I stared at the sidewalk, grinding the heel of my boot into it. “I just arrived. This is the first stab at fun we’ve taken since I got here”—I pointed down the street toward Wild Bill’s—“so how can you be so sure you’re going to miss me when all we’ve done is work our fingers to the bone and sleep a few winks in between? Why is that a pattern you’re so eager to repeat?”
Chance snapped his fingers, stepping closer. “See, that’s what I mean. We’ve done nothing besides work and sleep and sit at that dining room table with forced smiles all week . . . but it’s been the best week I’ve had in years. You make life fun, no matter what we’re doing. I wake up with a smile, even if the first thing on my list is scouring through a pile of cow crap to see why one of them’s sick, because I know you’re here. I know I’ll get to see you when you show up and chore the day away with me.”
He stepped closer. I only knew that because I heard his boot strike the cement at the same time his boot came into view. I should have looked at him. I should have had the courage to look him in the eye while he said such wonderful, terrifying things. But I couldn’t.
“You make the mundane things in life and the things we have to do special,” he said.
I walked down the sidewalk again, needing to keep moving. When I heard his steps catch up with me, I took a breath and reminded myself the night was about letting loose and having fun, not getting all worked up about what he meant and if he’d implied he had feelings for me that crossed the bridge from platonic.
“So you’re under the impression that if I accept this vet job at Red Mountain, I’ll be out busting my ass shoveling cow crap and stacking hay during my off time?” I asked when he was shoulder to shoulder with me again.
“I’m under the impression that even if you don’t, it would still give me something to hope for as I worked through that pile of crap.”
I was too busy laughing to acknowledge I was stepping into another crosswalk . . . but that fact definitely didn’t get by Chance. He grabbed my shoulder and stopped me in my tracks. It came as such a surprise I let out a yelp.
“Okay, Chance, what is the deal with the intersections and the crosswalks?” I asked while he did his standard check of both ways five million times before leading me forward. “Because I’m about ready to browse the Internet for local mental hospitals to find out if they have a vacancy.”
Chance winced just enough to tell me that he’d hoped his paranoia wasn’t so easily detected. “It’s just something I’ve picked up recently.”
“Like how recently?”
He didn’t let go of my arm, even after we’d made it safely through the crosswalk. “About a week.”
My eyebrows pulled together. “A week? That’s nothing, the infancy stage in terms of tics people develop. You should have no problem working this one out, but make sure you do before it gets worse. This is one habit you don’t want to let develop. You don’t want to be that guy who gets too afraid to get in his car for fear of getting in a car accident . . .”
I really needed to think about what I was saying and who I was saying it to before I actually said anything.
“I’m sorry. I get it now.” I stopped him on the sidewalk and waited until he looked at me. “Jenny’s accident, right? You’re so cautious with cars because she died in one?”
Chance scrubbed his face with his hand, shifting. “Yeah, something like that.”
I felt my forehead line. “But . . . Jenny died a month ago. You said this thing’s only been going on a week . . .?”
“It has only been going on about a week,” he replied, seeming as interested in the sidewalk as I’d been a block back.
The act was familiar: his inability to look me in the eye, his face pinched as he tried to figure out what to say next, his constant shifting in place keeping beat with the second hand of a watch. He was behaving how I did when I was warring with my feelings for him . . . Could Chance be as conflicted about me as I was about him? Did he lie in bed tossing and turning as I flashed through his mind, as I’d done most nights since I’d arrived? Did he feel as though he was being ripped down the middle, one side pulled toward friendship and the other pulled toward more?
“This intersection, crosswalk, car . . . phobia . . . thing”—I bit the inside my cheek when I realized how that sounded—“it’s not you you’re worried about, is it?”
Chance’s chest rose and fell a few times before he answered with a single shake of his head.
“It’s me you’re worried about?” When he looked as if he was weighing his answer, I stepped closer and dropped my hand into the bend of his arm. “You’re worried I’ll die like Jenny or your mother or any of the women before them, aren’t you?”
Chance closed his eyes and nodded.
My heart started to beat not necessarily faster but harder. It felt as though it could have cracked through my ribs and fallen onto the sidewalk between us for both of us to see. I wondered if it would look as vulnerable as I felt, if his name would be somewhere carved on it, peeking out beneath the muscle and sinew.
“Were you worried about me dying suddenly when I first lived here?” That was the next logical question, but nothing had given me reason to believe Chance had been coming up with ways to keep any viable threat at bay back then.
His eyes were still closed. “No. I was, of course, concerned for your safety in the same way I would be concerned about someone I cared about, but I didn’t feel the same . . . panic . . . I feel now.”
I kept nodding, both in an effort to try to understand and to show him I didn’t think he was crazy. “But cars? None of the women have been killed in traffic accidents or by Hummers blowing through intersections, right? I mean, I know Jenny was in a car when she died, but that wasn’t what killed her.” No, it was the one-hundred-foot ponderosa pine that had taken a few loggers a few hours to clear from the road according to the article I’d found on the internet. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound insensitive. I’m just trying to understand.”
