When Secrets Run Dry

PART I

WIVES, BE SUBJECT TO your own husbands, for the husband is the head of the wife just as Christ is head of the Church.

Ephesians 5:22-24

One

SECRETS ARE BORN WHEN the truth dies, thundered the Baptist preacher from the radio on the kitchen counter. "Secrets breed lies like rats, scurrying within us, searching for any crevice to hole up in and watch the show. And it will be a good one, folks. Because secrets know how to survive. Like a demon, they possess us, preying on our weakened souls, whispering beautiful lies and filling us with false hope. Only the truth can save us from the flames of hell!"

She scowled as she reached inside the plump pumpkin to remove the gooey pulp.

I guess I’m okay. I have no secrets. I barely have a life.

With her arms elbow-deep, it was impossible to reach over and flip the switch on her husband’s favorite religious program, so she was forced to finish the sermon.

"And then there’s death. Like a ghost, it quietly slips into our lives, content to drift along beside us until that one perfectly exposed moment, and in a flash, it strikes with deadly force. Disease! Accident! Murder! And when death comes, will you be ready? When you stand before the Almighty, will your soul be free of secrets and lies? Think about your life and always follow the truth wherever it leads you. Have a blessed day."

Out of nowhere, a whisper of frigid air engulfed her, and she shivered, hoping death wasn’t hovering next to her right now. But it was the preacher’s last statement that had truly grabbed her attention.

Think about your life and always follow the truth wherever it leads you.

Lately, she had been thinking about all those things. What was her truth and where was it supposed to lead her? Was it to this isolated ranch, carving out pumpkins no one would ever see? Or to a stoic husband who preferred silent surrender over compromise.

Is this where I truly belong?

The sweet sound of a slow gospel song filled the airwaves. A stray strand of dark hair fell in front of her face, and using her forearm, she brushed it away, wishing she had secured her long braid before starting her pumpkin project. The stifling humidity in the small kitchen caused her cotton dress to melt against her slight frame as she concentrated on getting the carved features just right.

Follow the truth wherever it leads you.

She couldn’t get those words off her mind, and now she was upset with herself for not reaching over and turning off the radio, because she was questioning her choices again, just like she had done her whole life, especially when it came to her gift, or ‘curse’ as her parents often referred to it.

Her entire existence had always been dictated by broad strokes of color and light. Sight, emotion, and sound elicited splashes of psychedelic hues within her creative mind. Her right hand served as a conduit, producing works of art she preferred to hide from this judgmental world. In another life, she would have lived in Italy, content to dwell among the Leonardo’s and Michelangelo’s of the world, wielding her paint brush like an orchestra conductor’s wand. But she didn’t have another life. Just this one. Lonely. Misunderstood.

Instead of seeing their only child as an artistic prodigy, her puzzled parents regarded her as something of an oddity. After all, it couldn’t be normal for a human to generate colors that seemed to...fornicate...before their baffled eyes. So it was no surprise when she arrived home from her high school graduation to find her parents had skipped town to answer the overseas call for missionaries. Happy graduation to her.

Things turned around when she met Tate Miller, and when he asked her to marry him three weeks later, she couldn’t say yes fast enough. And soon, everything was as ivory as a simple dress and as red as the loss of innocence on a hasty honeymoon night. Her color wheel continued to blossom with the pink of tenderness and the green of security, and soon her world resembled an English garden in spring. Forever gone were the dull grays and whites of her humble beginnings.

And even though she was thankful for this new life, she quickly discovered Tate harbored some of the same tendencies as her clueless parents when it came to her gift. He couldn’t understand how anyone could spend wasteful hours sitting in a chair and painting a vase when the chickens needed to be fed and the garden weeded. So, she was forced to adapt again. But she did love her hard-working husband, and if conforming to his archaic beliefs made him happy then what was the harm. Just because she was forced to live someone else’s dreams instead of her own was no reason to be ungrateful.

The front screen door slammed shut, killing her gray thoughts. Heavy footsteps approached from behind before thick arms enfolded her petite frame. A calloused palm trailed down to the small mound hidden beneath the pleats of her cotton dress. How’s little Tate, Jr. today?

She smiled at the rich russet of his voice. Everything about her husband was shades of brown—sturdy, earthy, outdoorsy. You shouldn’t get your hopes up it’s a boy. We could have a little girl baking in this oven.

