Wild Hearts Page 2

  Passing the empty counter, I avoided the wooden case of candy, chips, and various junk foods. Gobstoppers sounded good, but I’d probably already consumed half my weight in candy on this trip. I peered around for Logan, but I was the only one in the store.

  Instead of a normal display refrigerator, I found a line of blue and red plastic coolers against the back wall with papers on them that said “diet,” “regular,” and “water.” At the far corner of the store, a large refrigerator took up most of the wall space. Inside the refrigerator were Styrofoam cups with plastic lids. In squiggly handwriting, the cups were labeled. “Crickets, worms, live bait,” I read aloud. “Whoa.” Not your typical gas station snacks.

  Closing the bait fridge, I grabbed three Diet Dr Peppers from the red cooler. I headed up to the checkout and placed the sodas on top. There was still no one behind the counter, and I twisted around and looked for an attendant. A flyer was taped to the counter. If no attendant on duty, please place correct change in jar. Thank you for using our honor system. No way. A jar like this wouldn’t last five minutes in my old town. I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out enough money for the sodas. As I counted the bills, he suddenly appeared behind the counter.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. He’d taken off his cowboy hat to reveal cropped flaxen blond hair.

  “I got a good photo, thanks,” I snipped back at him.

  Logan hung his head a little. “I was a jerk. Sorry.”

  I shrugged. I pointed to the jar. “The honor system, huh? That’s pretty rare.”

  “Well,” he said, taking my sodas and putting them into a brown paper bag. “We know where everyone lives around here, and when the sheriff can track you down in five minutes, no one has much interest in stealing.”

  “That’ll be nice for a change.” I tried not to look over his shoulder at Dad, who was pacing back and forth as much as the pay phone cord would allow. He was gesturing wildly with his hand. I jerked my attention back to Logan.

  He pushed the bag toward me. “So you’re really moving here?”

  “Yeah, moving in today.”

  “Most people just pass through,” he said, putting the hat back on his head.

  So was I, in a way. Logan dropped a couple of quarters in the jar. “For later,” he said. He smiled and revealed a dimple in his left cheek. “I usually grab a snack.”

  I took the bag and headed for the door. “Thanks.”

  “I owe you one, so maybe I could show you around sometime, if you want.”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “See ya.” I headed out of the store and walked down the porch’s creaky wooden steps.

  I wondered about Logan’s smile. Did he have the I-think-I-like-you face? Or did he give every girl the same grin he’d given me? Whatever.

  I held the bag up so Dad could see I was ready to go and went to the car. Mom walked back from where she was examining a stone well in the nearby grassy lot. When I opened the bag to grab a soda, my hand touched something crinkly. I reached inside and pulled out a Snickers bar. This wasn’t mine. Why would Logan give me a candy bar? He didn’t even know me, and he slipped me candy. That was not the honor system. I could take the candy back inside, but then I’d have to see him again. Oh. That’s what the quarters were for. I unwrapped the candy and bit into it. Welcome to Lost Springs, indeed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Don’t worry about bitin’ off more’n you can chew; your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger’n you think.

  The rest of the ride through town was a blur. All I could think about was Logan. The hair, the eyes that peeked from underneath his cowboy hat, and the smile that came easily to his face. Was it like at first sight or something? I’d never thought so much about a guy I’d known for five minutes.

  Less than ten minutes later, Dad slowed the SUV and turned off the main road onto a gravel path. “I thought you girls would like an authentic Western house,” he said. “May as well enjoy the entire package while we’re here.” That was guilt talking. Probably because of our Belize house. We’d be happy if this house had electricity, hot water, and a clean yard. Our rental in Belize had been hours away from Belmopan, the capital city. The tiny two-bedroom house was old and crumbling, but it was the only place available near Dad’s job site. During the summer we were there, the dense jungle suffered from soaking rains and constant thunderstorms. Sometimes, we had been stuck inside for days filling pans with water from the dripping ceiling. Our power went off for up to a week at a time, and we had to boil water from a local well and haul buckets for showers. Despite the challenges, I loved living there. The people were friendly and as interested in learning about our culture as we were in learning about theirs. Mom and I had spent lots of afternoons exploring the beaches and jungles with local families.

