Clay seems to have recovered from his shock and tries to strike up a conversation. “What was it, Ben, six months since you left the crew? Never did hear why.”

Ben hunches over the skillet. “Pop got pneumonia last spring and almost didn’t make it. I came home to take care of him. Then I fell off my horse in July and was laid up pretty bad. We damn near starved to death ‘til I could get back on my feet. Been slow going since. We’re getting back to it, though. Right, Pop?”

The old man says nothing, but I can feel his eyes glaring at the side of my head. I pretend to look out the busted window, then realize he’s not looking at me. His eyes are locked on Ethan. My shoulders tense. I lean forward to pick up a fork buried in papers on the table and block his view.

Clay continues. “Sorry to hear. You know we’d take you back quick as a lick. Sheriff always said you were a crack shot and a hard ass.” Clay smiles at this. Bennett comes over and slides some eggs onto his plate.

“Can’t leave Pop and he sure ain’t a townie. Won’t leave the homestead. Right, Pop?”

The old man says nothing, but continues to stare at my baby brother. I picture punching this frail, old man in the face. It sounds cruel, but his creepy cataract-filled eyes keep tracking Ethan as he strokes the dog or twirls the rusty butter knife found on the kitchen table.

Clay picks up his fork. “Well, we ’ppreciate the hospitality. Won’t bother you long. We need some fuel and water, which we’ll pay for. Maybe a little shut-eye?”

Bennett sits next to Pop, hunches over the plate and shovels big scoops of yellow into this mouth. Between bites he says, “I can bunk with Pop and you can have my room. Be happy to have ya. Right, Pop?” Pop doesn’t answer.

I nearly choke on my eggs when I finally grasp what Bennett is saying. I’ll have to share a room with Clay and Ethan. This cannot happen. Clay might notice something fishy when I sleep in my coat and jeans. I try to think of a solution while a fly rubs his feet together on my fork. It’s going to be a long day.

After breakfast, we spend hours helping Bennett do his chores. He limps around, showing us what to do. His left leg is pretty well useless, but somehow he works through it, tending his straggly garden, hauling bails of hay, cleaning out his horse stable of the skinniest horse I’ve ever seen. Clay, meanwhile, tosses heavy bags of feed and slings a shovel like he’s been doing it all his life. When he takes off his shirt in the barn and shows off his muscular chest, my cheeks grow hot. I keep my eyes on my pitchfork.

As I’m spreading hay into the horse stall, Clay saunters over to Ethan, who’s sprinkling chicken feed in the coop. Clay’s hand casually rubs my brother’s mop of hair. They could be brothers with their dark hair and easy smiles. Ethan turns his on Clay now, a smile normally reserved for me. I feel a pain beneath in my ribs. I skewer an innocent bail of hay with my pitchfork to stifle the feeling.