stood there with the gun aimed at my head, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile that turned my blood cold. He enjoyed this. "Another innocent, eh, Jarod? You’d do anything to help the innocent, wouldn’t you?" He turned toward Jarod again, but the gun stayed trained on me. "We wouldn’t want her to turn out like that last one, the last innocent that died because of you, would we?"

Jarod hung his head, defeated. "No," he whispered. "Just let her go."

"Then you’ll come with us?"

Jarod nodded silently.

Lyle gestured my way with the gun. "Let her go, Sam."

I stumbled back toward the stairs, unsure of what to do. I was sure, however, who the good guys were. Nobody with a soul enjoyed causing pain the way Lyle did.

Sam walked over toward Jarod. He seemed ready to bolt again, his body and his mind fighting for control.

"Jarod?" Lyle called out. "Just so you don’t think you’re going to run…" and he shot me.

He shot me! The bastard turned and put a bullet into my right leg! It collapsed almost instantly and I fell onto one of the steps. I couldn’t believe it.

Neither could Jarod. He tried to run to me, but Sam grabbed him before he got two steps, and the other men rushed in to surround him.

"Move again, Jarod, and I put one through her head."

I stared at Lyle, so did everyone. He was serious. Jarod was silent and still.

Now that the mental shock was wearing off, and I realized that yes, I had been shot, I tried to think. All of their attention was on Jarod; as far as their little drama was concerned, my curtain had fallen. I pushed myself over to the railing of the steps, but no one seemed to notice. They were busy putting their guns away so that they could pull cable ties out of their pockets and fasten Jarod’s hands behind his back. Lyle went back toward his car for something and I took the opportunity to gingerly test my right leg, and seeing that it held my weight, albeit shakily, haul myself up the steps into the house. They all let me go. Obviously they didn’t care if I called the police, they knew as well as I did that they would be long gone before a squad car could get out here. But there was one thing that they didn’t know.

Lyle had returned from the car and was standing near Jarod with a syringe in his hand, filling it from a clear bottle. They had trussed him up like a turkey, his arms pinned behind him, and were working on attaching the cable ties to his ankles. Now is the time, I told myself, it’s now or never.

The shotgun blast took out the front tire of the first car, the car nearest them. Before I could blink, they had their guns drawn, but the nearly simultaneous blast of the gun and the pop of the tire had them confused as to where to shoot. Everyone finally turned toward the house where I was standing propped up against the inside of the doorframe, barely visible and making the smallest target that I could manage.

They may have been armed, but so was I. My right hand held a 12 gauge semi-automatic shotgun, the other, a pump action shotgun, with two more pistols shoved into the sides of my waistband and within easy reach. I didn’t normally have loaded weapons around the house, but I had planned on a last bit of target practice behind the barn before I packed them up and shipped them out, so I had cleaned, oiled and loaded them all. They hadn’t known that, or that I had been regional marksmanship champion back in high school.

"Lyle!" I shouted from just inside the door. I knew his type. Very brave bastards when they were in complete control, but spineless when the balance of power changed. I slid the barrel of the semi-automatic out into view, obviously aimed at him. "I’d like to return the favor. Back away from Jarod, all of you, or you get double-ought in the leg. Then I move up."

For once, I had gotten their attention, but they weren’t moving. That was good and bad. With the twelve-gauge still poised to take out Lyle’s leg, and my eyes watching for the slightest movement, I eased out into the doorway, ready to fall back into the house at the first twitch. Now they could see how I was armed. With an ease borne of familiarity, I casually pointed the second shotgun out of the periphery of my vision and removed the windshield of the car, then pumped the next round into the chamber one handed. "I’m not kidding, gentlemen, and I don’t miss. I suggest you move away and drop your guns, NOW!"

They backed away slowly, following Lyle’s lead. "I don’t think you know what you’re doing, Kelly," he tried to soothe. "Jarod is a dangerous man, he’s already responsible for two lives, I wouldn’t want you to be a third."

"The only dangerous person here right now is me, Lyle, because you shot me and I don’t take kindly to that. Tell your goons to drop their goddamned guns now, or I’m going to drop you!" I moved the barrels of both guns up to sight on his head. At this distance, a shotgun blast would take off his pretty little face.

He knew it. Motioning to the other men, he had them drop their guns and walk away.

"Get in the car, now." My strength was fading, and I could feel the real physical shock setting in. If I didn’t finish this little standoff soon, I wasn’t going to be conscious for the end. I glanced over at Jarod, his arms still tied behind him, but at least his feet were free, and it looked like Lyle hadn’t had the chance to inject him with whatever it was he had in the syringe. He moved toward the house, toward me, careful to stay out of my line of fire.

Lyle made an attempt to rescue at least some of his dignity. "This isn’t over, Jarod. She can’t protect you forever. She’ll end up like the last one, you know that."

Jarod said nothing.

"Go away, Lyle, get the hell off my farm!" I screamed. He was playing head games with Jarod and I knew it. "Get out before I blow you away, you son of a bitch!"

