Immortal Mine

  When Niahm opens her mouth and sings the first note, I’m floored. Her voice is clear and true, as pure as any I’ve heard. And yet, she seems completely unaware of just how good she is. We spend a few weeks in intensive rehearsal, while performing double duty helping plan and construct the stage, with help from some of the parents. As soon as Shane signs on, the number of females volunteering increases. Makes me glad I get to play the part of the teen.

  As if in deference to the upcoming show, the teachers lighten the homework load. That means weeknights and weekends are spent with me at Niahm’s, helping her to complete the overwhelming number of chores she has assigned to herself.

  “Let’s take a break,” I tell her one Saturday as we finish raking and bagging enough leaves to compost an entire city—a real city, not a small one like Goshen.

  She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. It’s beyond her comprehension to “take a break”. I stretch my back, as if it’s sore, and watch the slight guilt flit across her face. Of course, my back doesn’t hurt in the slightest, and I’m completely aware that she feels some guilt for my help. She’s tried to convince me to stay away, but I keep showing up anyway.

  “Okay, if you want to,” she concedes, reluctantly. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s take a walk,” I say, nodding toward town. “Maybe grab an ice cream at Hornsby’s.”

  She shrugs, and I wait while she takes off her work boots, and replaces them with sneakers, putting a jacket on against the chill air. I realize I’ve never seen her wear cowboy boots, as many of the residents do.

  “So, tell me all about Goshen,” I say to distract her from thinking about her waiting chores, which I can see she’s doing by her puckered brows. As soon as I say the words her forehead smooth’s out and she smiles at me.

  “You might not believe this to look at it now, but Goshen was a pretty happening place at one time.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Back when the mines were open. Once they closed, people started farming, which still kept the town booming nicely.” I glance over at her, see the animation that lights her eyes as she speaks. “But then, the world changed. Farming changed. All the ranches got smaller.”

  She looks over as if gauging whether I’m listening or not. I am.

  “The largest ranch left is the Rocher place, which is about a hundred acres. The Stanton place—I mean, the Coleman place,” she corrects, glancing at me with an apologetic smile, “is the next largest at eighty. But it hasn’t been farmed in years. Do you think you and Shane will?”

  “Farm it?” I evade, doubting we will. We never knew when we might have to move again. At most, we could stay for a decade before suspicions arose. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it much.”

  “Well, if you do,” she continues, not noticing my hesitancy, “we mostly grow wheat, corn and potatoes around here. And sheep,” she adds. “So you might consider something different if you want to make any money.”

  She glances at me again, curiously, and I decide I can’t wait any longer to find out exactly what she’s thinking. I slip my hand into hers, feeling the surge of energy immediately, only with effort managing to keep the surprise from my face. I thought maybe the first time was a fluke, the strength of the transfer. Images wash through my head, and I force them back.

  “Is this okay?” I ask, seeing the pink climbing her cheeks.

  “Um, yeah,” she murmurs. I can feel the shyness that’s pinging through her mind, tinged with pleasure. I can also feel her desire to ask me about money—which would account for the look she gave me after her last comment—but overlying that, her refusal to ask what she considers an intrusive question.

  “And then,” she continues, trying to cover her feelings of awkwardness with her recital of facts, “when they put the interstate in ten years ago, any money the town received from travelers disappeared.” The interstate was twenty-five miles east of town, too far for travelers to go out of their way, I knew. “Main Street was actually a pretty cool place at one time—lots of little shops for the tourists. But I guess you’ve seen that those are mostly all boarded up now, covered with some graffiti. We still get some motorcycle riders during the summer, who are trying to avoid the interstate.”

  An interesting thing is happening. Niahm is reciting these facts, her voice full of the passion she has for her town, but her mind is occupied elsewhere... on our touching hands, particularly. I can see her warring thoughts about that. She’s pleased, happy to be holding hands, but also reticent, wondering what it means. I pull out of her mind with effort. It’s not fair for me to cheat by peeking, and I’m afraid I may answer her unspoken questions without thinking. The heat in my palm slowly recedes.

  We step onto the end of Main Street, which is mostly deserted. As we pass the library, a woman steps out, nearly bumping into us.

  “Oh, hey, Mrs. Thorne,” Niahm says, stopping. “Have you met Sam Coleman?”

  She turns to smile at me as the elderly woman peers over the top of her spectacles, as if I were a specimen to be studied. “You the new folks in town?” she asks in a whispery voice.

  “Yes, ma’am. My uncle and I purchased the Stanton place.” I’ve learned by now that’s the way to refer to the place we purchased, not by saying “the place on Herbert Road.”

  “Well, welcome,” she whispers, turning and reentering the library. I look at Niahm, and she just smiles and shrugs at the strange encounter.

  “That’s Mrs. Thorne, the librarian. I don’t know exactly how old she is, but I suspect she might’ve known Moses.” I laugh at her assessment. “She’s strict about keeping it quiet in there, but she’s a sweet old lady. And she knows everything. If there’s something she might not know right away, she can find it for you lickety-split. Sometimes, I think the woman is immortal,” she says, and if she notices the slight jerk in my frame at her words, the tensing of my muscles, the fight or flight instinct that kicks in before I push it back, she doesn’t say anything.

