Page 51 of Then You Happened
“Who ran the finances here?” No greeting. No hello. Just a stone-cold expression and a demanding question as he pushes his way past me and into my house.
“What are you—Jack?”
“I asked you a question. Who ran the finances when Fletcher was alive? You or him?”
I stare at him, my thoughts bewildered. “He did.”
His eyes are dark as they study and judge and question. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?” Alarm bells are sounding off, but I can’t ignore them this time around, so I let them blare in the background.
“The overdue accounts in town. Did you know about them? Why didn’t you pay them? Did you—” He steps closer to me. The foyer is dark and the only light being from the kitchen at our backs, but his determination is undeniable. “Why didn’t you pay them?”
“I didn’t know about them. He ran the finances. He had the passwords to everything. He—”
“And you never asked? You never paid your own bills?”
I laugh in unease. “I’m not—I didn’t used to be detail oriented with stuff like that. When I left home, I sucked at it and just let him handle it.” I shake my head, hating that I have shame heavy in my belly. I’d been so complacent and naïve that I never bothered to try to handle my own finances. After the first payment I missed because I was so distracted taking pictures of all the new scenery to remember, I hadn’t wanted the responsibility, and that’s on me. “I didn’t know about the late accounts until the first time I showed my face in town after Fletcher died.”
“Who ran the ranch?”
“We did.”
“The day-to-day, who ran it?”
“I don’t understand—”
“Just answer the goddamn question, Knox!”
I flinch and hate that, for the briefest of seconds, he sounds like Fletcher used to in those last few weeks, which is to say demanding and agitated and nonsensical.
“We did. He did the major stuff like the breeding schedules and stud fees and payroll. The . . . the day-to-day,” I say, flustered and confused.
“And your role?”
I try not to get my feathers ruffled at his tone. He has no idea how completely inadequate I always felt or how Fletcher didn’t let me do anything when all I wanted to do was more.
“I exercised the horses. I groomed them . . . but other than what I learned from hearing the guys talk or watching them work, I didn’t know much else than that.”
“You lived here for years, and you think I’m going to believe that you just sat idly by the whole time?”
“I wasn’t idle. I was sneaking out when I could to do photography on the side.”
“Of what?”
“Ranch life and landscapes. Things I had planned on putting in my portfolio to someday try to open a gallery with.”
His head angles to the side momentarily as he chews over what I’ve said, as he decides whether I’m lying or not.
“How did you think you were getting supplies?”
“What do you mean? Like feed?”
“And groceries and everything else. If you weren’t going into town, everything was being delivered, right?”
“Yes.” I draw the word out because he just answered his own question so I’m not sure he needs more.
“Why didn’t you go to town for them?” There’s something in his tone—in what he’s looking for—that almost feels like, if I say the wrong thing, he’s going to walk out and never come back.
