06-28-2015, 09:57 AM
June 21st.
Dusk.
Somewhere outside Morrison.
"Kee, you out here?"
There's a creak as the screen door opens. The brunette is sitting on a swinging porch seat; a bottle of beer between her fingers, a shawl draped loose over her shoulders she'd dragged out of her car when she'd pulled up to the old, crumbling homestead. It had been mid afternoon then, the shadows beginning to draw long across the tall shutterboard windows; fading paintwork only highlighted by its shifting passage across the two story building. It had been impressive, once, this home.
In years gone by before the money got tight and weeds strangled fenceposts and old, broken beyond repair tractors, tangled around the stables and crept along the edges of the foundations. Now it was etched with memory; half wild again where dampness threatened and rain brought buckets down from the attic to catch droplets. The family that lived in it now were sons and daughters of generations gone by; of ranchers and cattlemen and the hard, wild people of the prairies. They were Neal and Debra and Kiara had spent more nights dancing around bonfires on their property than she can recall ever doing in all her time in New York.
"I'm here."
The door creaks shut and Neal's feet appear; accompanied by the rest of him. He's a tall man, softer in the middle than he'd appreciate at thirty-eight but strong. His hands are those of a farmer; an earth-toiler and it's to them the Verbena's focus lands before he pulls it upward to his face with a gesture; the gleam of a wedding band; his sun-rough, scruff-covered face.
"You got room there with all those thoughts?"
She shifts a little, yields space and he sits down with a solid finality; an arm stretching out across the old cushions. They're faded and patterned with daisies. They might have been cream and gold, once.
Kiara's eyes stay on some point in the settling dim. There are horses a paddock over, grazing on feed. "How's Deb?"
"Eight months pregnant. Hot. Exhausted. Sleeping, finally. I don't know what you do but you have the touch." There's a smile as she takes a swig; offers it over. Her tongue curling at the edge of her mouth.
Her toes drift against the porch; rocking them slightly. The first smatterings of starlight wink back at them and distantly, a car horn sounds, the faint suggestion of the city, dwarfed and overwhelmed by the pastures and rolling green hillside. The towering, shadowy trees.
"Thanks for coming out. I wasn't sure if you'd have plans."
There's a silence, her rocking slows.
"Not today I didn't."
His head turns toward her, she senses it while she stares off. "You want to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to say. It is what it is. It has been for a while."
"You only get one father, Kiara, maybe - "
She accepts the bottle back without the dismissal her words feel like. The slamming shut of a book; the snick of a key turning in a lock. "DNA doesn't make him my father, Neal. Being a father does. Something he failed with resounding results at."
There's a long, low sigh.
"Hell, this is why I don't do the pep talks."
She nudges her shoulder against his. "You do okay, dad."
"Christ, I ain't ready."
The brunette's laughter carries across the yard. "Crippling fear is a good sign."
"Think we're gonna get a storm. Always seems to be one comin'."
The pagan's eyes remain on the banking reds and golds; the rumble of thunder rolling low and steady like a promise; wind beginning to stir the trees, she can feel the electricity building. The anticipation of the earth.
If she breathed in, she could taste the rain.
(Return).
"Oh, I don't doubt it."
Dusk.
Somewhere outside Morrison.
"Kee, you out here?"
There's a creak as the screen door opens. The brunette is sitting on a swinging porch seat; a bottle of beer between her fingers, a shawl draped loose over her shoulders she'd dragged out of her car when she'd pulled up to the old, crumbling homestead. It had been mid afternoon then, the shadows beginning to draw long across the tall shutterboard windows; fading paintwork only highlighted by its shifting passage across the two story building. It had been impressive, once, this home.
In years gone by before the money got tight and weeds strangled fenceposts and old, broken beyond repair tractors, tangled around the stables and crept along the edges of the foundations. Now it was etched with memory; half wild again where dampness threatened and rain brought buckets down from the attic to catch droplets. The family that lived in it now were sons and daughters of generations gone by; of ranchers and cattlemen and the hard, wild people of the prairies. They were Neal and Debra and Kiara had spent more nights dancing around bonfires on their property than she can recall ever doing in all her time in New York.
"I'm here."
The door creaks shut and Neal's feet appear; accompanied by the rest of him. He's a tall man, softer in the middle than he'd appreciate at thirty-eight but strong. His hands are those of a farmer; an earth-toiler and it's to them the Verbena's focus lands before he pulls it upward to his face with a gesture; the gleam of a wedding band; his sun-rough, scruff-covered face.
"You got room there with all those thoughts?"
She shifts a little, yields space and he sits down with a solid finality; an arm stretching out across the old cushions. They're faded and patterned with daisies. They might have been cream and gold, once.
Kiara's eyes stay on some point in the settling dim. There are horses a paddock over, grazing on feed. "How's Deb?"
"Eight months pregnant. Hot. Exhausted. Sleeping, finally. I don't know what you do but you have the touch." There's a smile as she takes a swig; offers it over. Her tongue curling at the edge of her mouth.
Her toes drift against the porch; rocking them slightly. The first smatterings of starlight wink back at them and distantly, a car horn sounds, the faint suggestion of the city, dwarfed and overwhelmed by the pastures and rolling green hillside. The towering, shadowy trees.
"Thanks for coming out. I wasn't sure if you'd have plans."
There's a silence, her rocking slows.
"Not today I didn't."
His head turns toward her, she senses it while she stares off. "You want to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to say. It is what it is. It has been for a while."
"You only get one father, Kiara, maybe - "
She accepts the bottle back without the dismissal her words feel like. The slamming shut of a book; the snick of a key turning in a lock. "DNA doesn't make him my father, Neal. Being a father does. Something he failed with resounding results at."
There's a long, low sigh.
"Hell, this is why I don't do the pep talks."
She nudges her shoulder against his. "You do okay, dad."
"Christ, I ain't ready."
The brunette's laughter carries across the yard. "Crippling fear is a good sign."
"Think we're gonna get a storm. Always seems to be one comin'."
The pagan's eyes remain on the banking reds and golds; the rumble of thunder rolling low and steady like a promise; wind beginning to stir the trees, she can feel the electricity building. The anticipation of the earth.
If she breathed in, she could taste the rain.
(Return).
"Oh, I don't doubt it."