Chance shook his head. His eyes opened, but they stayed leveled on the sidewalk. “No, you’re right. Nothing road or car related has ever been responsible for any of their deaths, but after seeing Jenny in that car, her body folded around the steering wheel in ways no living body could manage . . .” He rubbed his eyes as if he was trying to erase the vision of it. “That stuck with me, and that was the first thing I started to worry about after you came back. It doesn’t make sense. I’m not asking you to try to make any sense of it, but whether real or imagined, the threat seems very real to me. I’m sorry.” When his face rose high enough to meet my eyes, an apology was written on every angle and plane of his face.
I wanted to wipe each one away until none were left. My whole life, I didn’t think anyone had ever been so concerned with keeping me safe as Chance seemed to be. “There’s nothing to apologize for, so don’t even go down that road.” I curled my hand into the bend of his arm. “After seeing what you have, hearing about how all of those women in your family died . . . of course you’d be a little worried when it came to a woman you . . .” I wasn’t sure how to say it without saying it.
“The woman I cared about?”
So Chance said it. Said said it.
Instead of replying, because I didn’t know how to reply, I steered the conversation in a different direction. “You mentioned the car/road thing was the first thing you started to worry about.” I swallowed, scared of the answer. “Are there others?”
If he was upset about my twist in the conversation, he didn’t show it. He tipped his head back and seemed to unfurl his anger on the stars above. “Yes.” His jaw locked into place.
I kept swallowing—it seemed to help with the fear rising from my stomach. “How many?”
“I haven’t exactly sat down and done a tally,” he said, his jaw popping as he spoke.
“A lot?” My voice was no more than a whisper.
Giving the stars one last glare, his head lowered. “Enough.”
&nbs
p; I didn’t want to ask about the particulars. I didn’t want to know which ones he feared most and which ones he feared least. I didn’t want to know if he’d had dreams or visions or premonitions because, for the first time since I’d learned of the curse twelve years ago, my hair stood up on end at the thought of it.
“You’re afraid I’m going to die too?” For whatever reason, that question was the least difficult to ask.
When he stayed quiet, I stepped closer and lowered my free hand to his waist. Our bodies were close, more joined than not, our faces tilted toward the other’s, breathing hurried, hearts thundering. If anyone were to pass us on the sidewalk, they’d assume we were lovers, and if I was reading correctly into what he was saying, then that mirage could become a reality. All he needed to do was admit the very same thing I needed to admit to him, and the rest would be history—whatever history we created. Our futures together were a blank page, free to be written on however we wanted. All he had to do was say it.
“I’m not just afraid you’re going to die.” Chance’s voice was removed, distant. I wasn’t used to hearing that tone from him. “I know you’re going to die, if—”
“If what?” I urged, knowing we were close.
Adrenaline dripped into my veins, anticipation making my muscles jumpy. Maybe what he was saying between the lines should have been obvious, and maybe it would have been to some other girl, but I needed him to spell it out for me. I needed to hear him say the words. I needed to know that what I felt was reciprocated before I put myself out there and admitted I’d fallen for the man who’d been my best friend and like my brother for years. Our relationship wasn’t simple—we weren’t a classic boy-meets-girl and boy-falls-in-love-with-girl story. We were so much more, and before I took that journey down judgment and hardship and challenging lane, I needed to know.
“If what, Chance?” I repeated, pulling him closer as he seemed to hold me at arm’s reach.
He blew out a loud rush of air. “If I admit what I feel for you.”
I’d seen Chance in pain. He’d broken more bones than I could remember and had been on a first-name basis with most of the E.R. staff at the hospital in Jackson Hole. He’d known pain like other people knew bored, but I’d never seen his face so contorted with it.
“What do you feel for me?” I asked gently, brushing my fingers down his cheek in an attempt to ease the pain holding him captive.
“If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t want to know the answer.” His voice was sharp, cutting.
I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me but at himself, but it was still difficult to hear and see Chance that way. I liked his light, happy version . . . but I liked Chance Armstrong more. The whole million-piece puzzle of him.
“Chance—”
He shook his head, winding out of my embrace. “I can’t tell you. I won’t say it. Doing so would be like signing your death certificate. I won’t do it. Please don’t ask me again.” He started to walk away, his shoulders lower than normal and his head pointed at the ground.
Watching Chance walk away from me when we’d been so close to admitting how we felt for each other made me want to crumble into a ball on that sidewalk and cry until I had no more tears left.
He didn’t go far before stopping and looking back. He was waiting for me. It might have been at the edge of another crosswalk and my heart might have been more broken than mended, but he was waiting for me. Taking a clearing breath, I walked down the sidewalk until I was beside him. He still seemed to be afraid to look at me, but I wasn’t afraid to look at him. What I was afraid of was losing him because he was afraid of losing me.
My life had gone from complicated to catastrophic all in the span of one non-vocalized confession.
I’D STARTED THE night hoping Chance wouldn’t think of tonight as a date . . . and I’d gotten my wish. After what had been said and implied, I’d changed my mind about the whole date thing, but Chance had not.