Reaching around her, he grabbed an apple from a yellow bowl on the butcherblock countertop. Between bites, he said, I know it’s a boy. For generations, my family has raised sons on this ranch, and I’m sure the tradition won’t stop with us.

I guess we’ll see in six and a half months, she responded, turning the pumpkin in different angles to ensure she had the features in perfect alignment. Just think. This time next year, we’ll be parents, and we’ll get to do all the fun Halloween things with our baby. I was thinking about a cow costume. Wouldn’t that be cute?

Tate released an irritated sigh. Have you forgotten what these past three years have been like for us? We can barely afford this baby. And no more art supplies either. I saw the last sales receipt from Wal Mart. I thought we were done with this conversation.

Her cheeks reddened at the dark black of his voice. Ducking her head to avoid eye contact, she murmured, I’m sorry. I just thought...

Tate leaned in, his scent green, his voice beige. "You know I love you, Ali, but we don’t just live on a ranch. We survive on it. His warm lips found her hot cheek before giving her a gentle pat on the rear. I’m heading out to the south pasture. A cow is in labor. I’ll see you at supper."

She silently nodded. It made no sense to argue. In the long run, Tate always won.

Picking up the last pumpkin, her nimble fingers went to work, only to be stopped by the approach of a loud muffler coming up the drive. Once again, her eyes moved to the window in time to see a black truck screeching to a halt, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. She shook her head. Jeb. He always made a loud entrance.

The screen door slammed shut a second time, followed by similar footsteps, and then Jeb filled the tiny kitchen, removing his trucker hat to reveal a shiny bald head. He dramatically wiped the sweat from his brow, exclaiming, Goddamn, it’s hot. Where in the hell is the cold weather?

You’re just like Tate. Always complaining. You’ll be begging for this weather in a couple of months.

I doubt it. Big guys like us need winter, he grinned, grabbing his Santa Claus belly. Tate and I are like bears. We have plenty of insulation to get us through the cold nights. But Tate does have one thing up on me, he said with a wink. He has you.

But she didn’t laugh, still thinking about her husband and his harsh words. Jeb must have noticed, because he asked, What’s wrong, Ali? You look sad.

Her lips straightened into a grim line. It’s Tate and this financial situation we’re in. I just got my weekly lecture about spending money on unnecessary things.

That’s Tate. Tight as bark on tree. He’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him.

But it’s getting worse, Jeb. When will things start looking up for us?

They will. Just give it time, he said as he lowered his bulky frame onto the vinyl seat of a metal kitchen chair. His brown eyes moved to the boiling pot on the gas stovetop. Is that a chicken in there?

Mm...hm. Dumplings for supper. We’re one less chicken today, but I try not to think about that when I stir the pot.

Jeb’s heavy cheeks split into a grin. You’re a cattle farmer’s wife, Ali. You should be used to this by now. Just think of it as a chicken fulfilling its destiny.

As usual, Jeb knew how to chase away the blues with his corny sayings. She chuckled as she asked, Should I set another plate for you?

Nope. As much as I’d like to come, I can’t make it tonight. I’m meeting someone later.

She shot him a sideways glance. You mean, like a date?

He grinned. Don’t be jealous, Ali. You’ll always be my number one girl. But to answer your question, no, it’s not a date. I’m making a run to Texas in the morning, and there are some details I need to work out before I go. I mainly popped in to check on y’all and make sure there’s nothing you need before I leave.

That’s sweet, Jeb, but I think we’re okay. Tate just left a few minutes ago for the south pasture. A cow is having a calf.

Shit. I guess I’ll see him when I get back. Will you tell him I stopped by?

Of course. Be safe on the road.

As he lumbered toward the doorway, he announced, Quick bathroom break, and I’m out of here.

Sure, she absently replied, concentrating on getting the triangle eye just right. I’ll see you in a few days.

When he left, she listened to the truck muffler grow fainter. Opening the pantry door, she moved aside canned goods until she found the box of votive candles she purchased and hid last week from Tate.

Once a votive was placed strategically in each pumpkin, she took them outside and lined them up on the wooden steps. Stay away, evil spirits, she whispered, remembering the old wives’ tale of jack o’lanterns warding off the wickedness released on Halloween. That cold chill returned, and she looked at the clouds gathering on the horizon. Rubbing her bare arms, she hurried back inside and firmly shut the door.

