I somehow stumble through the week, clinging to the familiar routine of chores and dodging my family. Bryan finally catches me on Friday morning at the coffee pot. He takes a long look at my dirty jeans and Pop's old jacket thrown over the back of my chair and sighs.
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"Queenie…"
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I slap the lid on my insulated cup too fast, sloshing coffee onto the counter and cross threading it.
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"Gotta go," I mutter, taking a few seconds too long to rescrew the crooked lid. He catches my arm and nudges me towards the table.
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"The hands can feed the horses," he growls. "We need to talk."
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I don't want to talk. I want to go haul sacks of feed and bales of hay. I want to shovel piles of shit, and fix fences. Anything that keeps me out of this house and moving until I can fall back in bed, too exhausted to think about the giant hole that's opened up under my feet.
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Bryan pours himself a mug of coffee and hooks a chair out from the table, spinning it around so he can straddle it and fold his arms over the scarred wooden back.
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"The funeral is today."
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I stare at the scrubbed pine boards under my hands. I don't know why he's telling me something so banal. I couldn't forget what today is, no matter how much I want to. My black dress, the only one I've ever owned, is hanging on the back of my door as a reminder.
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"You'll be going out to California with Mom and Warren when they leave tomorrow."
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I laugh, and even to me it sounds fake.
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"The hell I am."
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Bryan scrubs his hands over his face, his blond hair sticking up in wild spikes.
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"Raina, you don't understand. You can't stay here. You have to go with them."
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"No, you're the one who doesn't understand. I'm not going anywhere with that bitch. This is my home. I'm staying here." I push back from the table, done with this conversation, and Bryan grabs my wrist across the table.
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"Sit. Down." He growls at me.
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"Go to hell," I growl back. He looms over me, his blue eyes stormy, and I smack my hand against the center of his chest, pushing him back. "Don't make me kick your ass, bubba."
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We stare at each other, neither of us willing to back down. He snorts in disgust and lets go of me, finally.
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"I don't like it any more than you do, Queenie. But it's not my choice, either."
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"You can't run this place without me," I argue. He cuts his eyes away from me, and cold trickles down my spine.
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"You're not planning on running it at all, are you?" My voice is just a hoarse whisper.
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"Raina-"
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I lift my hand, cutting him off. We face off across the same three feet of pine where we've done our homework, cursed and argued, told jokes and threw food at each other. It feels like a million miles to me.
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Bryan shoves his hands in his pockets, his gaze skipping away from mine. He looks like my brother, the same tall, wide shouldered body with the easy slouch, his golden hair falling over his forehead in waves. He looks back at me with our mother's eyes, dark lashes over irises that hold the whole damn ocean in them. Women have been falling at his boots since he was old enough to know how to smile at them. He tries that crooked little smirk on me, and I shake my head, backing away from him. My heart is breaking in a million pieces.
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"I've got stock to feed."
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He doesn't try to stop me leaving this time.
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***
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I try to focus on the single point of light blazing on the top of my grandfather's casket and the pastor's steady voice, but there's too many distractions. To my left, there's a sheriff's deputy, his hat on his lap, guarding my daddy. To my right, Bryan fidgets and shifts in his seat. Warren leans over to whisper in Jenna's ear behind me, and her lips curve slightly. There's a scream building in the back of my throat, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood to hold it back.
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The little church is full to bursting, neighbors and business associates of my family crowded into the pews and standing against the walls. It's claustrophobic in here, the late June heat turning the small space into an oven. We bow our heads in prayer, and stand as the pallbearers move into place. One of the local boys picks up his guitar, and the haunting strains of "July in Cheyenne" rise over the murmurs and sniffles. I grit my teeth at the choice, staring at the toes of my black ballet flats.
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Warren's damp, overly warm hand lands on my lower back as I step out of the pew to follow the casket and I flinch, hurrying my steps to slip in between Daddy and one of his guards. His eyes, blue-green like mine, crinkle slightly at the corners, and he moves his shackled hands so I can slide under his arm awkwardly. I lean against him. His suit smells like the cedar from the bags Rosa hung in his closet, and under that he smells like yellow bar soap and salt. He ducks his head to press his lips to the crown of my head.
