Author's Note: A big thanks goes out to my wonderful beta reader, Skyrose.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter Sixteen
Lt. Jacob Hamilton had never been a fan of the US Army Criminal Investigation Command. Granted, he was mindful to not reveal too much of his disdain in the company of his fellow soldiers, and he certainly never uttered a word to his commanding officers. Maybe it was because those guys that came out of Fort Belvoir seemed too smug, and Hamilton had never cared for arrogant people. Maybe it was because their jobs had always seemed so easy, so comparatively sanitary compared to what he and his brothers-in-arms were called upon to do. But what he wouldn't have done for one of those smug bastards now. There would be no one else coming to help investigate Barrett Buchs's death. Fort Belvoir was likely a dead zone. As the crow flies, it was less than twenty miles from D.C.
Hamilton tried to remember his training, but it was difficult to concentrate. This was his friend's murderer they were seeking. It felt like a needle in an unfamiliar, unpleasant haystack as he and other soldiers made their way around New Bern.
The area near the railroad tracks where Buchs's burned body had been dumped seemed to provide little in the way of clues. Perhaps what was more startling was what was lacking as opposed to what was present, namely the lack of a uniform. Even with the intense heat, there should have been some wool fibers left from the uniform. That was the whole purpose behind using wool rather than synthetic materials; wool was far more resistant to flames.
Immediately, the crime scene was corded off, and those believed to be part of the New Bern resistance were being rounded up and questioned. Yet he still couldn't wrap his mind around the who and the why. Who would benefit from Barrett Buchs's death? He could think of a few of Barrett's ex-girlfriends who were still resentful, but who knew if they were even still alive after everything that had happened. If they were alive, what were the chances that they would have been able to track him down in Kansas, of all places, with things as they were?
Hamilton had heard more and more rumblings of a resistance movement growing within New Bern. There were plenty of citizens who didn't like the occupation, but why would they go after Buchs of all people? Surely there would have to be strategic value in it. Terror, perhaps? Or an attempt at it? But the resistance group had not claimed responsibility, and wasn't that usually the point of terrorism? All Hamilton could feel was sadness for his friend and good old-fashioned anger.
No, it had to have something to do with his mission. Buchs was part of the detail that oversaw Project Home Sequester. They'd joked at how easy the job detail was, just a babysitting job watching over Phil Constantino. But by all accounts, Constantino still wielded influence over the town. Who's to say he didn't arrange it? But why?
Hamilton knelt next to the cordoned off area. It was unremarkable. Moist, he noticed. Dark soiled. Some foliage, but not heavily wooded. Whoever did this wasn't trying to be particularly discreet.
"Not much to go on, is there?" Dominguez commented.
"No," Hamilton hated to admit.
"Think The Devil can shed some light on this?"
'The Devil' was the nickname they had given Phil Constantino. Oh, it never officially made it into the reports. Something about the man's pointed goatee and easy demeanor made it seem appropriate. "Could be. I'll have to get clearance to speak with him." Hamilton was quiet a moment before asking, "So what do you make of this?"
Dominguez paused, thought a moment, and said, "Wish I knew."
"It's obvious his body was brought here, but he wasn't…torched…here. Everything's too green. But that uniform, there should still be somethin' left of it. I think whoever did this to him took it off of him before burnin' his body."
"But why go to the trouble?"
Hamilton looked up to the sky. The bright sunshine was warming the day with each passing moment, but he still felt cold inside. "If we knew that, I think we'd have our killer."
"Damn it, Dhuwalia! That hurts!" Despite being in the back room of Gracie Leigh's, the man's bellowing could be heard all the way on Main Street.
"Well," began the doctor, his tone sickeningly patient as he pulled together the skin on Markus Ware's hand with one last stitch, "you're the one with the bad aim. Keep still and I may be able to keep the scar to a minimum."
Ware, whose nose had been broken more times than Mickey Rourke's, scoffed. "What do I care about a little scar? I just want you to stop torturing me!"
Kenchy fought the urge to roll his eyes. "That's your misfortune to have attacked the J&R man in the here and now rather than nine months ago when I could have used a numbing agent."