He’d gone from trying to ignore me outside to succeeding once we’d passed through the rusty metal doors of Wild Bill’s. The place hadn’t changed—it seemed frozen in time. From the hay scattered across the dance floor to the old jukebox in the corner that hadn’t worked as long as we’d been going there to the same chalkboard hanging over the bar offering the same drinks, stepping into that place was like traveling back in time. I even recognized a handful of the same employees.
The cover band was playing some old George Strait song, and more people were dancing than those who weren’t. Along with the music, the place was buzzing with the noise and energy of people laughing and hooting, cheering and clapping. I wanted to be out on the dance floor so badly I hadn’t realized the heel of my boot was tapping—for long enough that my heel was numb.
When I glanced across the round stand-up table at him, Chance was looking into the dancing crowd, seeing something else. Taking into consideration what he’d just confessed to me and the way his brows were pinched together, he was probably imagining my dead body at the scene of some intersection . . . or being pulled from the river . . . or after a grizzly attack . . . or after taking a spill over Hangman’s Ridge. The longer the silence between us went on, the more possibilities for how I could die in nature presented themselves. Dying outside seemed way better than dying tied up in some psychopath’s dank basement, but then I started considering things like quicksand and being stung to death. I came to the conclusion that no option was better than another when it came to premature death.
“This place hasn’t changed at all,” I said, hoping to pull Chance out of his head long enough to have a conversation or, God forbid, a dance with me. When his eyes stayed forward, his face pinched with the same troubled lines, I added under my breath, “Unlike some things . . .”
We’d been at that table for fifteen minutes, and all Chance had said was hello to the few people who’d said hey to him. He hadn’t even wandered up to the bar to order us a couple beers. His dark mood had set in and strangled everything else, including the gentleman, inside him.
The night might not have been going how I’d thought or hoped, but there was one thing I could control, and that was having a beer in my hand. I needed a beer. I was just about to start toward the bar when the statue of Chance Armstrong cracked. Just a bit, but it was enough for me to release the breath I’d been holding.
“I like that it hasn’t changed,” he said, his eyes actually taking in the room. “Everything changes—places . . . people . . . It’s nice to be reminded that change isn’t the requirement—forward momentum is.”
So not the opening words I’d expected after his prolonged silence. “Normally I’d blame that nugget of wisdom on the empty beer bottle in front of you, but since our table is empty of both empty and full drinks”—hint, hint—“I’m going to ask you to explain that one.”
From the corner of his eyes, Chance looked at me. Wow, words and sideways looks? We were making some serious progress.
“Everyone says change is inevitable, and maybe they’re right, but I disagree. I think it’s forward momentum that’s inevitable. Take me or this place for example.” He circled his hand to encompass the room. “Neither have changed, but we’ve moved forward. The guy at the door might actually check a person’s ID now, but inside, the place hasn’t changed at all. I might have gone from using a notepad to an iPad to manage the ranch, but nothing about how I run it has changed.”
“Well, I like that some things don’t change. It’s nice to be able to depend on something staying the same . . . or someone.”
With him looking in every direction but mine, I had an opportunity to study Chance. He was still very much the same, but he was showing me a layer of him I’d never known existed. My guess was that it had been buried deep beneath the surface and only burst through after I’d pushed him to admit things in roundabout ways.
I let out an exasperated sigh, realizing I was in foreign waters without a map or compass. Maybe it was my sigh or maybe the somber cloud around him was starting
to lift, but a few creases ironed out of Chance’s face. “Plus, if this place had changed and turned into one of those fancy western-themed lounges, where would all the middle-class tourists and locals go?”
Chance almost smiled at the dance floor, where a herd of people were shaking and moving in every way a human body could shake and move. A few were even moving in ways it didn’t seem like a human body could move. The whole wardrobe spectrum was represented as well. From western wear like Chance and I were in to Hawaiian print shirts and sandals to leather coats and bandanas tied around foreheads to football jerseys and baseball caps . . . This was a place where any and all walks of life were welcomed.
That was probably what I liked best about it and why I was so thankful it hadn’t changed. Well . . . and that Chance and I had created so many memories within those four thin walls. Looking across the table at him, I wondered if we’d form anymore.
“Since it doesn’t seem like you’re going to ask”—I peaked an eyebrow at him—“want me to go get a couple drinks?”
Chance looked at the table as though it hadn’t even registered that it was empty. “Sorry, Scout. So much for a night of getting away from it all.” Finally, Chance looked at me straight on. Some of the iron wall was crumbling. “What can I get you? The usual?”
I smiled. The usual was whatever Chance had come back with. Sometimes it was a Coke, sometimes a fancy beer, sometimes a shot of whatever bottle he’d pointed at. Agreeing to the usual with Chance was like playing Russian Roulette with my drink for the night, and it was one of my favorite games. I’d never known what I would get, yet somehow I always loved whatever Chance slid in front of me, even when it had just been a sparkling water with a wedge of lime.
“The usual,” I said.
The corner of his mouth pulled a bit. “It’s been a while, so I’m going to need a little direction. Beer or shot?” Then his brows pulled together. “Or . . . wine? If you drink that now . . .”