“I thought you had an assistant.”
David Farmer looks up from the paperwork and a slow smile starts to form on his face. “Well I’ll be a son of a bitch. If it isn’t Hawk Sinclair! How the hell are you, son?” We meet halfway and hug awkwardly. My arm really prevents much contact. “How’s the arm?”
“Healing. I’m just coming from therapy.”
“I thought I heard your old man say something about you coming back to rehab here, but then I thought there’s no way in hell he’d leave Boston for this run of the mill town.”
“It’s home and my mom pretty much forced me.” I laugh.
“Sounds just like Rhonda. Tell me, what brings you by?” He goes to the desk and sits down while I take the seat in front of him.
“Thought I’d stop in and see how things are going. My business manager keeps me up to date on maintenance and things, but that only tells me so much about the fields. Everything good?”
He nods, opens his mouth and quickly closes it. He leans back in the chair and I fear he’s about to fall over, but somehow manages to stay upright.
“What is it?” I ask.
“How long are you here for?”
“Rehab is technically twelve weeks. It’ll depend on how that goes.”
“Wanna coach a Little League team?”
I start to laugh and shut my mouth quickly when I realize he isn’t joking. “Oh, um . . . not really. I can’t use my arm yet so I wouldn’t be much use to a team.”
“I could help.”
“If you could help, why not just coach?”
“The bylaws preclude me from doing so. I can help out but can’t helm a team and we are in desperate need of another coach.” Farmer fills me in on a few of the details from around town and I’m surprised to hear that Brett Larsen is limiting the number of kids per team.
“Hold up,” I say. “You mean to tell me that Brett is running things in town?”
“It’s like a bad mafia movie. People fear him. He’s pretty much put Nelson’s Hardware out of business. And he’s taken over the Little League. By the time I realized what was happening, things were too far gone. If I remove him, his friends go too, and they make up the league in these parts.”
“It’s Little League, Dave. Everyone should be able to play.”
He nods. “Brett only wants the best. Just today, I had a mom in here asking for help because her son wants to play. I mentioned it to Brett, and he told me to mind my own business.”
In my life, I deal with shady people all the time. Uncouth business dealings, opportunities that aren’t on the up and up, and people trying to take advantage, but never have I come across or been told about someone who’s determined to hurt children. I don’t care who you are, that shit doesn’t fly in my world.
David and I continue to talk for a bit. He suggests I come back during practice and see how things are going. He assures me that Brett will be none too happy to see me, so to prepare myself.
Can’t fucking wait.
Ten
Bellamy
There have been many times since my return to Richfield that I’ve second-guessed working for Owen — this adventure I’m currently on being one of them. I love being in real estate. Seeing homes, bringing joy to first time buyers, and marketing a product that you believe in is a rewarding job. I also love walking large pieces of land and taking pictures of the majestic views during the summer, showing interested parties what they’d see if they built their home facing east versus west, and vice versa. What I take issue with is heaving my body through the remaining snow, melting into deep mud bogs, slipping on patches of ice that have not yet thawed from the warmer days in galoshes that barely cover my calves. Thankfully, I had the keen sense of mind to wear pants today and not my normal skirt so at least my legs are covered from the dirt splatter, but I’m totally kicking myself for not buying those incredibly cute and fashionable knee-high boots everyone is wearing right now because I’m certain there’s mud between my toes.
Yet, here I am, walking the land with clipboard in hand and camera around my neck, following the surveyor as he reads a map from the town clerk’s office while directing his associate as to where to place these tiny little flags that are meant to withstand every weather element possible. To be honest, I’m not sure why I need to be here, but Owen insisted. I think he’s trying to send a message to Larsen, which Brett probably doesn’t give two shits about.
I decide to walk ahead of the survey crew. I don’t know exactly where I’m going and tell myself I won’t walk too far from them. The last thing I want is to get lost out here. With them not in my line of sight, I take a few photos to use when I list the land and right now, the way the sun rays are bouncing off the few patches of snow, it’s giving me the perfect backdrop.
“You’re not really dressed for the outdoors.”
I jump, my heart beating rapidly. I slowly turn toward the voice that came from behind me and find a horse standing at a fence I hadn’t noticed earlier, and because I’m nervous it takes my eyes the longest time to finally look up at the rider. He doesn’t wear the usual cowboy hat that most of the men around here wear when they’re riding, but a baseball cap. His right arm is in a sling and his left hand holds the reins. For some odd reason, I look at the stirrups, expecting to find a pair of worn out sneakers, but instead he’s wearing cowboy boots.