"Nine months ago, I had no reason to," Ware muttered. The morning had started off fairly ordinarily. Aside from the red-haired woman, they'd known everyone who had come into Gracie Leigh's. Business was good, as those who did not want to rely on the Buffalo credits found themselves relying on his boss more and more. Today was no exception.
And then that namby-pamby J&R guy showed up. Little bastard. Turns out he was faster than he looked. What was his name? Chet something-or-other. And while his boss didn't like this Chet guy any better than he did, he didn't figure Dale Turner would be too pleased with the damage he'd caused when he tried to throw him out and he'd said as much. But more than the damage was the fact that Dale was walking a tight rope with these J&R folks.
"There. Good as new. Keep the wound clean. Pour alcohol on it twice a day. And for God's sake, start using words rather than your fist to express your opinion."
Ware said nothing and merely walked away.
Kenchy placed the unused bandages in his bag, complaining aloud to no one in particular. "That's the thanks I get. I could be indulging in Mary's finest toxins right now. Instead I'm making house calls for reprobates. What is wrong with this picture?"
"He gonna be all right?" Jake Green asked entering the partition.
"Ah, Jake, if you'd only gotten here sooner, you could have participated in the fight yourself," Kenchy replied wryly. "This is not what I signed up for."
"I heard there wasn't much of a fight," Jake commented. "So how much of it did you see?"
"I wasn't even here for it. Just the aftermath. Neanderthals."
"Tensions are running pretty high," Jake replied conversationally as the two walked to the storefront. Broken glass from the display case littered the aisle, and a crowd stood outside on the sidewalk peering in.
"Seems to be catching," Kenchy commented.
"Listen, Jake, do you have what you need here?" Dale asked, shifting from one foot to the other, a frown etched on his young face.
"Yeah, you can start cleanup."
Dale looked to two of his workers, gave them a curt nod, and they began to sweep the broken glass. Turning his attention back to Jake, he said, "You know, this wouldn't have happened if J&R would just steer clear instead of trying to run everything."
Jake breathed in deeply, considering his words. He certainly couldn't refute the younger man's assertion. "Dale, you may not like Jennings & Rall, but your men can't handle it this way. The government's backing them up."
"I heard some men talking over at Bailey's," Kenchy interjected. "They said the ASA is considering making it a felony to impede the work of J&R. Attempted assault would surely fall under that category."
"Is that even constitutional?" Dale asked.
"What Constitution?" Jake muttered.
"Then tell me what to do. They're trying to run me out of business."
Jake looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. Satisfied that it was just the three of him, he responded. "Look, off the record, no one's gonna run you out of business. There are ways around everything."
"But this was the second one today. And they were here last week. And the week before that…" Dale's voice trailed off, and he ran his hand through his curly hair. He'd worked too hard to give it all up.
"The second one?" Jake asked. For as efficient as he'd heard J&R was, this didn't fit the bill.
"Yeah."
"So you had two people from J&R here today trying to make you come aboard with this Buffalo Credit system?"
Dale thought for a moment. "No. First one was looking for Heather Lisinski, but they were both pushy and annoying."
"For Heather?" Jake asked frowning. A strange feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. There was no definitive reason for it, but it was there nonetheless.
"I believe I met her," Kenchy added looking to Dale. "Curly red hair? Beautiful ivory skin?"
Dale fought not to roll his eyes. "If you say so. Anyway, I didn't tell her anything. Something's gotta give, Jake, or we're going to have more incidents like today, and I can't guarantee the safety of those who try to shut me down."
"And as sheriff, I have to remind you that I'm duty-bound to uphold the laws."
"Then let's hope this is the worst of it," Dale replied, meeting Jake's stern gaze.
"I've got to head over to the J&R building, take Chet Rawley's statement. Remember what I said. Keep a rein on your men. Don't let them do anything stupid." Jake turned to Kenchy. "Walk with me."
As soon as they stepped outside, Kenchy commented wryly, "That went well."
But Jake had a singular purpose in mind for asking the doctor to accompany him, and small talk wasn't it. "This woman who was asking about Heather, what did she say?"
Kenchy's brows shot up. "Just that she was a college friend of Heather's. Her name is Wilma."
"Did you tell her how to find Heather?"
"Not exactly, but Emily was with me, and she mentioned that Heather was staying with you and Gail."
