Hard 5 by Stephanie Brother

6

The truck that Cash has left the keys for is a great hulking thing that has definitely seen better days. Inside, it’s dusty with enough dirt on the floor to make my hands itch. I get that this is a working vehicle, but everything needs maintenance to keep it functioning properly. I guess I will have to add it to my list, or maybe I need to start a list for the Bradfords.

I chuckle, imagining Scott’s face if I present him with a list of things to do. He’d probably spontaneously combust.

Rumbling down the road, jerking from potholes, and watching the spray of dirt behind me is more fun than I’m expecting. Pa used to drive me into town and help carry the shopping, so this is new to me. I’ve even smartened myself up a little with my hair done neatly and a swipe of lip gloss. Not that I’m expecting to see anyone of interest at the store. It’s more because everyone in town knows what happened with my place, and I want to hold my head high.

I have a list and the bills that Cash tossed to the table in my shirt pocket. I’m excited to buy ingredients to make some new dishes too. Pa was always such a stickler for routine.

The store isn’t busy, but I notice a few stares as I push my cart from aisle to aisle, checking off my list as I go. Maybe news hasn’t reached town that I’m working for the Bradfords. Maybe these folks are wondering why I need so much ground beef to feed just me. Let them wonder.

I’m in the spices section, gathering all the dried herbs I need to flavor the meals I’m planning to make when a man leans up against the display.

“You’re Melanie?” He’s big and broad, wearing a well-worn blue shirt over an undershirt that has seen better days. The scruff on his face is long and peppered with gray, and his skin is sun-darkened and well lined. I know who he is.

“Mr. Flint,” I say. His first name eludes me, and he has a brother, so I don’t want to try guessing.

“Jethro,” he corrects. He leans closer, his tall frame looming over me. My instinct is to step back and preserve my personal space, but I know that would be seen as a weakness, so I stay put. He waits for me to say something, but I leave the silence to stretch, and after a few seconds, his jaw ticks. “The Bradfords bought your ranch.”

I nod, swallowing the urge to tell him that it isn’t kind to rub someone’s nose in their misery.

“Those assholes.” He grits his teeth so hard there’s an audible scrape of enamel on enamel that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

“It was an open auction,” I say. “I didn’t get a choice on the buyer.”

“They’re like vultures.” Jethro’s eye twitches as he switches the weight on his feet.

“They’re expanding.” I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to get drawn into a Bradford hate club while I’m in the process of buying their toilet paper. I don’t know this man, and from what I overheard my Pa saying at the time, he and his brother made terrible business decisions that resulted in foreclosure on the property. I get why he’s angry, but blaming the Bradfords for being better businessmen after eight years seems irrational.

“They’re outsiders who need to be taught a lesson.”

“They’ve been here eight years,” I remind him. “And I don’t think they’re bad people.”

“That’s your family property,” Jethro growls. I smell alcohol on his breath, and this time I do step back.

“It was, but then my pa put it at risk. I can’t blame them for that. That was all his doing.”

Sneering, he shakes his head. “So now you’re going to take the crumbs they toss you?”

“No one is tossing me crumbs,” I say, realizing that news of my hire must have traveled on the town grapevine. “I’m making a living, same as them.”

“They’re making a living at our expense,” he says. “Someone needs to teach them a lesson.” His eyes bulge, the reddened veins that are probably exacerbated by too much drink making him look crazed. I don’t like the way he’s talking or roping me into his resentment. He’s had eight years to move on from this, but he hasn’t.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say. “It’s hard to see things change, but I can’t live in the past, and I can’t hate them for mistakes my father made.” I say the rational words, but in my heart, there is still a big bubble of hurt and resentment. I just don’t want Jethro Flint to know.

“Your father would have hated them,” he spits. “He’s turning in his grave, watching you wait on them like a slave.”

“I’m no slave,” I say angrily. “And my father would rather see me with a job and roof over my head than sleeping on the streets.”

“You can stay with my brother and me,” Jethro says. “We’ll take care of you.” His black eyes gleam, as the thought of spending time in his personal space makes me shudder.

“I can take care of myself,” I say. “But thank you for your concern.” I begin to push the cart away even though I’m not yet finished. I can come back for the chicken seasoning when there is less raging man obstructing it. “Can I offer some friendly advice?”

He nods, pushing his chin out in defiance.

“There’s no point in feeling angry, especially after all this time. Things change, but we’ve just got to work on making today and tomorrow better. We can’t change what happened. It’ll always be behind us.”

“You think I’ll ever have a place of my own again? My credit is shot. I can’t make enough money working for other people to save a cent.” He makes everything seem hopeless, and even though I’m trying to force myself to believe my own spiel, it’s hard.