  “Honey!” Mom exclaimed to Dad, folding the map on her lap. “This is huge! How big is it?”

  I peered over her shoulder at the house in front of us. Sure, Dad had shown us photos on the Realtor’s website, but this was the first time we got to see it live. Bonus: we were arriving a day early since we’d skirted around big cities and hit little to no traffic in many areas.

  Dad slowed the car so I could see the yard. He drove across a wooden bridge over a clear, rushing creek lined with small boulders. “Four bedrooms, four baths,” he said. “That’s a gazebo attached to the left side, and a hot tub.”

  The SUV eased up the driveway, and Dad parked in a small gravel lot beside the house. The log cabin was a light reddish wood with a dark green roof. It had two wraparound porches, one on the lower level and one on the upper, each with a sliding glass door for access. The house’s roof had a sharp peak in the middle, and there was a triangular window in the center of the peak. A stone chimney jutted out from the back. There were no flowers or trees planted near the house, but a forest filled in the space behind the cabin.

  “I love it!” I shouted.

  Dad turned off the car and handed me the house keys. “Go on and look around,” he said, rubbing his neck as he got out of the SUV. His blue-and-white polo shirt was wrinkled from the drive. “We’ll be right there.”

  I trotted across the gravel and headed up the wooden steps. The gazebo gave a startling 180-degree view of the mountains and trees. I looked out over the wooden railing. Beyond the driveway and across the creek, treetops and Blackheart Mountain loomed in the distance. A cloudy haze of gray encircled the mountain’s top and I wondered if anything survived up there. Puffy white clouds felt close enough to touch, and the stress of the trip started to fade.

  I glanced down at Dad, who was slinging some of our duffel bags over his shoulder while he talked on the phone. Mom, looking toward the forest, had her special Kate Spade notebook tucked under one arm as she framed potential shots with her fingers. She had her photos, Dad had his building, Kate had her Hollywood news and gossip, and I had . . . I needed to find my own project.

  Turning my gaze away from my parents, I slid the key into the sliding glass door and stepped into the brightly lit living room. The polished and shiny wooden floors matched the log walls. Wooden support posts in the living room were decorated with carvings of birds so detailed, they must have taken weeks to whittle. Most were owls, but a few eagles were scattered on the posts.

  I stood in front of the mahogany leather couches and stared at the beautiful stone fireplace. The mantel was a log sawed in half and mounted to the stone. Above the mantel, a huge silver flat-screen begged to be turned on. I left the living room and stepped into the adjoining kitchen. The cabinets, counter, and bar were wood. I flipped up the handle on the faucet, squinting—afraid what color the water might be—but clear liquid streamed out. Whew. Our Belize kitchen had brown water sputtering into the sink most of the time.

  “Brie?” Mom called.

  “Coming!” I said.

  “What do you think?” she asked, carrying a pink duffel bag on each shoulder. Dad came in behind her, staggering under the weight of the four suitcases he carried.

>   “It’s definitely awesome, and just enough rustic,” I said. I nodded toward throw blankets with outlines of horses on them that were draped across the couches. “I really, really like it.”

  I took the duffel bags from her and headed off to search the rest of the house. It felt like an “after” episode of a home makeover show.

  A dining room adjoined the living room. There was a pool table that Dad would love, if he ever actually put down the phone and picked up a cue. Since that was unlikely, I would beg Mom to play with me. She was quite the pool shark. Sarah Lawrence art history majors aren’t so innocent after all.

  I wandered down the hallway and passed the master bedroom and a smaller room across from it. A short staircase led to a second floor. I walked upstairs and found a bedroom with double glass doors and gauzy white curtains opening up to a balcony. This was so my room.

