Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“No,” I whisper, slowly shaking my head. “I haven’t given her this.” I stretch out my other arm with a single pink rose clenched in my fist, sweaty from holding it so tightly all morning.
Milo Odell loosens his grip on me, letting me slide free. I run to the hole in the ground, dirt loose beneath my shoes, and stop on the opposite side of Fletcher. His red eyes find me when my gaze lifts from the shiny white casket. I can’t look away. Even now, on his knees, he holds so much power over me and everyone else.
Without taking my eyes off him, the wind whipping my hair into my face, I unfold my fingers one at a time until the wilted rose releases from my palm onto the casket below. His leathery face looks extra sad today. His hair is a little grayer around the bald halo that’s constantly peeling.
But his eyes … they’re empty. It’s what I imagine someone’s eyes look like when they die, when the doctor lifts their eyelids to check for signs of life and there aren’t any. Does he know I stole the flower from the garden? Is he upset?
My gaze sticks to his like one of those unfortunate dragonflies that gets caught in spiderwebs. That warm, calloused hand finds mine again, startling me. And my head whips around to Milo Odell and his pretty face shaded by his cowboy hat. His whiskers are gone. He must have shaved for Ruthie’s funeral. She always told him she knew he was a handsome young man behind those whiskers.
I like his whiskers. They make him look mysterious, just like his long, wavy hair that always falls into his eyes.
“Let’s go, Indie,” he says, giving Fletcher a glance and a tiny nod. Milo is Fletcher’s “main guy.” Whatever that means. Ruthie said Milo did all the essential stuff so Fletcher could take her dancing and pack picnics for her on Sundays after church.
While everyone else feared Fletcher Ellington, Ruthie loved him. He softened with her.
Smiles.
Laughter.
Hand-holding.
He’s not the most handsome man—stained, crooked teeth, scars all over his face, and missing a big round chunk of hair. And he smells like a cigar. Even now, I smell it mixing with the manure. But Ruthie called him the most handsome man she had ever seen. Maybe living on a ranch so far from other people, Ruthie didn’t see that many men. And maybe her nose didn’t work that well. Either way, she found something beautiful about him that you couldn’t see just by looking at him.
He planted wildflowers so he could pick them for her every day.
He woke before the sun rose to do his morning chores.
He showered and made Ruthie breakfast before she opened her eyes for the day.
He carried a dark wood tray to their bedroom each morning: eggs, a muffin, fruit, coffee, and a small bouquet of wildflowers.
I’d peek through my cracked bedroom door to see him wearing the biggest smile or whistling a tune.
I heard them talking and laughing while she ate her breakfast. Then Fletcher would close and lock the bedroom door. For the next twenty minutes, I’d listen to sounds … weird sounds coming from their bedroom. Then the lock clicked open, and Fletcher carried the tray to the kitchen, whistling a different tune, while Ruthie wrapped herself in a silk robe and came into my bedroom.
Even in the morning, she looked pretty with her long black hair tossed over one shoulder, her cheeks rosy from … hot coffee, I figured.
“Good morning, my lovely girl,” she’d say with a warm smile while I played quietly with my dolls. “I’ll have Micah make breakfast while you get dressed for school. How does that sound?” She’d kiss my head.
I'd nod and pick out my dress for the day. Not every girl in school wore a dress, but I did because Ruthie did. So in my mind, girls wore dresses. Fancy dresses for weddings. Less fancy dresses for Sunday church. And everyday dresses for gardening. Those dresses didn’t have to be pressed like the fancier dresses.
While I ate breakfast, Ruthie made my lunch and packed my bag. With a tight hug and a kiss, she sent me out the door to climb into Milo’s black truck. It smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and leather. Quite possibly the dreamiest combination ever.
“Morning, Indie.” Milo grinned. His shaggy, dirt-colored hair hung in his blue eyes even beneath his cowboy hat.
“Morning,” I whispered, tucking my chin and fastening my seat belt. I had a severe crush on Milo Odell. It didn’t matter that his brother was in prison for killing their parents.
It didn’t matter that Milo lived in the barn.
It didn’t matter that he was eight years older than me.
I had a crush—the incurable kind.
Faye clears her throat, bringing my thoughts back to this awful day. “She’ll come with me,” she says to Milo. “I’m Ruthie’s sister. Indie should be with me.”