Immortal Mine (13 page)

“Farm it?” I evade, doubting we will. We
never knew when we might have to move again. At most, we could stay
for a decade before suspicions arose. “I don’t know. We haven’t
really talked about it much.”

“Well, if you do,” she continues, not
noticing my hesitancy, “we mostly grow wheat, corn and potatoes
around here. And sheep,” she adds. “So you might consider something
different if you want to make any money.”

She glances at me again, curiously, and I
decide I can’t wait any longer to find out exactly what she’s
thinking. I slip my hand into hers, feeling the surge of energy
immediately, only with effort managing to keep the surprise from my
face. I thought maybe the first time was a fluke, the strength of
the transfer. Images wash through my head, and I force them
back.

“Is this okay?” I ask, seeing the pink
climbing her cheeks.

“Um, yeah,” she murmurs. I can feel the
shyness that’s pinging through her mind, tinged with pleasure. I
can also feel her desire to ask me about money—which would account
for the look she gave me after her last comment—but overlying that,
her refusal to ask what she considers an intrusive question.

“And then,” she continues, trying to cover
her feelings of awkwardness with her recital of facts, “when they
put the interstate in ten years ago, any money the town received
from travelers disappeared.” The interstate was twenty-five miles
east of town, too far for travelers to go out of their way, I knew.
“Main Street was actually a pretty cool place at one time—lots of
little shops for the tourists. But I guess you’ve seen that those
are mostly all boarded up now, covered with some graffiti. We still
get some motorcycle riders during the summer, who are trying to
avoid the interstate.”

An interesting thing is happening. Niahm is
reciting these facts, her voice full of the passion she has for her
town, but her mind is occupied elsewhere... on our touching hands,
particularly. I can see her warring thoughts about that. She’s
pleased, happy to be holding hands, but also reticent, wondering
what it means. I pull out of her mind with effort. It’s not fair
for me to cheat by peeking, and I’m afraid I may answer her
unspoken questions without thinking. The heat in my palm slowly
recedes.

We step onto the end of Main Street, which
is mostly deserted. As we pass the library, a woman steps out,
nearly bumping into us.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Thorne,” Niahm says,
stopping. “Have you met Sam Coleman?”

She turns to smile at me as the elderly
woman peers over the top of her spectacles, as if I were a specimen
to be studied. “You the new folks in town?” she asks in a whispery
voice.

“Yes, ma’am. My uncle and I purchased the
Stanton place.” I’ve learned by now that’s the way to refer to the
place we purchased, not by saying “the place on Herbert Road.”

“Well, welcome,” she whispers, turning and
reentering the library. I look at Niahm, and she just smiles and
shrugs at the strange encounter.

“That’s Mrs. Thorne, the librarian. I don’t
know exactly how old she is, but I suspect she might’ve known
Moses.” I laugh at her assessment. “She’s strict about keeping it
quiet in there, but she’s a sweet old lady. And she knows
everything
. If there’s something she might not know right
away, she can find it for you lickety-split. Sometimes, I think the
woman is immortal,” she says, and if she notices the slight jerk in
my frame at her words, the tensing of my muscles, the fight or
flight instinct that kicks in before I push it back, she doesn’t
say anything.

We continue through town, as she tells me
about some of the more prominent residents. Dan Smythe, who cuts
hair in the same shop as his father did, for the slightly inflated
rate of five bucks, as his father only charged two-fifty.

“But I wouldn’t let him touch my hair,” she
says. She glances up at my flaming mop. “I wouldn’t let him cut
yours either, if I were you. Unless you prefer a short buzz or a
bowl cut.”

I don’t tell her that I am not in the habit
of having anyone cut my hair other than myself or Shane. Too much
risk of having someone question why I color my hair… though right
now it is its natural color, which I haven’t worn since before
Niahm was even born. I glance at her again, wondering what she
would think if she knew that little piece of Sam-trivia.

We arrive at the store… which, incidentally,
seems to be purely a remaining tourist attraction. The real store
is a few blocks away, larger and better stocked than this one. This
store carries overpriced specialty items, drugstore items, and has
an ice cream counter in the back. There is not a head of lettuce to
be seen.

Old Man Jones is parked in his rocking chair
out front. He’s been there every time I’ve been down this road, and
I wonder if he’s paid to sit out here, smoking his pipe, telling
stories to anyone who will listen. Niahm stops to tell him hello,
and introduces me.

“Is he always there?” I ask, pointing toward
the front of the store, as we sit at the counter.

“Unless the weather’s bad,” she confirms.
“He’s usually got a bunch of his old cronies with him. Guess
they’re taking the day off.”

Officer Hill enters as we place our orders,
and I force myself to remain relaxed. He is the deputy of Goshen,
under the jurisdiction of the state Sherriff. However, he’s the
only officer that resides in and patrols the town—something Shane
and I checked out before moving here. He also mans the jail, which,
according to what we found, is usually empty.

Several ATV’s loudly pass on the street
outside. Those and horses seem to be the main modes of
transportation around here. Horses and ATV’s going down the road
are a more common sight than cars. Niahm told me that if you’re
raised here, you can ride a horse or an ATV with equal skill, and
you will have been riding both since before you could even walk.
Some people still even travel to participate in rodeos, though, she
informed me, no one had won anything of importance in about a dozen
years or so.

Niahm is relaxed, sitting here in Hornsby’s,
eating a banana split. Clearly she has left thoughts of her chores
behind. I wonder if getting her to talk about her beloved town is
the secret to relaxing her. And love this town, she does. Even if I
couldn’t peek into her head and see it, I would hear it in her
voice.

