The Sowing

9. Honky Tonk Heaven

Sebastian

In an intense game of doubles, Tommy and I barely staved off the advances of another pair of Corral regulars.

The place was a relic of the past. With its sticky old mahogany bar, taxidermy, and glowing neon signs, I wasn't sure if it classified as a dive or a honky tonk.

Instead of taking cars, we rode horseback, and I feigned indifference when I discovered the horse parking out front.

An old-timey band played classics while patrons sipped slow beers or waited for their turns, cue sticks in hand. No one seemed to be paying us any particular attention, but that didn't stop Meredith from throwing the occasional cursory glance around the bar.

She was right about the workwear – I looked like every other farmhand in my flannel, jeans, and hat. More comfortable in a baseball cap, Tommy had let me borrow one of his unsullied ones. I was indiscernible from anyone else.

Meredith wasn't. From the looks of it, the women of the Corral stuck to low-slung jeans, snug t-shirts, dresses, and delicate blouses. Meredith wore an ill-fitted denim chambray over a tank top, her boots poking out from beneath her bootcut jeans. These were, at least, clean.

As if she could feel my eyes on her, her gaze slid to mine from beneath her ball cap. Like the little watchful bird she was, she perched atop a stool in the corner of the bar, her back leaning against the wall.

She brought a glass of water to her lips as she continued her observation.

I couldn't tamper my desire to rouse her from her keen hypervigilance. The girl needed a drink.

I held my cue stick out to Meredith, offering her a chance to play, but she averted her focus with that nonchalant expertise she'd learned somewhere in basic training. Or in the field.

Instantaneously, I was reminded of that far-away look in her eyes she sometimes got. It was as if she was both here and somewhere else altogether. She intrigued me. How anyone could go from seething to gentle in a heartbeat was beyond my intelligence. She lived on the edge of agitation and restraint. She lived at the threshold between exploding and imploding.

It was as if she was waiting for the shoe to drop at any given moment – as if she moved through life holding her breath.

And who was she? Did she have a family? Where did she come from? The lilt in her accent was unmistakable – she was undoubtedly a Southerner. From where in the south she hailed, I didn't know.

I'd never dream of asking her any variation of these questions; she would shut closed like a clam. The only time she appeared less edgy was when she focused on running drills or accomplishing tasks around the farm.

I'd only seen her laugh a few times; they were weak and waning chuckles, but it was laughter nonetheless. I'd watched her lips curl upwards in smiles that never reached her eyes. And I wondered if there was enough of anything – enough hope, strength, courage, love, or willpower to set her free from her the ghosts that plagued her.

And Meredith was beautiful. Beneath her boyishly haphazard wardrobe and her near-permanent grimace, she was miraculously beautiful. Her constant fussing over meals to make sure we were fed, her meticulousness with the crops, her tenderness with Butter and the horses, the way she treated Tommy and Merle, the way she'd be covered in dirt after a long stint in the garden, her natural ability to teach and to lead. The woman she was when she wasn't paying attention, when she could let her hair down, proverbially speaking; I'd never seen her with her actual hair down.

I wasn't an idiot – I knew James had promised her some large sum of money, but her kindness, no matter how veiled, seemed to extend beyond her sense of duty.