Swept Away. Karen Templeton
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benefited her in the long run.
She got to her feet, prompting a “You ready so soon?” from her father.
“My butt’s going to sleep sitting on the hard ground. And I’m getting cold.”
Her father rose, as well, slipping off his lightweight overshirt and handing it to her. “Thanks,” she muttered, poking her arms through the sleeves. The shirt fluttered around her, cocooning her in his scent, and she felt, just for a moment, like the little girl who used to love cuddling with her daddy before she turned into the big bad pain in the can.
Back when she still let people all the way in.
They started back toward Sam’s house, both lost in their thoughts. It had been a long time since she’d wanted to let anybody in, she realized. She wasn’t sure she knew how, anymore. Or even if it was worth it. But there had to be something more than this chronic emptiness, an emptiness that seemed to yawn wider with every affair, every pointless relationship. Yeah, she’d lived life her own way. And still would, hardheadedness being definitely a chronic disease. But perhaps it was her definition of things that needed tweaking.
Maybe.
Through a stand of pines, Carly spotted a pair of buildings, apparently belonging to another farm. Although she had the feeling nobody lived there, the barn—an old-fashioned number in soft grays—appeared fairly sturdy. The house was something else again. To Carly’s dismay, she realized she felt a lot like that house—old, abandoned and half-eaten up with decay. Terrific.
They returned by way of the front road, right as the big yellow school bus pulled up, its hydraulic brakes letting out a groan like an old woman taking off her girdle. The doors slapped open, belching out four buzz-cutted boys of assorted sizes, all in jeans and T-shirts and sneakers, still-new backpacks slung by a single strap across a skinny shoulder or dangling from one hand as they hurled good-natured insults back at their buddies still on the bus. The doors squealed closed; the bus let out a fart of exhaust and continued on, as the boys turned up the road leading to the farm, totally oblivious to being followed. Not surprising, since they were far too busy swinging their backpacks in a wide arc as they spun around, or bumping each other off balance, or yelling, “You take that back!” and “Nuh-uh!” and “What do you care, he’s stupid, anyway,” their soprano voices still high and clear and—God help them all—shrill as nails on a blackboard.
Then, like a turbocharged beetle from a fifties sci-fi flick, a metallic green Mitsubishi Eclipse roared past, kicking up a cloud of peach-colored dust and provoking the older boys’ taunts of “Libby’s got a boyfriend, Libby’s got a boyfriend!” Carly caught a glimpse of long dark hair, sucked out of the window along with some remark or other, which turned the taunt into “Oooh, I’m gonna tell!”
They were close enough to the house by now to have alerted the dogs, who streaked down the road to greet the dusty, noisy little group with blurred tails and sharp barks, one or two dashing back and forth from house to boys to house to boys, as if not trusting the boys to find their own way home. The seen-better-days Eclipse screeched to a stop in the yard; a teenage girl got out, her gaze longingly following the car as it did a three-point turn and zoomed back up the road, past Carly and Lane again. The boy inside spared them a brief, curious glance, just long enough to understand the reason behind the girl’s pining look.
Then Sam came out onto the porch, and Carly was defenseless against her stomach’s little whoomp at seeing him again, this unassuming, unremarkable farmer who moved with the unconscious ease of a person who has far more pressing things to think about than his own body. Or the crazy woman gawking at him, Carly thought with a sigh as a sharp whistle knifed through the air, bringing all shenanigans to an immediate halt. She couldn’t hear what he said, but five heads swiveled in her and Dad’s direction. When she and her father got closer, the boys all said, “Hello,” with various degrees of interest and enthusiasm as Sam introduced each one in turn. As if she’d remember all their names.
“And this is Elizabeth, my only girl. But everybody calls her Libby.” He put an arm around the pretty girl’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I told Carly she could bunk with you for a couple of days, since you’ve got an extra bed and all. Didn’t think you’d mind.”
With a smile, Carly turned to Libby…and nearly lost her breath.
Never mind that she and Libby Frazier looked nothing alike, not in body type or coloring or stature. And yet, a single glimpse into those warm brown eyes, and Carly felt as though she’d been slammed back more than twenty years…
…to meet her fifteen-year-old self.
Somehow, Carly doubted it would be a joyous reunion.
Chapter 4
As if they weren’t crowded enough already, jeez.
Libby stormed around the house and up the back steps, dumping her backpack with a thud on the royal-blue carpet remnant she’d picked out when they moved her in back here. She’d thought the color had been so cool in the store, but now she knew it attracted every piece of dirt and lint in the county, which was a real pain because who the heck had time to vacuum every five minutes?
She caught sight of what she guessed was Carly’s stuff—an oversize backpack and a bright red duffel bag—and irritation sucked the breath out of her. Where’d Dad get off telling some stranger she could stay in Libby’s room? And for a week? Okay, yeah, so maybe Carly did look kind of cool—certainly not like most of the women around here, that’s for sure—but that was beside the point. It was like everything else these days—Dad simply didn’t get it. Get her.
Not that she got herself much these days, either. Sometimes she felt as if somebody else had taken over her body, because she kept getting pissed off about stuff that never used to bother her before. Like there was a constant storm going on inside her head, only occasionally interrupted by blue skies and sunshine.
Libby yanked off her “good” jeans and top and struggled into an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, her bedroom doorknob bouncing off the wall as she tromped back out through the mudroom to haul on her boots. It hadn’t rained for a couple of days, but Jasmine, one of the sows, had recently figured out how to push down the float to her water tank to flood the pen, much to the delight of her penmates. Sure enough, when Libby got there, the sow—blissfully stretched out in a mud puddle—grinned up at her.
“Nobody can accuse you of being a priss, that’s for sure.” The sow grunted contentedly and flopped back into the ooze, and Libby’s bad mood backed off a little.
Until she saw Dad headed her way.
She stepped into the feeder pigs’ pen—there were nearly sixty of them, about half of which would be ready for market in a few weeks—and flipped open the top to the automatic feeder to knock down the finely ground grain packed against the sides and in the corners, as a sea of young pigs swarmed around her calves, nosing open the metal lids to the trough to eat.
“Thought you just did that yesterday?” Dad asked softly over the bang, bang, bang of the feeder lids dropping. He hardly ever yelled, at least not at Libby or her brothers. He didn’t have to.
“Did I? I don’t remember.” She shut the lid again; her father chuckled.
“You remembered that, though.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Honestly, Dad, it was only the one time. And two years ago at that.”
“Some things,” he said, grinning, “a father doesn’t forget. Like the disgust on your face when you had to clean out all the moldy feed after it rained and rotted it all.”
“Not an experience I want to repeat, believe me.”
“I imagine not.”
Libby dusted off her hands on her jeans, then came back out of the pen, leaving her snorting, snuffling charges behind, eating their butts off. Or on, in this case. She folded her arms and met her father’s calm, but firm, gaze.
“What?”