Something Borrowed

Chapter 3

Brent

"It's good to have you back, son," Brent's father said, leaning back in his chair with both hands on his belly. Brent forced himself not to look away. Eye contact was a sign of strength.

"It's good to be back."

"Where is your wife?"

"Melissa's getting her settled."

"Good, good. How far along is she?"

Brent tried not to roll his eyes. That was his father: blunt.

"A month or so."

"You married her?"

Brent's stomach flopped and he fought not to cringe. He'd bought her a ring and told her to go along with his charade. She loved him, he knew, and wouldn't betray the lie. For a while, he'd even considered actually marrying her. She was a lovely woman so there were worse fates, and he had gotten her with child. It was his responsibility. But when he thought about the rest of his life, spent tied down in this place he'd always sought to escape, he'd broken out in a cold sweat and proposed this arrangement, instead.

Amelia would go along with the story, and tell her father they were married. He didn't need to feel guilty about it, either, because it was mutually beneficial. She'd have a home to raise the child and an extended family to support her. Brent would take some time to get her settled and then gradually find more and more excuses to leave home. He would be free to travel and to meet women, without the guilt of a promise to God. His father trusted him. He would never ask for proof. It was a perfect arrangement.

Brent wondered, then, why his stomach wouldn't settle. It's a perfect arrangement, he told himself over and over while his stomach rolled and his palms sweated. It's a perfect arrangement.

"Yeah, I married her," he lied through his teeth. "Went to a courthouse on our way here."

"Good, good. I'm proud of you, son. Why don't you sit down and I'll go over all the changes I've made on the ranch since you left."

Brent wasn't a fool. He knew his father spent his days in the study, pickling his liver and stewing in years-old grief and anger. If there were changes to the ranch, his father was not responsible. More likely it was Josh, Brent's brother. The man he was counting on to help him fix this catastrophe with Amelia. As his father poured over the books and talked about asset expansion, low turnover, new wells, and last year's success at the market, Brent nodded and sipped his whiskey, and dreamed of the day when his father would die. The ranch would pass to Josh and Brent could stop pretending. He could tell the truth about Amelia without worrying about reprisal. He could give up the act that he cared about the goings on of the ranch. He could visit and enjoy his family and leave without the pressing guilt and the weight of responsibility.

"Are you listening to me, Brent?"

"Yes, sir," he mumbled, but his eyes glazed as his father dragged a finger tip over the ledger, prattling off numbers and details that Brent had no intention of retaining.

Someday. 

Josh

Josh stopped at the well on his way back to the house, washed his face and hands, and used his hat to beat the dust off of his clothes. The sun was high overhead, but it was fall and the weather was cooling, the well water frigid. He'd seen the wagon pull up earlier but hadn't bothered heading back to the house. He knew Melissa was ecstatic about Brent's wife's arrival, and his father was as excited about Brent's. Both newcomers would be preoccupied.