§

She lay on her side, absorbing the heat of her husband’s burly frame as she watched a moonbeam move across his sleeping face. Tate could never stay awake for long after having sex. At a time when she craved more than just physical contact, her husband was content to snore his nocturnal exertions away. Her simple man may not be a passionate lover, but at least he was a thoughtful one, holding her as if she were made of fine china. Her hand moved to her stomach with a smile. She thought about her earlier thoughts and following her truth, but at the end of the day, this was what mattered. Not her. Not her husband. Just this beautiful child growing inside her. Snuggling closer, she let out a contented sigh and closed her eyes, whispering, I love you, Tate.

The squawking of the chickens brought them instantly awake. Tate was already in defensive mode as he leapt out of bed, reaching for his jeans. Something is after the livestock. Her husband’s size may hinder him at times, but when it came to defending his home, he could move like a panther. Bare-chested, he grabbed the shotgun always propped diligently in the corner. I’ll be back.

She nodded, suddenly fearful as she heard him stomp through the house. It wasn’t unusual for predators to visit their vulnerable stock in the night, but something felt...off.

Huddled beneath the blanket, her heart hammered as she waited for her husband’s return. How long had he been gone now? Ten minutes? An hour? Who can tell when you’re this scared. She cowered further into the mattress as if doing so would protect her from harm. Her husband wasn’t by her side. She was as vulnerable as the cattle roaming the ranch.

Tate, please come back to me.

The air inside their bedroom stilled, and out of the blue, she had a visual of those old-fashioned rope hangings, where the criminal stands on a wooden platform with a noose around his neck, his feet shifting uneasily as he waits for the trapdoor to open but still praying for that last-minute reprieve. That’s what this waiting felt like.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she clutched the quilt with shaking hands, and just like her childhood days, her mind went to that other place, and her lips began to silently move as she recited over and over the seven colors of the rainbow to keep the blackness at bay. And then she heard it.

Boom.

Paralyzed with fear, she waited. Who was shot? Her husband? The invader?

Boom.

And then came a gray, thundering silence, and all she could think about were those pumpkins with their flickering crooked smiles and how high her expectations had been to think she could ward off evil spirits with something so silly. Her efforts had been in vain.

The black of death had already arrived.

§

This is Karen Banks of KGIV reporting to you live from the scene of a double homicide. I’m standing outside the home of Tate and Alice Miller, and as you can see, there are several police cars on the scene. I’m being told two people are dead tonight following an attempted home invasion and shootout, which resulted in the homeowner and the suspect losing their lives. A few minutes ago, an ambulance left with the homeowner’s wife, and it is unclear what her condition is at this time. We have not been told the name of the suspect, pending contact with the family. Stay tuned for more on this developing story.

Two

KNEELING ON THE COLD, damp ground, she picked up a dead rose from the withered funeral bouquets blanketing the dirt mound above her husband’s coffin. Since Tate’s death two weeks ago, she had made daily pilgrimages to the cemetery, unable to cope with the fact that her husband was never coming home. Rain or shine, she would sit for hours, talking to him about the ranch as if he were sitting across from her at the kitchen table with his hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee.

A cow died yesterday in labor, because I didn’t know what to do.

The truck broke down last week, and it cost three hundred dollars to fix it.

One by one, she confessed her failures, but no solutions or absolutions came. Never again would she hear the warm brown of her husband’s voice as he guided her in the right direction. For the rest of her life, a dagger would forever be jammed into her gut, and she had a drug addict named Jessie Landers to thank for driving in the blade.

Jessie Landers.

The police later told her they found empty heroin syringes in his pocket, leading them to surmise he was looking to rob a home to steal money for his next fix, which she found ironic considering money at their house was as scarce as water in the desert. This murdering junkie had obliterated her family, and she wished he had lived, so she could see him pay for his sins.

You killed Tate and my baby, and I hope you rot in hell.

The media got it wrong when they reported only two deaths that night. The trauma of finding her husband’s dead body had been too much for her fragile state of mind, and it didn’t take long for the blood running down her legs to mingle with her husband’s. She barely remembered the ambulance ride to the hospital, and within an hour of arrival, an ultrasound confirmed what she already knew. Her baby was gone, leaving her womb as empty as her heart. At that moment, her hate for Jessie Landers knew no boundaries.