"Damn it. Why would she do that?"
"I'm sure there's no reason to be alarmed. Wilma looked harmless enough. Better than harmless actually. She's exquisite."
"Did she say anything else about Heather?"
"No, just that she was looking forward to seeing her again." Kenchy, noting the grim frown on Jake's face, asked, "Is Heather in trouble?"
Jake wished he had an answer. From watching her jump at her own shadow, the nightmares he knew she had, the secrecy with which she treated the events at New Bern, who could say? All he did know is that his gut told him it was too coincidental. "Don't know."
"Emily told me the two of you parted ways," Kenchy commented.
"I'm sure she did," Jake replied with clenched teeth. So little time had passed since their breakup, and when he'd left Emily, he'd felt a great sense of relief. Now, after learning from Kenchy that she was leading this stranger that they knew nothing about to Heather, that relief had been replaced with seething anger. He'd thought breaking up with Emily would cut those ties, that she wouldn't be able to have that effect on him anymore. He'd been wrong.
"Emily's a complicated woman," Kenchy began.
"That's putting it mildly."
"You mustn't think too harshly of her. It won't be good for…for anyone."
"Easier said than done," Jake replied as the two reached the Jennings & Rall building. Eager to leave behind the conversation about Emily and ready to attend to the matter at hand, Jake asked, "So you already checked over Rawley before I arrived on the scene?"
"He's suffering from a terrible case of bruised ego."
"That's what I thought and why I sent Eric back over here with him. Thought he might be able to calm him down, diffuse the situation."
Kenchy cleared his throat. "Have fun with that. I'm going to see if I can make it to Bailey's without getting pulled into the middle of another crisis. I have a date with my favorite barstool."
"It's nowhere near 10:00 yet."
"Oh, but I've earned this one," Kenchy replied waving his hand dismissively.
As Heather sank the shovel into the ground, she grunted slightly. This was hard work, but she was satisfied by her progress. She'd always enjoyed working outside doing little projects with her mom when she was younger. When she was a very young child, one of her greatest thrills was taking the water can and watering the flower bed in front of the small church building where her father preached. She remembered how pretty the blue flowers had been, though exactly what type of flowers they were remained a haze in her mind. Invariably, her thoughts would turn to flights of fancy, as only a child's mind could. She would picture a wreath made of those blue flowers around the neck of a unicorn that would come galloping down the church steps and take her on a faraway adventure to save the kingdom from the evils of ventriloquist dummies come to life. She would feel her mother's hands caress her face, bringing her back to their chores, though Rose Lisinski was never upset with her daughter for dreaming. "Keep dreaming, Heather. Keep dreaming. You never know what will happen."
Heather shook her head, amazed at where her memory had taken her and somewhat pleased that she remembered—albeit briefly—how soft and cool her mother's hands had always felt against her face, how gentle, how delicate she was. Her mother had loved gardening, but as Heather grew older, she had found herself gravitating toward the garage and the giant puzzles those automobiles offered.
Heather rubbed her own hands together. They weren't soft like her mother's.
And now they were decidedly filthy.
She sank the shovel into the ground again, then pushed parallel to the ground, taking the top layer of weedy grass with it. Yes, this was hard work, but she liked it. She liked being busy. She liked being useful. She needed to be useful.
She had joked around with Jake about her job prospects, but the fact of the matter was that she couldn't expect to live off the generosity of the Greens forever. Something had to change. Though she had spoken very tongue-in-cheek about the 'teddy bear', Michael Flaherty, she wondered if there wasn't something she could do to help with the reconstruction efforts. If they were short on supplies, couldn't they improvise a few things? Use the resources they had and make some of what they needed?
She sighed. They couldn't exactly make more trees. That was a problem when it came to lumber. Still, there had to be a way to get some other things.
Or maybe if they could call in some favors…
Her thoughts turned to Hamilton. He wasn't likely to be able to help them to procure supplies. His sphere of influence didn't extend far enough. Perhaps Major Beck? He had seemed so business-like, so detached when she'd spoken to him of what happened in New Bern, but then she would see glimmers of—she wasn't sure what—compassion? She wanted to believe the man the military sent to Jericho was a good man, but the same nagging concerns about the government that plagued her where Hamilton was concerned also bothered Heather where Major Beck was concerned. The big difference being that Beck was far higher in the chain of command, likely privy to more information. Why would he turn his back on the United States government, the government to whom he, as a soldier, swore an oath of allegiance?