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We move towards the limo idling behind the hearse, and I ignore Jenna's pointed stare, turning to the deputy closest to me.
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"Can I ride with my dad, please? I need to talk to him."
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The man looks at me for a long moment, eyes narrow in his weathered face, until his partner interjects.
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"Hell, Davis. Let the kid ride. She just lost her granddad. What's she going to do, steal our ride and take off for Mexico?" The older deputy scoffs, but he opens the back door of the department SUV and motions me inside. I hear my mother's scandalized protest, but a moment later Daddy slides into the seat next to me and the door closes, blocking her out. We slide into the flow of traffic with the rest of the procession, and Daddy reaches over to put his hands on mine.
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"You hanging in there, baby girl?"
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"Always." I look straight ahead. "Someone has to. Since the supposed men in this family can't seem to."
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"Twister…" Daddy sighs. "You never let up, do you?"
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"You know Bryan's not planning on stepping up. He's just like you, all he wants to do is rodeo."
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"He's a damn good cowboy, Raina. Man should do what he's good at."
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"What about women?" I blaze back at him. "I'm a damn good rancher, Daddy. I had to be. Why shouldn't I do that?"
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He looks away from me. "You need to go with your Mama, Twister. She'll take care of you. You can't stay out on that old ranch by yourself."
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"Then tell Bryan to man up and keep his ass at home, Daddy. He can take off the day I turn eighteen, I don't care. But don't punish me because you two can't stick it and I can!" Years of frustration spill over with my tears.
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"It's already decided, Raina Grace."
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"Then undecide it!"
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"It doesn't work that way, honey."
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I turn my face to the window, watching the town roll away behind us and the fields take over. Clapboard houses and faded barns baking under the sun, everything hazed over with the drifting cottonwood seeds that pile up in drifts in the ditches and against the fencelines. I wonder what makes the difference in a place that one person can see it as home, and another sees it as a trap.
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We pull into the cemetery and I wait for the deputy to open my door before I walk away, not looking back. Jenna catches my arm as I pass, dragging me to a stop. I let her put her arm through mine, and guide me to the graveside. She wobbles on her heels in the dusty grass.
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"I hate Texas," she mutters, smoothing her professionally highlighted bob into place. "I can't wait to get you out of this hellhole, honey." She pats my hand, and I yank away from her, leaving Warren to catch her. I can feel the heat of her glare as I bypass the row of chairs for the family, choosing to stand with Marco and Rosa.
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The ranch hands shift to make room for me, and I tuck myself into their midst, keeping my eyes on the ground. Rosa gives me a sideways squeeze, and Marco raises an eyebrow, but no one pushes me back towards my parents.
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Thirteen months, four days. I do the math in my head. My own personal prison sentence. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and lifting my head.
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I've never disappointed my Pops, and I'm not about to start now.
***
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I grab my bag from the overhead compartment, tuning out Warren's complaints about the delay in deplaning procedures and Jenna's endless chatter on the phone. It hasn't left her ear since we taxied up to the terminal, as she rearranges her social schedule.
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I trail behind them to the baggage carousel, waiting for my battered duffel bag and suitcase to appear. When they do, I grab them, throwing the worn leather straps over my shoulder and kicking the sticky wheel of the suitcase until it decides to roll, squeaking a protest. Warren gives the old luggage a disgusted look.
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"Jenna, make sure those get disposed of," he says. My mother nods her agreement and I can feel my molars grinding, a headache starting behind my eyes.
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"Of course, honey. And I'm going to make you an appointment at the spa, Raina." Her eyes run over me in disapproval.
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"I'm fine," I grit out. "I can pluck my own eyebrows, thanks." Not that I've ever bothered. I've never met a cow that cared one bit what they look like.
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"Now, Raina." Warren's heavy hand comes down on my shoulder. "You can indulge your mother in a little girl's day out, can't you?" His fingers tighten painfully on my collarbone. I duck away from him, making sure to swing my bag in between us.
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Thirteen months, three days.
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