Scarlett Rose's Arc

Chapter 8 of 57

Scarlett spent the morning trying not to think about six o'clock. She fed the mare. She swept the porch of her cottage twice. By ten she admitted the truth: she was going to supper with a man whose past she did not know. Clayton had told her about his mother and the second property. He had not told her about women. If she walked in blind, she could say the wrong name over the potatoes and undo a year of his careful work. She called her sister. Cora laughed at her, then said the name Scarlett needed. Maya Thorne. Clayton's sister. Married to a man over the ridge. "Call her," Cora said. "She'll tell you what you need. She's been waiting eleven years for you to ask." Maya answered on the second ring. Scarlett explained herself badly. Maya cut in. "Come over. I've got coffee and an hour." Maya met her at the door with a long brown braid over one shoulder and flour on her jeans. She looked so much like Clayton it stopped Scarlett on the step. Same hazel eyes. Same steady mouth. "So you're the one," Maya said. "Sit down before I hug you and scare you off." They sat at the kitchen table. A grey dog with a cream chest and calm amber eyes lay under it, chin on Maya's boot. Half wolf, Maya said, and don't ask. "I need to know what not to step on tonight," Scarlett said. "Old names. Old hurts. I don't want to bleed him by accident." Maya poured coffee. "There was one. Rancher's daughter, two counties over. Four years. She wanted city. He wouldn't leave the land. She left instead. That was six years ago. He does not talk about it. He is not carrying her. He's careful about the word forever because she used it wrong." "That's it?" "That's it. One girl in high school who moved. Nobody since. He waited." Maya set the cup down. "He waited for you, Scarlett. My brother is not subtle. I've heard your name at every holiday for a year." Scarlett's throat closed. "I didn't know." "Now you do. Don't promise him forever tonight. Feed him. Let him talk. He'll do the rest." Scarlett drove home with her hands steady on the wheel. She knew the shape of him now. One woman. Four years. The word forever handled like a hot pan. She could sit across from him at six and not flinch. At her fence line she stopped the truck. A coyote stood in the pasture with two pups at her heels, the ones from spring, grown lean and quick. The mother watched Scarlett a long moment, then turned the pups toward the trees. Scarlett let out a breath she had been holding since morning. She went inside to iron a dress.