I decide I had better learn to love it as
much as she does. Because in some way, shape or form, I’m going to
have to stick around, for as long as she is here. Unless she asks
me to leave; then I’ll have to hide out. I curse the stupid bond
that holds me to her, and the creativity that will be required to
stay by her side.

And stay by her side I will, whether I want
to or not. I look at her, this stubborn, temperamental,
hard-working, complicated, amazing-pie-baking girl, and realize
that I’m very much starting to want to.

The play is a success. Of course, it can’t
really fail when the entire town either knows or is related to
someone participating. The entire town closed up so that everyone
could turn out to watch. That’s normal. Whether it’s a play, a
wedding, funeral or graduation, Goshen closes so that everyone can
support one another.

I will never admit, even on threat of
torture, that I really had fun doing it. Heather had written a kiss
into the show, between mine and Sam’s characters, and I didn’t want
my first kiss ever to be in front of all of my friends, in
rehearsal. I was trying to figure out how to explain that without
sounding like a complete idiot, when Sam told her we should skip
the kiss, keeping it absolutely PG. Before she could protest, he
had charmed her into thinking his way, and she insisted we keep the
kiss out. It was weird, as if he could tell how uncomfortable I was
with it.

Part of me also wondered why
he
wanted to keep it out. I kinda thought he liked me, but maybe I was
wrong. Maybe the thought of kissing me repulses him. I probably
would have kept thinking that if he hadn’t been spending so much
time with me, holding my hand often, to the point where I now miss
it when we’re together and he doesn’t take my hand.

Now that we’ve closed the final curtain on
the play, we head to Blake Barton’s house—along with most of the
town. Blake’s parents have opened up one of their already
harvested, but not yet replanted fields to the after party.
Everyone brings food, and John Matthews has set up his large
speakers, which are blaring music from his attached iPod.

I set one of the two plates of cookies I
made onto the table with all the rest of the food, and turn
away.

“Not sharing today?”

I turn to see my copper-headed costar
grinning at me. I hold the plate out toward him.

“I made these for you,” I say.

“Oh yeah?” He walks closer. He takes the
plate, pulling one cookie off and placing it in his mouth. “Mmmm,
these are fantastic,” he mutters around his mouthful of cookie.
“Bet they make great grenades, too.”

My eyes narrow at him, but he’s
laughing.

“Just kidding!” he protests, popping another
cookie into his mouth.

I give in to his humor and smile. “To be
honest, they are kind of an apology.”

He looks at me, perplexed. “For?”

“Well, partly for, you know, throwing all of
those other cookies at you before. I mean, those were really good
cookies, and I wasted them.”

“That was a while ago, Niahm. I’m hardly
holding a grudge.” While we’ve been talking, he has guided me away
from the table, to a more quiet area. “You said ‘partly’. What else
could you have to be sorry for?”

“For taking up all of your time. You spend
so much time helping me, you haven’t had time to… well, to do your
own things… whatever they are.”

His brows come together in consternation,
though his smile doesn’t leave his face.

“Your brain works in the strangest way,” he
says.

“Why?” I can’t help it, I’m a little
offended.

“Because,” he steps closer after setting the
plate of cookies down on a nearby chair, “you seem to forget that
you didn’t ask it of me. I’m there because I want to be there.”

“Oh.” Another brilliant response from the
strange-brained girl. Then, before I can stop myself, I blurt,
“Why?”

He takes another step closer, pulling one of
my hands into his, bringing his other up to brush his thumb lightly
along my jaw. I feel that strange heat flare up between our
touching hands. He leans down a little closer to me, and I
immediately panic, wondering if he’s going to kiss me. I want him
to… I think. No, I don’t, not here. Not now. Okay, maybe now will
be fine. A small smile appears on his face, in contrast with the
intensity of the moment.

“Because I like you,” he says quietly. “I
like being around you.”

His words vaguely register over the anxiety.
I try to remember what I’ve eaten today, whether my breath is bad
or not. I know I brushed my teeth…I’m pretty sure, anyway. How
should I hold my mouth, should I turn my head? Oh, man, I
definitely should have asked my mom about this. Then the thought of
actually asking her about kissing fills me with mortification. No,
not her. Stacy, then.

Sam suddenly chuckles, and I freeze. Does he
know my thoughts? I don’t think I spoke aloud. Did I? No, I’m
pretty sure I didn’t. I open my mouth to ask him what’s so funny,
and instead hear myself say, “Are you going to kiss me?” in a tone
both curious and demanding.

Humiliation floods me from the top of my
head to the minutest end of my toes. I try to pull back, but Sam
holds me firmly, not letting me hide in shame.

“I am,” he says, and my heart stops. “Soon,”
he qualifies.

My mouth drops open slightly at his words,
and he laughs again.

“Wanna dance?” he asks, not waiting for an
answer. Good thing, since I don’t think I could form a coherent
sentence if I tried. He leads me out to where others are dancing,
pulling me into his arms. He’s a very good dancer, though I
shouldn’t be surprised. What does surprise me is that he holds me
at a distance even my dad would find respectable, keeping one of my
hands in his, tucked up to his chest. He doesn’t take his eyes from
mine, his shining with humor from a joke only he understands. I
wonder if
I’m
the joke. The smile drops from his face and he
leans down, putting his mouth near my ear so that I can hear him
over the music.

“I really do like you, Niahm. Don’t doubt
that for one second.”

I look at him, stunned. Can he read my mind?
He grimaces, and closes his eyes briefly, as one does when they are
trying to control their temper, or something. Is he angry at me? He
smiles down at me, and I can’t read any anger on his face.

I feel the strange, intense heat between our
hands begin to fade, and I’m relieved. I’m not sure why it keeps
happening, that weird heat, but I definitely don’t want him to
think I have sweaty hands. He might not want to hold hands with me
anymore if he did.