Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
I mean, as far as his views on sex, honestly, I don’t know that he would be angry that Marcy is pregnant. But with me, he’s the most protective father of any of the other girls I’ve known here in Mumford, Indiana.
Population 6,722.
Soon to be 6,723.
For all purposes, he is my father. He’s been my guardian for ten years and as awkward as it’s been at times, he’s raised me well and I know the way my thoughts have turned in the last year or so is shameful. Sinful. But, we don’t go to church, so I try to just forgive myself.
Marcy blows on the dots like she’s trying to blow them back off but I’m relieved she’s stopped talking for a few seconds.
“Your parents will come around,” I say, my eyes pinned on the sixteen-foot-wide opening in the front of the red barn where Uncle Eli disappeared twenty-minutes ago to feed the cows and goats. He keeps a tight schedule and never wavers. He’s like that with most things and I’ve grown to love that stern, regimented part of him. “They aren’t evil.”
I turn back as she shakes her head, her blonde waves dancing around her cheeks and her dark lashes fluttering, outlining the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Doubtful. They’re cretins.” She scowls at the ceiling, then starts the whole dotting process over again on her other hand. The usual carefree, cheerful smile hidden behind her veiled worry about her situation. Rightfully so. “Well, with child or not, we’re still going to have fun tonight.” She presses her splayed fingers to her tummy. “No beer for me though.”
“Me either.”
She shows no surprise at that. I’m not enamored with alcohol or pot or many of the other things teenagers seem to find fascinating. Marcy is no saint, clearly, but she pushes me out of my comfort zone and from what all the self-love influencers say, that’s good.
I’m not so sure.
“You ready?” Marcy admires her finished polka dots with a satisfied smile but when I open my mouth to answer, a single hard knock on the door stalls my reply.
My heart ping-pongs around in my chest as my palms turn instantly sweaty.
“Come in.” The words catch in the tightness of my throat.
I know it’s Eli. Who else would it be? But it’s a long way back here from the east barn and I thought I would have seen him walking this way through the window. I figure I missed him while I was listening to Marcy or got lost looking at the bulletin board.
Marcy crinkles up her freckled nose, smirking as the door eases open, every inch of the entry now filled with Eli.
My uncle.
Sort of my father.
Definitely my guardian.
Twenty-seven years my senior.
All of this translates into him being super, majorly, clearly, off limits.
Tell that to my peaking nipples and the ignition of warmth in my lady bits because they are not listening.
His nearly black eyes connect with mine as they’ve done millions of times over the years, but lately, that connection sends fire rushing through my veins and shame billowing into my core.
Most of the boys in high school were lanky and obnoxiously loud and just…well, ick. Most of the grown men in Mumford are greasy and smell of sweat and chewing tobacco. More ick.
Not Eli.
He’s carved from hard wood and cool granite. His scent is freshly cut fields and leather. He’s rough and smooth at the same time, towering over most other men by nearly a foot. His eyes have a darkness that tells of past pain and people in town love to look but I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people that say hello or speak to him at all.
His body is thick with hard muscle that strains against his clothing no matter what he wears. He’s been here on this six hundred acre working farm since his grandfather took him in. And before that my own grandfather had him helping milk the cows as soon as he could toddle on behind. His close-cropped dark hair and beard are uniform and controlled like him.
In town, they call him a monster because of his size. They call him a freak because he’s different. They call him a mouse because he can’t read or write, kind of like “Of Mice and Men”. He doesn’t think I know about that, but in a small town like this everyone knows everything.
Uncle Eli doesn’t fit in but I’ve never seen a human being more confident and indifferent to the opinions or judgments of others.
But, oh Lord, he’s stunning. His jaw is set at right angles and his brow overhangs those ever-watchful eyes. He’s an icon in Mumford. A legend because, like most legends, no one wants to take the time to get to know the human behind the out-of-the-ordinary exterior.