  The bed had a tall wooden headboard and a bare queen-size mattress. A dresser sat directly across from the bed and a large plain mirror hung over it. One window was directly to the left of the dresser and the same gauzy curtains covered it. I reached for the handle on the sliding glass door and pulled it back—the balcony was bigger than it looked from inside my room. I could envision sitting out here with a giant glass of pink lemonade and a book. The balcony overlooked the driveway and showed a gorgeous view of Blackheart Mountain. Even though I’d seen the mountain earlier, I loved how dark and almost moody it looked against the lush grass and happy flowers. I was already in love with this place.

  I stepped over my bags and headed downstairs. Mom was in the master bathroom running her fingers over the ledge of the Jacuzzi tub. This house was more like a resort than a rental. Outside, Dad paced around the driveway with his cell phone pressed to his ear. He threw a hand into the air.

  “This house isn’t terrible,” I said.

  “It just makes the cut,” she agreed.

  “Is it okay if I bike into town for a bit?” I asked. “I just want to look around.”

  With our constant moving, it wasn’t easy finding the time to get my license. I loved running and biking, though, so driving wasn’t really high on my list anyway.

  “You won’t get lost, will you?” she asked. She wiped down the counter with a cloth and sprayed Windex on the mirrors. Each time we moved into a new place, she cleaned no matter how sanitary things appeared. It was part of her routine to ease us into a new house. I liked that she used the same cleanser—so it made the house smell like home. I always lit candles, too—ones scented like roses and strawberries. Having familiar scents calmed me.

  I started for the door. “There’s not much town to get lost in.”

  Mom nodded. “Take your phone just in case.”

  She went back to cleaning the counter, and I left. When I opened the back door, Dad’s voice carried across the yard. “Are you kidding me?” he said into the phone. “Why weren’t these people handled before I got into town?” His free hand was balled into a fist. Then he saw me.

  Dad uncurled his fingers and waved at me. Or rather, he waved in my general direction. All his attention was on the phone call. I grabbed my yellow bike and headed down the gravelly driveway. Exploring a town solo was one of my favorite things about coming to a new place. I intended to soak up every second of Lost Springs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.

  The crumbling road to town was almost deserted. There weren’t any houses even remotely close to our cabin, and when a solitary pickup truck passed me as I biked into town, the driver lifted three fingers from the steering wheel and tipped his hat to me. Three fingers? Not one or two? Did three mean something? If you flashed three fingers in a lot of the places I had lived, it would have been taken as a gang sign.

  In town, I passed a small post office—a wooden building with a tin roof that stretched into an overhang above the steps and small porch. A wooden sign, flapping gently in the breeze, said WATSON’S GROCERY STORE. The gravel parking lot was nearly empty, and attached to the grocery store was a smaller building. SPRING SUPPLY: SEED & FEED. Their parking lot was packed. Pickups with dogs in the truck beds were jammed into the crowded space. People trickled out of the store with burlap bags of what I assumed was feed for cattle and horses, bales of hay, and other unidentifiable farm supplies.

  I headed for the grocery store. Our usual ritual was to come to the new grocery store and shop together as a family, but maybe I could pick up a few things now and save Mom and Dad the trip.

  The grocery store was more like a market. Dozens of fruits and vegetables filled large bins, and smoky-smelling ham was suspended from the ceiling by twine in a corner of the store. Mom would probably buy out the fruit section when she saw all that Watson’s offered. I grabbed milk, bread, and a container of pre-sliced turkey and headed for the checkout. The one-lane checkout.

  “Hi,” I said to the cashier, who looked about my age. She had chin-length black hair and, like, a hundred metal buttons with smiley faces, clovers, and other tiny pictures pinned to her uniform. “Ask me” was written on her name tag.

  “Stocking up on travel food?” she asked as she rang up my items.

  “Kind of,” I said, handing her cash. It was going to take a little getting used to how everyone knew everyone here. This was the smallest town we had ever lived in.