Too many questions, not enough answers. That was the problem these days.
And then there was the personal matter of Hamilton. She hoped that he was okay, that he was getting answers about his friend's death. They would need to talk—sooner rather than later. If there had never been a Jake Green, she would have found it so easy to be drawn in by him, to want to be close to him. It would have been so easy to let herself fall for him—his charm, his friendliness, his kindness—they weren't put on. He was smart. He was funny. In the short time she'd known him, he'd been a good friend to her. But there was a Jake, and though their situation was complicated, Heather felt a connection to him that she couldn't quite explain. It went beyond physical attraction, beyond hero worship. Jake was just…special. Hamilton needed to hear from her rather than someone else that she wanted to make a go of a relationship with Jake, but how she dreaded that conversation!
And then there was Jake himself. What an amazing early morning they'd had! This…this…elation…just ran all through her, almost as if it was a tangible force that she could lift high and admire. It made no sense, truly. It just was. It had begun with waking in the same room with him. It continued with breakfast. When she had returned downstairs, dressed for the day with her hair under control and a minty fresh mouth, she had ventured into the kitchen and saw Jake standing over the stove top tending to the contents of the skillet.
"Smells good in here," she had said enthusiastically as her stomach grumbled softly in reaction to the aroma filling the room.
He looked over his shoulder. "We're having ham omelets."
"Oh, Green eggs and ham!" she chirped. Jake groaned, which only drew laughter from her, more so at his reaction than at her own bad pun. "Sorry. That was really cheesy, but you have to admit that it was too good to pass up."
"I've heard so many 'green' jokes in my time."
"Gee, Jake, you're looking a little Green."
"Haha," he replied wryly.
"Something I can do to help?" she offered. "Other than entertain you with my witticisms?"
"You could slice some bread for us," Jake suggested. "It's from Mrs. Cavanaugh."
Heather was very familiar with Elaine Cavanaugh; she'd had her daughter Melody in class her first year of teaching at the elementary school. Mrs. Cavanaugh used to ply Heather with the most sumptuous holiday-themed bread on most every special occasion. Heather gained ten pounds her first year of teaching—and she attributed the weight gain solely to the glories of carbohydrates. Granted, she'd since lost the weight and then some, Heather could not help but look forward to the bread—a little taste from the past, she hoped—and Jake's omelet.
Heather spotted the loaf of bread immediately and set it on the cutting board. As she proceeded to cut slices, she found herself smiling. She felt Jake glancing over at him and peered from the corners of her eyes.
"What has you grinning over there?"
"This is just so…so…normal."
"I'm just a normal guy, Heather."
Heather wasn't sure she concurred with his self-assessment, but she didn't argue the point. "You do laundry and you cook breakfast."
Jake chuckled. "Maybe I should let you find out on your own."
"Find out what?"
"Breakfast is about the only thing I cook. Breaking a few eggs doesn't take much patience or skill."
"Still, this is so nice. I just haven't had normalcy in a long time, you know?"
"Neither have I," he admitted. "And yeah, this is nice."
"I guess no one's had normalcy," she conceded. "Or else we're learning a new form of normal."
Jake took an egg turner and removed the omelet from the skillet onto a plate. Switching off the stove top, he turned to her. "What's it like out there now that the military's moved into the area?"
"Still eerie. Coming back, we drove through towns that were abandoned. The water table was compromised." She fell silent for a moment before continuing. "It was strange to see the laundry that had been left hanging on clotheslines, the toys left out. Other places looked like a warzone. Burned out buildings and vehicles. Scorched earth. And then there were other places that looked pristine, just beautiful fields perfectly untouched by all the craziness." She set down the bread knife and turned to Jake. "I think that had to have been the longest two hundred miles ever. And you know Kansas. It can seem pretty long."
"Traveling with the military," Jake shook his head. "How'd you ever pull that off?"
She sidestepped his question, not eager to get into the specifics of her time away. Not yet. "I can be persuasive when I have to be. You'll learn this about me."
"I'm looking forward to it."
