The Singing River (7 page)

I didn’t look at him. “More interested in stories, but I like history.”

“Then English is your favorite subject in school?”

He was fishing for my age, and I knew it.

“It was. I graduated in the spring.”

Roman sat up in the back seat, his handcuffs knocking against the door. “This past spring?” he asked. “From the public school?”

I glanced over my shoulder, my gaze suspicious. “Yeah.”

“Do you know Greg Hinkley?”

I shrugged. The name sounded familiar. “I think he was in my class. I ... I work a lot.”

Work was always my excuse for my lack of social grace. Mr. Nelson said I had an old soul, that I’d been born years ahead of everyone else. Sometimes I agreed with him. Other times, I just felt disconnected.

“Who’s Greg Hinkley?” River asked.

Roman leaned against the window. “Nobody.”

The silent battle of eyes ensued in the mirror, neither brother conceding.

Marley snored in the backseat, his glasses sliding down his nose, and I bit back a grin when a bump in the road caused his snore to rise before falling again.

“He always does that,” River said, noting my amusement. “Has since I was a kid. Put him in a vehicle he isn’t driving, and he’s asleep in minutes. Something about the motion, he says.”

My lips twitched. “I had a dog once that did that.”

River chuckled. “I’m sure Uncle Marley would be ecstatic to know his sleeping habits are akin to a canine.”

I started to look back at the road, but River tapped the steering wheel lightly, his gaze swinging to my profile.

“What’s your full name?” he asked. “I didn’t get it the other day.”

My gaze met his. “Haven Ambrose.”

Roman grunted. “Sounds like a stripper name.”

I blushed. “Mom saw it in a romance novel when she was pregnant, same last name, and felt it was too much of a coincidence not to use.”

“Very creative,” Roman muttered.

I threw him a look. “Certainly no more strange than Roman or River.”

River laughed. “She has you there, brother.”

My gaze fell to River’s shirt. “Do you go to Harvard?”

He shrugged, and I watched the way his shirt stretched across his chest, his biceps rippling. He seemed entirely too fit to be a preppy college student.

“My first year,” he answered. “I’m down on break. And you? Any plans for school?”

My face heated. “Maybe.”

It was all I said. Right now, Mom and I depended on my paycheck. College would be decided by her new job, and even then I would still work. I’d signed up for the work program at the Junior College where I’d work a minimum wage job on campus between classes.

We paused at a stop sign and River’s eyes searched mine. “You ever been down to the river before?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not this part. I go fishing with my cousins on the river close to home though.”

Roman snorted. “Such a feminine past time.”

River’s jaw tensed. “Ignore Roman. He’s just angry because I forced him to come.”

I glanced at the handcuffs. “Literally it seems.”

River’s lips twitched. “Sometimes we do extreme things for people we care about.”

Roman glowered.

The truck moved onto a dirt road, the tires sinking into ruts a vehicle without four wheel drive wouldn’t have been able to maneuver. A pair of sunglasses hanging on the rearview mirror swung as River pulled into a crude driveway, the ground leveling off in front of a large one floor cabin built on stilts. Wooden stairs led up onto a wide wraparound porch with shining French doors.

“This was my grandfather’s old fishing camp,” River said.

“Joy,” Roman mumbled. “We’re roughing it.”

I stared at the cabin. Simple as it was, it was still bigger than my house.

River put the truck in park before reaching over the seat to pat Marley’s leg.

“Time to wake up, old man. We’re here.”

Chapter 10

River

My gaze lingered on the river below us, my forearm resting against the window at the back of the cabin. The sun was high, but the shaded porch beyond cast the side of the room in shadow, and I could see Haven’s reflection in the glass as she dropped her Walmart bag on a black suede sofa against the wall. She massaged the back of her neck, her eyes roaming the room.

The cabin wasn’t large, just a small living space with a modest flat screen television separated from the kitchen by a black marble island. White cabinets lined the back wall, flanking a fireplace. Three doors led off the living area, each leading to a small bedroom with its own adjoining bathroom.

Roman’s reflection joined Haven’s in the glass, his expression sour as he sat on the sofa, his hand sweeping Haven’s things to the floor. A Ziploc bag and a pile of clothes tumbled to the hardwood.

“You buy everything from Walmart?” Roman sneered.

Haven bent to pick up the clothes, her sleeveless white button up top revealing a cropped, black tank beneath.

“No,” she countered. “Sometimes I get it from Goodwill.”

I bit back a smile. It was obvious Haven wasn’t easily riled, even if she was defensive. She reminded me of an injured boxer who’d endured several hard rounds, who knew he was losing, the odds stacked against him, but who still refused to give up. I respected resilience. Stubbornness, I could live without. The Braydens had enough stubbornness in their blood to last generations, but resilience was something else entirely.

“Of course,” Roman said. “We Braydens often contribute to Goodwill.”

There was anger in my brother’s voice, anger and something deeper, more troubling. A hint of desperation. Roman had always been the silent type, but generally happy and generous to a fault. I didn’t know this new Roman; the angry, desperate one.

I clenched my jaw, my fist tightening against the window frame. Haven finished replacing her things and eyed my brother.

“Then your generosity is appreciated,” she replied.

There was no sarcasm in her tone, nothing to suggest Roman had angered her.

I pushed away from the window. “Maybe Uncle Marley could use some help unloading,” I suggested.

Roman didn’t move, his gaze meeting mine. “I didn’t sign on for this trip.”

Instead of arguing, I simply walked past him, my feet finding the stairs beyond the front door. It was muggy outside, the hint of rain in the air, but it wouldn’t come today. It was too hot for rain.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

“I can help,” Haven offered.

