CHAPTER SIX  ╱  Going Up In Smoke

A sheath of solace blanketed us on our bumpy ride home. Pearl sits in between Smith and I, her hands tucked into her lap. A smile brackets her rosy cheeks, freckled from the Southeastern sun. The steady hum of the truck's engine nearly beckons me to sleep. I fight against it with bleary, but blinking, and wandering eyes.

For the first few minutes of the ride, Pearl cooed off and on; in inexplicable awe of Smith's growing land of creatures. The Sterling Ranch, also known as Heritage Farms, used to home strictly race and breeding horses. Now, it seems to have burst in diversity. A family of sheep are now scattered amidst the rolling hills, in peaceful coexistence with a pair of donkey's, an array of cattle, a few dairy goats, stray geese, and an . . . alpaca?

I knew the ranch had expanded. Both Lucy and my mama have allowed the information to roll off of their tongues a time or two.

Whether it had to do with the ranch itself, or its owner, I'll never know. Given our . . . history, I can't be for certain. Lucy and Mama have always been the meddling type. Ruth, too, she's just more discreet about it.

Smith answered all of Pearl's inquiries with a toothy grin and blithe.

As the truck rolls to a stop, Pearl turns to him and her voice takes up the small space once again.

"Thank you for the ride, Cowboy."

"Much obliged, Miss Pearl." he replies, his voice all gravel and kindness.

His fern-hued eyes lift, catching mine, and it renders me speechless. They are the color of a spring clover. Fresh buds. Wades of newly sprouting grass. Softly woven green threads of pure patience. I missed the sight of them. The realization sends my fingernails into my palms. Digging little crescents until I am able to will my eyes elsewhere. They land on the door handle. I decide to speak against the leather interior, clutching the silver metal with all of my might.

"I really appreciate you giving us a ride home, Smith." I give the door a little push. Pearl practically clambers over my lap. The soles of her boots smoosh into the mud below. She turns on her tail, beaming back into the truck and cuts in.

"Next time, we expect it to be a horse, Mr. Cowboy Man."

Smith laughs, a hearty little sound I'm growing to love hearkening to once again. There's no place like home. I glance over my shoulder to peer back at him and find his eyes trained on Pearl's. His perfect rows of teeth are on full display, a brightness etched around those worn and tired lines I noticed the other day.

"We'll see if we can make that happen, Pearl girl."

She gives him a stern nod, looking every bit older than she is. I shift my eyes toward the porch and find my mama there waiting with her arms spread wide. Pearl races toward her, leaping into her arms with childish grace. Mama extends her hand after swooping up my girl and waves at Smith, who returns the gesture. I use the moment to close the truck door.

"Evenin', Miss Driscoll!" Smith greets through the truck's opened window.

Her lips fold over in disapproval, "You always make me sound so ancient, Smith!"

"You don't look a day over twenty, Virginia!"

My dad appears in the dim shadow of the porch light, like some sort of phantom, "You makin' a pass on my lady, Sterling?"

My eyes pinball between the array of voices. I bite back a smile as Smith's laughter consumes the night air, blending with the chirping cicadas.

"Never that, Mr. Driscoll!"

"Oh, that's right!" Dad bellows, his hands tangled in his graying locks. He itches his scalp and a grin comes to life on his wrinkled skin. Worry becomes me as he forges on, "You fancy her daugh—"

"Daddy!" I screech.

Now, the laughter resonates from the porch. Mama swats at Daddy's shoulder, then loops the same hand through the slot between his ribcage and bicep, before tugging him inside. I can't see their eyes, but I know there's a shared message there that I can somewhat discern. I envy that; that blatant, seemingly cosmic, connection. The last shadow is that of Pearl, her tiny hand flapping against the lamplight in departure.

I carry my eyes back toward Smith, finding his situated on me already. We both share a laugh and when the noise dies, our eyes come alive.

A sigh departs from my lips as I prop my arms against the door frame. My head lulls forward, chin pressed against my freckled wrist, "Remember when I used to call you Smittens when we were kids?"

His brows quirk at the arbitrary memory, but he nods nonetheless, "You still could if you wanted."

"It doesn't really fit anymore," I murmur. "You were lankier back then with little puppy dog eyes."

A lopsided smile tugs at the ends of his lips, "Is that right? And what about now?"

"Well, now..." I peer up at him between my sparsely carboned lashes, "You've got eyes like a wolf. And you're more...broad. Everywhere."

Amusement swirls in those emerald irises of his, "Everywhere?"

I hum in assurance, then tear my eyes away from him, settling them on the worn gear shift. There's a string of black beads tied around the ripped leather, "What about Smitty? Smitty's more mature."

"I'm okay with that."

I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. There's a slight ringing in my inner ear. A pressure builds, hammering through my ear canals. I fiddle with the rings adorning my fingers, dodging the one cased around the third one.

"Or Smithsonian!" It bursts out of me like words used to with August. Attention deficit and full of thoughts that couldn't quite match the tongue. At times, I wonder if we share the same condition, mine going undiagnosed because it never affected me behaviorally. "That's a good one. Makes a lot of sense. Visually, y'know?"

Smith watches me, all careful and downright predatory. Could be a figment of my own contorted imagination. My ring finger goes up in smoke. "That's quite a mouthful." he finally says.

I take this moment to raise my eyes with a languid glide to them. I swallow, the feeling harsh against my arid throat, "I can manage." I rasp.

Heat engulfs our stares. Heavy-lidded and laced with thoughts left unheard. Just like when we were teenagers. I tap my fingers twice against the interior, then brace my palms on the metal door and force my body backwards. I offer him a soft smile, "It was nice seein' you again, Smitty Abram."

The heat dissipates, replaced by a swipe of the tongue along a lower lip and an easy smile. "It's always a pleasure, Junie Wren."

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