And there was something about the way he said it that made her feel warm all over. Did he know how he affected her?
They gathered plates, glasses, and the food, and settled down to eat in the breakfast nook, but almost as soon as Jake sat, he was up again to get a pitcher of water. Heather's eyes followed him, noticing how his t-shirt fit across his broad shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, the piece of paper that protruded from the back pocket of his jeans…
"What's that?" she asked.
"What's what?"
"You've got something sticking out of the back pocket of your jeans."
"You checking out my ass?" he asked pulling out the piece of paper after he set the pitcher on the table.
Heather picked at a slice of the bread and replied as nonchalantly as she could muster, "I don't think I'm going to answer that."
Jake slid into the chair next to her. "Pleading the fifth?"
"Mmmm. Sheriff Green, you're taking your new responsibilities very seriously!"
He chuckled a bit before replying, "Not seriously enough for some."
His irritation as he recounted the conversation with Gray about the dress code for sheriff's department employees nearly had her in hysterics as Jake said in his best Gray tone, "'Look it over, and let's get in compliance'" and handed her the regulations.
"It says here that 'the department uniform shall be worn at all times when an officer is on duty.' You've worn a uniform before, though. Right? I mean, you have those dog tags. You were in Afghanistan. Iraq."
"And I told myself never again. No more uniforms. Didn't like the last one I wore. "
Truth be told, Heather wasn't particularly fond of them these days, either. She'd seen too much abuse of power from those in New Bern who wore uniforms, those who were supposed to serve and protect. Yet listening to Jake, she found herself wanting to ask more, feeling that there was more than met the eye, but the set of his jaw told her that was all he would reveal for now. Trying to break the tension a bit, she added as she glanced down at the paper, "Oh, and 'Hair shall not touch the collar.' Uh oh. Shall not. That's some strong wording."
Jake frowned. "Your omelet's getting cold."
Heather took a bite to placate him. "Mmm. This is really good." She lowered her lashes for a moment before looking at him, affecting a look of wide-eyed innocence. "I seem to remember a certain fellow--we'll just call him Make Dreen--who mentioned to me not even two days ago that he might be calling on my special haircutting skills. And now, nothing."
"That was before Gray wanted me to get a haircut. Now I'm thinking dreadlocks. Or cornrows." Jake's eyebrows shot up. "Think you could braid those?"
"Uh, no," Heather replied with a near snort. "I've still not gotten over the image of Jared Leto in Panic Room. I couldn't in good conscience do that to you."
Jake took a bite of his omelet.
Heather tilted her head slightly, watching him. "Would it be so terrible to do what Gray wants?"
"Let him think he's working me over?"
"Sure. I mean, it's a battle of wills, right? You were going to get a haircut anyway. What's wrong with letting him think it was his idea?" From the look on Jake's face, she could tell he was not on board with what she was saying. She switched gears. "Okay, I had this student who was very resistant to pretty much everything. If I asked him to use red construction paper, he'd use blue. If I said the sky was blue, he'd want to argue about that, too. So the trick was to make him think that everything was his idea. You just have to steer him…"
Jake set down his fork and looked at her sideways. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"You're steering me."
"Would I do that to you?"
"You did say you were persuasive."
She raised her right hand. "I, Heather Lisinski, do solemnly vow not to use my powers of persuasion against you---when it's not in your best interest." She lowered her hand, laughing lightly. "Jake, Gray is like that student. He's resistant, but if you do little things to make him think you're on board with him, he can be steered. He's just got this…"
"Ego?"
"Yeah. Folks with egos—they've got to be stroked ever so often. It's annoying and tedious, but they can be handled." Her gaze lowered before she lifted her chin to meet his eyes. "I think you already know this."
"Just hard to swallow."
"Unlike this omelet, which is really good," Heather murmured. She savored the flavor of the smoky ham—the first ham she'd had in months—as she took another bite. "But that's what you're doing with Beck, isn't it? Keeping an eye on him by working for him?"
"The difference is Beck knows what I'm doing. Gray—" Jake shook his head in disgust. "He'll just think he's won."
"What does it matter?"
Jake opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, shook his head slightly, and threw a lop-sided smile at her.
"What?" she asked.
"You're dangerous."
"Come again?"