I started to shake my head, but then realized she’d probably be offended by it. So, I glanced over my shoulder at her flushed face and falling ponytail, and simply said, “Thanks.”

She nodded, coming up beside me as we reached the back of the truck where Uncle Marley stood looking at the sky, his lips moving as he mumbled under his breath.

My gaze followed his. “It won’t rain today.”

Uncle Marley pushed up his glasses, squinting. “Are you sure? Some of this equipment ...”

“I’m sure,” I interrupted, my tone short.

Marley sputtered but nodded, his hand gesturing at the boxes. “Then move them to the ground. I want to try setting up a camera near the river.”

Haven climbed into the back of the truck. She was average height, maybe five foot five inches at most, but she was all legs, tanned and honed, and I found myself watching her as she pulled herself over the tailgate.

“I can hand them to you,” she said.

My eyes drifted to her face. “I can get them.”

She laughed. “I’m stronger than I look, but I’m also not afraid to admit my weaknesses. I can give you the boxes from up here, but you’re definitely more able to carry them.”

She had a soft laugh, not the kind I expected from her, and the way her eyes moved to my arms made my blood heat.

I pulled the truck’s tailgate down and braced myself for the load. The boxes were heavier than they looked but not uncomfortably heavy, and I set them down on the ground at the foot of the cabin’s stairs. There were only four boxes and a cooler of food. Haven straightened after she handed me the last one, her hands moving to her back, her eyes going to the sky.

“How do you know it won’t rain?” she asked.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She watched the sky, but I watched her face, my eyes studying the way her sun-bleached hair curled around her temples in the humidity. The wavy mass looked like it tangled easily.

“You can tell by the way the air feels,” I told her.

She looked down, and our eyes met. “You have an interest in the weather?”

I shrugged. “It’s a hobby.”

Haven stooped, swinging her long legs over the end of the lowered tailgate, and sat.

She glanced at me. “Sometimes hobbies become careers.”

I pulled at my T-shirt, letting the harsher breezes moving in from the south cool my sweat dampened skin.

“In my family, business comes first, hobbies come second.”

She stared down the sloping yard at the river. Only a thin line of muddy water could be seen from where she sat, the trees mostly obscuring it. Older leaves from the spring were blown toward the ground, falling like green-colored snow. Newer, greener leaves would replace them. It was June. The summer would get hotter, the leaves fuller and heavier. The over-sweet scent of honeysuckle mixed with the damp, sometimes putrid scent of wet moss and standing water surrounded us.

“You’re old money, right? The Braydens made their fortune off cotton, I understand,” she said, her tone inquiring.

My gaze followed hers to the river. “We did, but with the passing of time, the Civil War, and the end of slavery, my family adapted with the times. We began to invest our money in different business ventures, leaning more toward that than cotton. We still own a plantation, but there’s nothing grown on it now. We make all of our money off of investments.”

I didn’t ask her how she knew about my family. Everyone knew about my family.

“Ah, the power of business,” she murmured. “A family who made their fortune off the backs of slaves.”

I didn’t miss the sarcasm in her voice, and I eyed her. “The Civil War has long been over, and aren’t you a little judgmental being fresh out of high school? Shouldn’t you be worried about your nails or shoes or something?”

She snorted, and even though it shouldn’t have sounded endearing, it did. “Does it look like I ever have my nails done? And I wouldn’t know the difference between a pair of flip flops and a pair of ... of ...”

“Gucci or Prada?” I supplied.

She threw me a look. “Yeah, that.”

I fought a smile. Something told me she wouldn’t be amused by my amusement. “If it makes you feel any better, my family didn’t use slave labor for several years before the Civil War. One of my great grandfathers was an advocate for slavery while his son abhorred it. I had one uncle who fought for the Confederacy and one for the Union. The typical split family back then.”

Haven sighed, her shoulders shrugging. “It was stupid anyway.” She looked at me. “My bringing it up, that is. At least you have a family tree you can trace.”

She jumped off the tailgate then, her head at my chest.

“And you can’t trace yours?” I asked.

She laughed. “You mean past my grandparents and the amazing number of cousins? Umm, no. I guess I would know more if I had the money to look, but tracing your family lineage requires a search and a willing family.”

She took a step toward the river.

I followed her. “It’s just you and your mom then?”

She didn’t answer me, her eyes on the water, on the falling leaves. The breeze picked up, and I realized she smelled faintly of apples.

“Your brother is on drugs,” she said abruptly.

I recognized a change of subject when I heard one. My fists tightened at my sides.

“What makes you think that?” I asked her.

She glanced at me. “His mood, and the way his hands tremble.”

I started. “His hands?”

The compassion in her gaze was stark. “You haven’t noticed?” she asked. “I saw them in the cabin. His hands tremble when they aren’t fisted.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I was hoping he wasn’t on anything strong.”

Her hand was suddenly resting on my arm. I looked down at it, and she snatched it away.

“You did right bringing him here,” she said. “Sometimes it takes stepping away from everything to see the things that are wrong.”

My eyes narrowed. “It sounds like you speak from experience.”

Again, she didn’t answer, and when she brushed by me, her feet taking her to the cabin, I didn’t follow.

I stared at the water below. My mother had named me for a river. When she was alive, she’d told me I often reminded her of the calm, strong waters of a river; sometimes churning angrily and overflowing its banks, but always steady, always flowing and constant. Roman, she’d said, had been like a tiny soldier from the day he was born, the kind of child she was afraid would be mighty but would fall as quickly as he rose in success. It was why she’d named him Roman, like he was a miniature gladiator.

But I, she’d said, was the river, a river that would catch people in its current, a river that would forge its own way.