“And go where?”
“Who cares? Any place is better than here. I could wash dishes under the table in San Francisco. Or pick fruit at a farm near the coast. Or maybe go to the Rockies. Idaho. Montana. Be a lumberjack.”
“Or say sorry.”
“It ain’t that simple.”
“Ain’t isn’t a word, and yeah it is.”
“I mess up. It’s what I do.” He clenched his jaw. “What I’ve always done.”
She swallowed her next bite of cotton candy. “My dad says it’s no use crying over baked beans.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Does too. Why cry over baked beans? It’s silly. There’s no point. And there’s no point sitting in here talking about running away. You did nothing wrong.”
“That’s not how my grandma will see it. She hates me.”
“Here.” She stuck out the cotton candy cone. “Take some.”
“I don’t want your candy. Don’t even know where your grubby fingers have been.”
She thrust her shoulders back. “I wash my hands and they haven’t been anywhere bad. Go on. You’ll feel better.”
He didn’t feel like arguing with the little brat so he grabbed some fluffy spun sugar. “Happy?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a bossy little thing.”
“I’m the tallest girl in my class. And the number one reader,” she said proudly.
Wilder stuffed the candy into his mouth. The sweetness masked the bitter copper flavor of blood.
“See. Look. You feel better already.”
“Bizzy? Bizzy Bee, you in here?” a man called out.
The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s my daddy. I have to go.”
She jumped up and turned to go. Before she left the stall, she paused. “Whatever your grandma says, I’m glad you hit those bad boys.”
Then she was gone.
CREAK. CREAK. CREAK. Grandma Kane rocked next to the fire. Quinn turned the page of the Ranching Life magazine she was skimming. “Hey, listen to this,” she said to the quiet room. “Did you know cows produce more milk if they listen to soothing music? Scientists did a study and apparently R.E.M.’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ caused the most lactation.”
“Sounds like a bunch of cockamamie, if you ask me,” Grandma muttered.
Wilder didn’t say a word.
Tough crowd.
Time for plan B.
“Who’d like a cup of tea?” Quinn asked, rising to her feet. “Mrs. Kane?” Calling her Grandma felt way too familiar. “Want some Egyptian licorice?”
The older woman peered over the top of her turquoise bifocals. “Egyptian licor-what?”
“Or plain black? Simple? Classic?”
That received a brief, pursed-mouth nod. Quinn gave Wilder the “help me out a little” eye. He knew she was doing it, so he looked everywhere but in her direction. Darn him.
“Boy,” Grandma snapped. “Will you kindly acknowledge your girlfriend before she gives me a turn with all that nervous twitching?”
Her throwaway use of the word girlfriend did a better job of snagging Wilder’s attention. He jerked out of whatever gloomy stupor he’d been trapped in.
“We’re just friends,” Quinn said quickly. Yeah, he was a real good friend to her girl parts.
“Just friends?” Grandma snorted, catching her blush. “Hah. I might be over eighty with a busted hip and be able to remember when Roosevelt was president, but that doesn’t mean I lost my marbles. I have friends, missy, but none that know what I look like out of my drawers.”
Quinn had a sudden terrible image of Grandma Kane in a pair of drawers, white ones with pink flouncy ruffles on the butt. The idea made a titter well up in her throat, no, worse, a giggle, wait, crap, a guffaw. Yeah, a full-scale guffaw was imminent and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
She tried to turn it into a sneeze and that just made everything ten times worse. The escaping noise was a mash-up between a wheeze, snort, hiccup, and chortle. The entire thesaurus could have a field day trying to describe the sound that stress, uncertainty, sex, and the glare of a dowager rancher could pull from her body.
“Is this one all right in the head?” Grandma Kane asked Wilder, speaking out of the side of her mouth.
“The same as anyone,” Wilder responded, adding, “And for the record, when you talk like that, everyone can still hear you.”
Grandma’s gaze was frostier than the White Witch of Narnia’s.
“Wasn’t sure if you were aware.” Wilder shrugged. “When I was a kid you used to do it to cashiers in the checkout aisle, talk about their moles or the fact that you were going to be covered in moss if they moved any slower.”
That sent Quinn off on a fresh round. She grabbed her water glass off the coffee table and took a swig. Maybe that would help.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, bending over and bracing her knees.
“Here I thought Annie Carson was the kooky one but you might take the cake,” Grandma said, shaking her head.
“Guess we all have our moments.” Quinn wiped her eyes.
“I’ll make the tea.” Wilder rose and went straight to the kitchen without waiting for anyone to tell him no. He was using his cane less and less.
The fire crackled in the hearth, otherwise silence reigned supreme. Strange, seeing as this was an old house. No creaks.
“You have a lovely home,” Quinn said at last.
“Don’t get any big ideas,” Grandma barked. “It’s going to Archer and Edie.”
“Excuse me?” Quinn bristled.
“You’re a Higsby, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Everyone knows a Higsby is the worst kind of fool. You’re the one who works in the bookstore, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You come in every Wednesday with the other Chicklits, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Go to the mantel.” Grandma pointed to a thick leather-bound book on the end.
Quinn rose and trudged over. What a shrew. No wonder Wilder didn’t like spending time with his family. She glanced at the title. “Brightwater: Small Town, Big Dreams?”
“That right there is the town history,” Grandma Kane said. “You like to read? You should give it a try. The pages are riddled with the exploits of Higsbys, half-baked ideas, inventions. Did you know your great-aunt Helen tried to sell a baby mop?”
Quinn wasn’t sure if she should be amused or horrified, so she settled somewhere in between. “Excuse me?”
“A baby mop. It was a mop head but instead of a stick, a crawling baby was attached to it. She thought she’d put her children to good use. Considering she had enough of them, you could almost not blame her. Higsbys are a fertile lot, after all.” Grandma gave her an appraising stare. “And you have the family’s birthing hips.”
“I’m not sure if I ever want to have kids.” Quinn willed her voice to stay steady. It wasn’t that she didn’t love kids. She did, at least most kids, unless they ate their boogers or threw fits on an airplane. Still, if she carried the early-onset gene, she couldn’t reproduce. No way would she saddle another person with a fifty-fifty future like the one she faced.