"You're not going to let me slide by, are you?"
"Jake, in all the time I've known you, I've never seen you just slide by. I don't know the person you used to be—or the person you think you used to be—but when it comes down to it, I've not seen anyone do more for this town than you."
"I'm no hero."
"Wanna bet," she paused meaningfully before throwing out the nickname she'd heard some of the other townspeople use, "Super Jake?"
"There's so much more to you than anyone sees, and I'm just reminded of that. You know what makes people tick."
Heather's thoughts turned to Emily and her own naiveté where her friend was concerned. "Not always. I can be selectively blind at times."
"That little boy—well, he was lucky to have you as a teacher. You could give him what he needed because you understood how to motivate him."
"Kids are one matter. Grownups—that's a different beast altogether. Besides, you make me sound like a saint. I'm not a saint."
"I sure hope not."
Jake's words hung in the air, and Heather felt herself blushing furiously. "You are awful!" she laughed.
"But you love it."
"Yeah," she nodded her head. "I do."
Heather still felt like she was on a natural high from breakfast, even hours later. They'd been planning on going out to the ranch together to feed the horses, but Eric had shown up needing Jake. And just like that, he had to go—though not before Eric commented on the fact that Jake was still wearing yesterday's clothes. Jake had looked back at Heather and told her he was sorry about their trip to the ranch. She had waved her hand dismissingly. "It's fine." And it was. Everything was more than fine.
"Heather! Earth to Heather!"
Heather snapped out of her reverie and spun around to see Stanley Richmond standing nearby, arms outstretched.
"Didn't you hear me calling your name?" he asked with a grin. "Must've been some daydream!"
Heather let her shovel drop and rushed into his open arms. "Oh my goodness! It's great to see you!"
"So I don't come to town for a few days, and I miss out on everything! I'm mad at you, you know." His playful tone contradicted his words.
"What did I do?"
"First you make us all believe you're dead. Then you come back to life, and you don't even stop by to visit. I had to hear about it from Bonnie, and she totally rubbed it in."
"Well, next time I die and come back to life, I'll be sure to stop by right away," Heather replied with a laugh. "Gosh, it really is good to see you. You look so…so…"
"Handsome? Debonair in plaid? Strong?"
"Happy."
"Yeah, old friends coming back to life do that to me," Stanley replied with a shrug.
"Nah. It's more than that. Tell me about her."
"What makes you think it's a woman? I could've merely fixed my tractor by myself or avoided getting blown up by gas cans under pressure…"
"Stop bullshitting me," Heather scolded, "and spill."
"When did you get a potty mouth?"
"And when did you get so evasive?"
"You know Mimi, the IRS auditor," Stanley began, "she's the most infuriating, complicated, ballsy woman I've ever met."
"Don't forget beautiful," Heather added with a smile. It was good to see her old friend beaming as he talked of the woman he loved.
"She's especially beautiful now that she's not so high-maintenance. She's smart. Sometimes I'm not sure whether I should kiss her or, you know, thumb wrestle her. She's…"
"Perfect for you," Heather finished.
"Yeah. Perfect for me. Funny how things work out, isn't it?"
"Sounds as though you've been doing well." Heather smiled.
"I have been. It's been a hell of a month around here." He looked down at the ground for a moment before lifting his gaze back to her face. "Have felt kind of guilty for feeling so happy. So many folks have lost so much. You included."
Heather chewed the inside of her mouth as she thought of her small apartment filled with treasures valuable to no one else but her. "I'm okay. And Stanley, you really do deserve happiness."
"Bonnie said you were staying here. You know we've got an extra room at the farm if you ever get tired of Gail's home cooking or Jake's…well, being Jake."
Heather tilted her head. "Now who's digging for information?"
"Can't blame me for trying," Stanley replied.
"Jake and I are getting along fine. He's been a good friend to me."
"Good, because thirty year friendship or no, if he steps out of line, I'll kick his ass for you. Just say the word."
"I'll remember you said that."
"So I'm not the only one from the Richmond farm who'll be happy to see you. Daisy, too."
Heather laughed lightly at that.