  “Hope you’ve got a cooler for the milk. It’s going to get really warm tomorrow,” she said. “You’re one of the few tourists to shop here. Usually, everyone buys water and stuff from the vendor in the town center.”

  “Actually, I’m living in Lost Springs for a while,” I said. “My dad has a job here.” I smiled at her. “I’m Brie Carter.”

  In our family—even though my parents are married—Mom, Kate, and I are Carters. Mom, on a super-feminist kick when Kate and I were born, had convinced my dad to let us keep her maiden name as our last name.

  “I’m Amy Banks,” she said, smiling back. “Your dad is the new ranch hand at McCoys’, huh? I heard he was supposed to be moving here soon. I didn’t know he had a family.”

  I took the bag, holding back a smirk, and shook my head. No one had ever mistaken Michael Brooks for a ranch hand before. Mom would laugh her butt off.

  “My dad’s here for different business,” I said. “It’s him, my mom, and me. I’ve never heard of the McCoys.”

  “Oh, suck,” Amy said, handing me my change. “Not suck that you’re moving here!” she added quickly. “I was just disappointed for a friend. His dad is the one waiting for the extra help. It would have taken a lot of responsibility off Logan’s shoulders.”

  Logan? Maybe it was a super-common name around here. “I think I met a guy named Logan,” I said casually. “He worked at the WyGas.”

  “That was him,” she said. “Logan’s always working. He’s due here for his shift any minute.”

  “Awesome,” I muttered. “So he works everywhere.” I said that part louder.

  “He has to,” Amy said, leaning closer even though the market was empty. “He works two jobs outside his dad’s ranch. The Triple M is pretty big around here. Well, was, I guess.”

  “Did something happen?” I asked.

  “The economy,” Amy said. “They need lots more hands, but they’re only able to hire one person right now.”

  “Oh.” Now I felt like a brat. My parents didn’t spoil me, but I’d never had to go out and get a job. Sure, I worked for my dad, but Mom always said, “School is your job.”

  But Logan, who couldn’t have been more than a college freshman, was out in the real world with three jobs. I spent my days exploring, doing schoolwork, helping my dad, taking pictures—or, at least, fiddling with my camera—and reading.

  “You picked a crazy time to move here,” Amy said.

  “Why?” I asked. I put the brown-bagged groceries at my feet.

  Amy leaned back against the counter. “I’m guessing you just got here today?”

  I nodded.

  “
Lost Springs is—spoiler alert!—a tiny town,” Amy said.

  “No!” I said, laughing a little.

  “No one ever moves here,” Amy continued. “If someone comes here, they’re like a rare species. The locals, especially the old people, go insane trying to meet the new people, bring them baked goods, and ask a ton of questions. You know, normal behavior like that.”

  We both laughed.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “I better behave now that the whole town is going to be watching me.”

  Amy held up her pointer finger. “Actually, you’re in luck. Your family, too. The McCoys’ new ranch hand should be here any day now. But . . .” Amy paused, frowning. She folded her arms. “There is a guy moving here that everyone is in a frenzy about. He’s the biggest jerk on the planet. He’s supposed to get here tomorrow.”

  All the bubbly niceness had evaporated from Amy. She pressed her lips together in a line, shaking her head.

  “How do you know he’s a jerk if you haven’t met him yet?” I asked. “And the entire town doesn’t like him?”

  My stomach flip-flopped a little. Amy wasn’t talking about . . . no, she couldn’t be.

  “We don’t just not like him,” Amy said. “We hate him. At last month’s town meeting, we all learned that some big shot was coming here to destroy our town.”

  “Destroy?”

  I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly who Amy was ranting about. My hands clenched and I stood up straighter. I was in flight or fight mode.

  “Destroy. He’s a land developer or something like that. The mayor had Googled the guy’s name before the meeting and we all got flyers with info from this jerk’s website.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked, my tone flat.

  “Michael Brooks,” Amy said, practically spitting it out. “I’m so glad that you’re not with him! I’m sure you’re really busy unpacking and everything, but if you want to know more about him, you should look him up online.”