“I wish you luck, Jethro.” As I walk away, I hear him laugh softly, but I’m not sure why. Maybe he thinks I’m an idiot for working for the enemy. Maybe he thinks my optimism is childish. He has at least twenty years on me, and eight of them resenting the Bradfords for their role in his bad turn of luck. Maybe I’ll be like him in a decade, trying to incite others to greater resentment or hatred. I don’t want to believe it of myself, but none of us know what we’re capable of until life thrusts challenge our way.

The buoyancy that I was feeling before my run-in with Jethro is shot to hell.

I grab what I need from the shelves, tossing it quickly into the cart, more conscious of everyone around me and what they’re thinking.

The cashier rings me up, her eyes constantly flicking to me as though there is something resting on the tip of her tongue, but she’s not sure if she should say it. I keep my eyes averted as much as possible so as to avoid offering her an opportunity.

I’m loading the bags into the backseat when someone clears their throat behind me. I whirl, half expecting Jethro, but instead, I’m greeted by the sunny radiance that is Amber.

“Hey, Mel,” she says breezily, seemingly forgetting that we haven’t exchanged a word in years.

“Amber.” I nod curtly, taking in her lace-trimmed cut-off shorts and embroidered white blouse. Everything about her is soft and light, and next to her, I feel hard and faded.

“I hear you’re working for the Bradfords.” Even her voice is melodious and lilting.

“News travels fast.”

“How are they?” she asks. One of her fingers twists in her hair as she waits for a response.

“Fine.”

“I mean, are they treating you okay?”

Amber’s sudden concern over my wellbeing has me suspicious. “They’re fine.”

She nods, letting out a small breath of false concern. “That’s good. Are you dating one of them?”

Her blue eyes widen slightly at her own question, and her motives become as transparent as the windows on this truck. “I’m not dating any of them.”

“Really?” She blinks, apparently in relief.

“Really. Why? You have your eyes on one of them?”

“No.” Her denial is too quick and completely unconvincing, and I squint at her, my opinion of this girl that I’ve known my whole life dropping to the floor. “I mean, there’s so many of them, and they all look alike. How could anyone choose?”

I think about their cousins and Connie and how she didn’t need to choose at all. There’s no way I’m telling Amber about that, though. I don’t want her getting any crazy ideas. I might be just about okay working for the Bradfords, but there is no way I could take orders from Amber.

“They live like pigs,” I say. “I’d choose a man with a different last name.” I slam the door shut so hard that Amber flinches.

“My mom says all men need a good woman to keep them in line.”

“All good men can keep themselves in line.” Even as I say it, I think about how tired the Bradfords were when they came home from a whole day of toil. In my heart, I’m more forgiving than I’m letting on to Amber. I’m sure if they had time on their hands, the Bradfords would be more than capable of keeping their home clean and their bellies full.

“So, you don’t think they’re good men?” Amber asks, following me as I make my way around to the driver’s side.

“I think you’re better off looking for someone who doesn’t come home with shit under their fingernails.” Amber flinches again, this time at my language. She’s a rancher’s daughter, so she’s familiar with the life, but she’s not hands-on. To be a rancher’s wife, she’d need to be. “I don’t even know if the Bradfords are looking to date, but if they were, I’m sure they’d need someone prepared to muck in.”

“Someone like you, you mean?” Amber’s eyebrows quirk, and I internally curse myself for stumbling into the line of focus.

“I’m not interested in dating,” I lie. “Life’s complicated enough without adding a man to it.”

Sliding into the truck, I slam the door shut, lowering the window to say bye to Amber. She might be annoying, but I won’t lower myself to blatant rudeness. “Have a great day,” I say, starting the engine.

Amber blinks, and then a smile spreads across her face. “Thank you, Mel. And maybe I’ll drop in on you at the Bradford ranch, you know, to talk about old times.”

Ugh. I can think of many things I’d like to do more than that, like removing my own tonsils. “I’m not sure I’m allowed guests.”

“Nonsense.” She waves, beginning to turn. “The Bradfords can’t keep you prisoner up there.” Amber doesn’t just walk away. She wiggles her hips as though she’s hoping for men’s eyes to watch her.

As I drive out of town, I’m annoyed by the complex feelings that are swirling around my heart and chest. I have no claim over the Bradfords. I don’t want to have a claim over them either. They’ve gotten their hands on everything I ever cared about. I might not be at Jethro’s level of bitterness and hatred, but there is still something dark and creeping inside me when I think about it.

That, and the fact that the idea of them entertaining other women makes me seethe with jealousy. Now, what is all that about?