Daisy was Stanley's old John Deere tractor. Its original green and yellow paint was long gone; Bonnie had given it a new paint job a few years back with marks resembling that of a cow. Stanley had gone through the roof when he saw it, told Bonnie he was going to repaint it, but never got around to it. Heather's friendship with Stanley was formed over that hideous tractor.
For years, the Richmonds had gone to Jessup's Engine Repair for servicing. More accurately, Mr. Jessup would come out to the farm if one of the tractors or another machine needed repairs. Upon his retirement, though, Mr. Jessup headed for Florida, and his son didn't have his finesse for repairs. Or as Stanley's dad would've said had he still been living, the son didn't know whether to scratch his watch or wind his behind. Whatever the case, Stanley found himself needing to have the repairs repaired.
Then one day Bonnie came home and told Stanley how this new teacher at school got Mrs. McVeigh's car running when it wouldn't start. Stanley wanted to meet him. Then Bonnie told her brother that the teacher was a her, not a him. Then Stanley really wanted to meet her. Any woman who could fix a car was well worth the effort…and maybe she'd know how to repair a tractor.
Bonnie introduced them one day when Stanley came to pick her up from school. It was an awkward meeting, Stanley recalled, with Bonnie seeming fine one minute and moody the next. Finally, when Bonnie stormed off, Stanley muttered his apologies and took off after her. Bonnie never would say what had been wrong, and Stanley figured it was a sign.
He wasn't even going to ask Heather for help, but that evening she showed up at the farm with a pink paper bag and asked to see Bonnie.
"What's in the bag?" he had asked her.
"Bonnie's not a little girl anymore. I brought a few female things I thought she might need."
"Huh?"
Stanley unfolded the top and looked in, met with assorted boxes of tampons and sanitary napkins. Just as quickly, he closed it up again. "Ah gee."
"So much for euphemisms," Heather quipped as Stanley's face turned as pink as the bag of feminine hygiene products he held.
"I don't know what you just called me, but you just gave me a bag full of maxipads and other…stuff."
Heather furrowed her brows. "Huh? I didn't call you anything. And I did tell you that bag was for your sister."
Stanley pushed the bag back into Heather's hands before crossing his arms. "She's too young for this stuff. And did you just scold me?"
"You weren't listening. And she's not too young for this."
Neither of them heard Bonnie enter the living room. "Ms. Lisinski." Her voice broke through the miscommunication the two adults were having. "What are you doing here?"
Heather looked to Stanley to get the go-ahead. He nodded slightly, though he looked positively pained at the prospect that his little sister was growing up. "I brought a few things over I thought you could use," Heather replied. She made sure to look directly at Bonnie as she spoke; the girl did an exceptional job of reading lips. Heather passed the bag to Bonnie.
Bonnie peered inside, a look of relief washing over her features. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Heather simultaneously signed and spoke. "Well, I should be going. Lots of papers to grade tonight."
"There's a solution to that, you know," Stanley interjected.
"What's that?"
"Stop giving assignments," he concluded.
Heather moaned. "Dare to dream."
"I'll walk you out," Stanley offered.
"Thanks," Heather replied.
When the two exited the farm house, Stanley commented on her truck, namely that his grandfather had one like it back in the day. Heather commented on his spotted tractor, that she saw a cow like it once, and a friendship was formed. Heather had no experience with tractor repair, but an engine was an engine, and she learned along the way. In return, Stanley helped her with odd jobs around her apartment or in her classroom.
Some people thought they were more than friends. Emily included. Heather remembered how Emily used to try to push Stanley and her together, but a night at Bailey's with too much alcohol and too much karaoke finally cemented in Emily's mind that Heather and Stanley would never be more than good friends. That night also firmly cemented in Heather's mind that she would never look at the song "Feel Like Making Love" in the same way again.
"So Daisy misses me?" Heather asked.
"No one can keep her running quite like you."
"Now we get to the heart of the matter," Heather teased. "You're glad I'm alive so I can fix your tractor."
Stanley held up his hands in mock surrender. "You caught me. You found me out. I want you to be alive solely for the purpose of keeping up my farm equipment."
"Well, so long as I'm useful…"
From the street, Nora Travers watched Heather Lisinski get into a truck with a man wearing plaid. So close but so far away.
'You're lucky this time,' she thought to herself, 'but sooner or later, your luck has to run out.'
to be continued...