Lyle climbed into the passenger side of the undamaged car, with Sam driving and the other two behind. He watched me as the car backed down the drive. The shotguns never came down, never lost their target until the car was lost in the dust of the road.

We had won.

I slumped to the ground as the strength ran out of me. Jarod appeared from behind me, somewhere along the way he must have gotten into the house and cut the cable ties, but I hadn’t noticed; I had been too intent on watching the dark sedan back out of my farm and hopefully out of my life.

He gently pulled me up and inside the house, resting me on the floor just inside the door. His fingers felt around the bullet hole in my leg carefully, but they hurt like hell anyway. Without a word, he placed a square of cloth onto it and pushed my hand down, hard. I almost screamed. He ripped another cloth into a strip and started to wrap it around my leg.

I grabbed his wrist. "Jarod." He refused to look up at me. "Jarod, you have to go, you have to leave, now. They might come back, you have to get out of here."

He finished tying the strip around my leg and around the makeshift bandage and I notice that his movements were uncharacteristically jerky. Not surprising, really, I wasn’t all that ready to do brain surgery myself. He stumbled up the stairs and came down again a moment later, the silver case in hand, then he ran to the other room. I thought I heard him on the telephone, but couldn’t think of whom he might be talking to. My thoughts were becoming disjointed and suddenly it seemed very important that I had never found out what was in that case.

I looked down at my leg, lifted my hand off the bandage and looked at the blood on it. Bright red, so very bright red. My head felt woozy and I blinked repeatedly to keep my hand in focus. Couldn’t be bleeding to death, I thought to myself, not enough blood on the floor yet, must just be shock. Max is in shock too, I thought, he hates guns. Good thing he hates guns, poor scared Max…

Jarod’s face appeared before me again, fuzzy and indistinct. I must have blacked out for a second, because he hadn’t been there before. "Not again," he whispered intently, his hands on either side of my head, holding me tightly. His voice grew in intensity but I had to battle the fog to understand. "Not again, not again, no, not again!"

I struggled against his hands, shook my head, anything to try to clarify things. Miraculously, it worked. I could hear again, hear Max whining nearby, hear a siren down the street. And I could see, see and hear my friend and the tears that streamed down his face as he continued his mantra, "not again, not again."

I saw something else in his eyes, something familiar and frightening, and I knew that time was of the essence. Painfully, I pulled the keys to the truck out of the pocket of my shorts. I grasped at his hand still on the side of my face, pushing the keys into it. "Go now, Jarod, I’ll be okay, help is coming. Go, while you can." I pushed him away, I didn’t think he understood - he had so little time, he had to go now!

He stood, staring at the keys, at his hands, at the blood smeared across them. His breath was ragged, his body swaying with each one. His face was drawn, his shoulders bowed. It was happening again, right before my eyes. Pain. Remorse. Guilt. All the demons he had exorcised over the last five weeks were descending upon him again. Soon he would be unable to do anything, lost once again in the miasma of his own regrets.

"Go," I whispered to him again. "Please, Jarod, for me. Go."

I don’t know what made him finally move, whether it was my plea or the growing sound of the siren or his own sense of self-preservation, but he finally did. I watched him climb into the truck and drive past the ambulance as it pulled into the driveway. The dust engulfed it as he turned onto the road and I blacked out once again.
 
 

The road rumbled underneath the wheels of the truck, taking him away from the farm, from the girl, from the blood. He had taken the keys in silence, at once understanding that he was in danger, from both within and without. Kelly had understood, too, had seen the blackness creeping back across his soul. It was only because she had told him, ordered him, that he had blindly accepted the keys and left.

They had done it again, hunted him, found him, and taken the innocent down in their attempt to capture him. He looked down at his hands, the tears warping his sight but he could see it nonetheless – the blood! Her blood, another victim, another pawn in the game, and all because of him. The blood, the pain, the death - all his fault, always his fault!

~~~

Two days later, the sheriff came to see me in the hospital. The report on the shooting was a messy affair; too many guns, not enough shooters, and only me and a blasted out rental car to prove that anything had happened. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t originally believe my story, but when the guns disappeared from the lock-up over night, he really didn’t know just what he had on his hands. He was kind enough, though, and relatively sure that I hadn’t shot myself, so with no witnesses but me, no suspects that he could find (I swore back and forth that Jarod had nothing to do with the actual shooting even though he had fled the scene) he had to write it off as an unsolvable case and leave it at that.

They found my truck at a bus stop about four hours away. I told them to bring it back when they had time, the kids on the farm could probably learn to drive in it, but it was of little use to any one else. Max would stay with the farm too, at least for a little while. He loved kids, he would probably be good for them and after the trauma of the gunfight, I really didn’t want to put him in a kennel or with friends that he barely knew until I found a permanent residence.

I took a taxi back to the farm from the hospital, gathered up a few things from what I had, left the rest to be used by the kids, gave Max a big hug and left for the airport. I had no home, no car, no responsibilities, a ticket to Hawaii, a bank account full of cash and the rest of my life to live. For the first time in my life, I was free to do whatever I wanted to, to follow whatever path opened up before me and leave the past behind.

If only I could have so easily left behind the memory of Jarod’s haunted eyes.