  We continue through town, as she tells me about some of the more prominent residents. Dan Smythe, who cuts hair in the same shop as his father did, for the slightly inflated rate of five bucks, as his father only charged two-fifty.

  “But I wouldn’t let him touch my hair,” she says. She glances up at my flaming mop. “I wouldn’t let him cut yours either, if I were you. Unless you prefer a short buzz or a bowl cut.”

  I don’t tell her that I am not in the habit of having anyone cut my hair other than myself or Shane. Too much risk of having someone question why I color my hair… though right now it is its natural color, which I haven’t worn since before Niahm was even born. I glance at her again, wondering what she would think if she knew that little piece of Sam-trivia.

  We arrive at the store… which, incidentally, seems to be purely a remaining tourist attraction. The real store is a few blocks away, larger and better stocked than this one. This store carries overpriced specialty items, drugstore items, and has an ice cream counter in the back. There is not a head of lettuce to be seen.

  Old Man Jones is parked in his rocking chair out front. He’s been there every time I’ve been down this road, and I wonder if he’s paid to sit out here, smoking his pipe, telling stories to anyone who will listen. Niahm stops to tell him hello, and introduces me.

  “Is he always there?” I ask, pointing toward the front of the store, as we sit at the counter.

  “Unless the weather’s bad,” she confirms. “He’s usually got a bunch of his old cronies with him. Guess they’re taking the day off.”

  Officer Hill enters as we place our orders, and I force myself to remain relaxed. He is the deputy of Goshen, under the jurisdiction of the state Sherriff. However, he’s the only officer that resides in and patrols the town—something Shane and I checked out before moving here. He also mans the jail, which, according to what we found, is usually empty.

  Several ATV’s loudly pass on the street outside. Those and horses seem to be the main
modes of transportation around here. Horses and ATV’s going down the road are a more common sight than cars. Niahm told me that if you’re raised here, you can ride a horse or an ATV with equal skill, and you will have been riding both since before you could even walk. Some people still even travel to participate in rodeos, though, she informed me, no one had won anything of importance in about a dozen years or so.

  Niahm is relaxed, sitting here in Hornsby’s, eating a banana split. Clearly she has left thoughts of her chores behind. I wonder if getting her to talk about her beloved town is the secret to relaxing her. And love this town, she does. Even if I couldn’t peek into her head and see it, I would hear it in her voice.

  I decide I had better learn to love it as much as she does. Because in some way, shape or form, I’m going to have to stick around, for as long as she is here. Unless she asks me to leave; then I’ll have to hide out. I curse the stupid bond that holds me to her, and the creativity that will be required to stay by her side.

  And stay by her side I will, whether I want to or not. I look at her, this stubborn, temperamental, hard-working, complicated, amazing-pie-baking girl, and realize that I’m very much starting to want to.

  Chapter 18

  Niahm

  The play is a success. Of course, it can’t really fail when the entire town either knows or is related to someone participating. The entire town closed up so that everyone could turn out to watch. That’s normal. Whether it’s a play, a wedding, funeral or graduation, Goshen closes so that everyone can support one another.

  I will never admit, even on threat of torture, that I really had fun doing it. Heather had written a kiss into the show, between mine and Sam’s characters, and I didn’t want my first kiss ever to be in front of all of my friends, in rehearsal. I was trying to figure out how to explain that without sounding like a complete idiot, when Sam told her we should skip the kiss, keeping it absolutely PG. Before she could protest, he had charmed her into thinking his way, and she insisted we keep the kiss out. It was weird, as if he could tell how uncomfortable I was with it.

  Part of me also wondered why he wanted to keep it out. I kinda thought he liked me, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe the thought of kissing me repulses him. I probably would have kept thinking that if he hadn’t been spending so much time with me, holding my hand often, to the point where I now miss it when we’re together and he doesn’t take my hand.

  Now that we’ve closed the final curtain on the play, we head to Blake Barton’s house—along with most of the town. Blake’s parents have opened up one of their already harvested, but not yet replanted fields to the after party. Everyone brings food, and John Matthews has set up his large speakers, which are blaring music from his attached iPod.

  I set one of the two plates of cookies I made onto the table with all the rest of the food, and turn away.

  “Not sharing today?”

  I turn to see my copper-headed costar grinning at me. I hold the plate out toward him.

  “I made these for you,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?” He walks closer. He takes the plate, pulling one cookie off and placing it in his mouth. “Mmmm, these are fantastic,” he mutters around his mouthful of cookie. “Bet they make great grenades, too.”

  My eyes narrow at him, but he’s laughing.

  “Just kidding!” he protests, popping another cookie into his mouth.

  I give in to his humor and smile. “To be honest, they are kind of an apology.”

  He looks at me, perplexed. “For?”

  “Well, partly for, you know, throwing all of those other cookies at you before. I mean, those were really good cookies, and I wasted them.”

  “That was a while ago, Niahm. I’m hardly holding a grudge.” While we’ve been talking, he has guided me away from the table, to a more quiet area. “You said ‘partly’. What else could you have to be sorry for?”

  “For taking up all of your time. You spend so much time helping me, you haven’t had time to… well, to do your own things… whatever they are.”

  His brows come together in consternation, though his smile doesn’t leave his face.

  “Your brain works in the strangest way,” he says.

  “Why?” I can’t help it, I’m a little offended.

  “Because,” he steps closer after setting the plate of cookies down on a nearby chair, “you seem to forget that you didn’t ask it of me. I’m there because I want to be there.”

  “Oh.” Another brilliant response from the strange-brained girl. Then, before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Why?”

  He takes another step closer, pulling one of my hands into his, bringing his other up to brush his thumb lightly along my jaw. I feel that strange heat flare up between our touching hands. He leans down a little closer to me, and I immediately panic, wondering if he’s going to kiss me. I want him to… I think. No, I don’t, not here. Not now. Okay, maybe now will be fine. A small smile appears on his face, in contrast with the intensity of the moment.

  “Because I like you,” he says quietly. “I like being around you.”

  His words vaguely register over the anxiety. I try to remember what I’ve eaten today, whether my breath is bad or not. I know I brushed my teeth…I’m pretty sure, anyway. How should I hold my mouth, should I turn my head? Oh, man, I definitely should have asked my mom about this. Then the thought of actually asking her about kissing fills me with mortification. No, not her. Stacy, then.

  Sam suddenly chuckles, and I freeze. Does he know my thoughts? I don’t think I spoke aloud. Did I? No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I open my mouth to ask him what’s so funny, and instead hear myself say, “Are you going to kiss me?” in a tone both curious and demanding.

  Humiliation floods me from the top of my head to the minutest end of my toes. I try to pull back, but Sam holds me firmly, not letting me hide in shame.

  “I am,” he says, and my heart stops. “Soon,” he qualifies.

  My mouth drops open slightly at his words, and he laughs again.

  “Wanna dance?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. Good thing, since I don’t think I could form a coherent sentence if I tried. He leads me out to where others are dancing, pulling me into his arms. He’s a very good dancer, though I shouldn’t be surprised. What does surprise me is that he holds me at a distance even my dad would find respectable, keeping one of my hands in his, tucked up to his chest. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine, his shining with humor from a joke only he understands. I wonder if I’m the joke. The smile drops from his face and he leans down, putting his mouth near my ear so that I can hear him over the music.

  “I really do like you, Niahm. Don’t doubt that for one second.”

  I look at him, stunned. Can he read my mind? He grimaces, and closes his eyes briefly, as one does when they are trying to control their temper, or something. Is he angry at me? He smiles down at me, and I can’t read any anger on his face.

  I feel the strange, intense heat between our hands begin to fade, and I’m relieved. I’m not sure why it keeps happening, that weird heat, but I definitely don’t want him to think I have sweaty hands. He might not want to hold hands with me anymore if he did.

  I glance over his shoulder to see Stacy watching us, a knowing smirk on her face. I can live with that, but I also see the Double-H right next to her, both glaring daggers my way.

  Chapter 19

  Sam

  I walk in the door, and see Shane sitting at the table. It’s an unusual thing to come in and see him like this so often. Shane, for the most part, is a doer. He’s always got to be on the move, active, doing something. Maybe he’s more tired of running than I’d thought.

  “Hey,” I acknowledge, jerking a chin at him as I head to the fridge, pulling it open and grabbing the juice bottle.

  “Use a glass,” he says mildly, without looking up from his Sudoku. I let out a sigh. There’s definitely something on his mind—he gets very parental when there is. I fill a glass, sit down across from him and wait.
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  He’s silent for so long, I finally say, “Out with it.”

  He glances up at me, tapping his lip with the pen, as if debating whether or not to share. My eyes drop—briefly—to his hand lying on the table, and he finally speaks.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  I grin. Yeah, I knew there was no way he’d let me in that way. He knows all too well what I can do.

  “All right,” he lays the pencil down and turns his full attention on me. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

  “You think?” I shoot back sarcastically. “Many people would consider 465 nothing but a baby.”

  Shane rolls his eyes, though there is some truth to that. Shane is fifty years older, and we don’t even come close to being as old as many of the immortals that we know of.

  “But,” he interjects, “you may be too close to see this.” He sighs, and picks up the pencil again, rolling it between his fingers. “I’ve been watching you with her, with Niahm. You’re letting yourself get too close.”

  I want to argue with him, tell him he’s wrong… but Shane has his own gifts, and trying to fool him is an exercise in futility.

  “You know the consequences of allowing yourself to fall in—”

  “I know,” I interrupt him, slamming the glass down on the counter a little harder than necessary. The glass shatters, and thin trails of blood seep from my hand. We both ignore the blood, though Shane raises a brow at my reaction. “I know,” I say, calmer. “I’ve thought of that. Trust me; it has never left my mind. But there’s something different about her…”

  Shane’s gaze remains steady. I think of the only other time I truly loved a woman. I know the consequences only too well.

  “I wasn’t expecting to like her, really,” I tell him. “I mean, she was pretty unpleasant. But, come on, Shane, you know how hard it is to remain distant from someone you find yourself bound to.”