Heavy gray clouds chose that moment to release a chilly mist on her numb body. Stiff fingers fumbled at the buttons of Tate’s oversize coat as she tucked her legs closer beneath her, not caring if the soggy ground seeped into her black cotton dress. All that mattered was being by her husband’s side where she belonged.

Laying a hand on the muddy mound, she whispered, I won’t be able to come tomorrow. Joel Sherman called and said he needed to see me at the bank right away. I don’t know what to do. You took care of everything. I know this ranch has been in your family for generations, but there’s no one left but me. Should I sell it? What should I do? Help me, Tate. Help me.

Her sobbing increased as she curled up on the ground, digging her fingernails into the dirt. The rain was steadier now, soaking her clothes and hair, but her grief-stricken mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening beyond the breaking of her heart. She closed her eyes, willing the ground to swallow her up so she could join her husband in eternal peace, but before the magic of death could carry her away, strong hands gripped her arms. Ali. Ali. Wake up.

Pained green eyes opened to find concerned brown ones staring down at her, and she was quickly reminded of Tate and this exact same look when he told her he loved her. But this isn’t Tate. It’s Jeb. Tate is gone...gone...gone. Scowling now, Jeb said, Damn it, Ali. I thought you were dead.

I wish I was, she mumbled as she allowed Jeb to pull her to a sitting position. What are you doing here?

He gave her an incredulous look. I’ve been worried about you, and when I couldn’t find you at the ranch, I took a chance and came here. I’m glad I did. Look at you. You’re soaked. Come on. You can’t stay out here like this. Let’s get you home.

Sobbing, she cried out, No! I can’t leave him. A woman’s place is with her husband. This is where I belong.

You belong at the ranch, he said as he forced her to her feet. I’m not leaving you out here to die.

But what about Tate?

Jeb grabbed her shoulders, his voice stern. Tate is gone, Ali. He’s not coming back. I miss him too. Probably more than you do. He was like my brother, and life without him is going to be hard, but we can’t let our grief keep us from living. Tate can’t be happy in heaven if we’re miserable down here.

Despite her grief, a small smile played across her lips. There you go again with those corny sayings, just like Tate. Fresh tears filled her eyes. I’ll never hear his voice again, Jeb. Never.

I know, Ali. I won’t either, he said as he put his arm across her shoulders, pulling her against him as he led her back to Tate’s old Chevy truck. It felt good to be held by someone so much like her husband. Big. Strong. Steady.

Once Jeb helped her inside and shut the door, she squeezed the water from her wet braid and pulled off the heavy coat, tossing it across the vinyl seats. Settling behind the wheel, she started the motor and flipped on the heater, appreciating the warmth touching her cold face and hands. As she drove home, she could see Jeb in the rearview mirror, and she was immediately comforted by his guarding presence.

The close friendship between Tate and Jeb had been a source of irritation at the beginning of their married life, particularly during that all-important honeymoon phase, but over time, she had learned to accept that these two men came as a package deal, as interwoven as tangled grapevine growing in the wild.

It was Tate who kept the schoolground bullies at bay until puberty finally caught Jeb up.

It was Tate who hired a homeless Jeb to work on the ranch, inviting him to live in the bunkhouse when he had nowhere else to go.

It was Tate who listened to Jeb’s aspirations of buying his own semi-truck, encouraging him until he saved enough to walk onto a truck lot and make a down-payment.

And then it was Jeb’s turn, taking Tate on a week-long road trip, stopping at one point in Oklahoma City for lunch at a local Freeze Queen where she happened to be working.

And it was Jeb who initially pointed her out as she stood behind the counter, and even though the two men were similar in looks, it was Tate’s broad smile and twinkling brown eyes that quickly caught her attention.

And it was Jeb who stood beside them at the courthouse when they exchanged vows, proudly watching from the sidelines like all best friends are destined to do.

There was no doubt Jebediah Jenkins belonged in their lives. Her fingers dug into the steering wheel.

He’s all I have left now.

Her windshield wipers were sweeping furiously across the glass when she pulled up to the ranch, and right now, all she could think about was the safety of her small home. Jeb pulled up beside her, and they both raced across the muddy yard and up the wood steps. Wiping their feet on the mat, she opened the door, and as soon as they stepped over the threshold, Jeb exclaimed, Did you forget to pay the gas bill? It’s friggin’ cold in here.

She shook her head, pointing to the corner. The radiator went out again, and I can’t remember how to turn it back on. Tate showed me once, but it didn’t stick with me because... because... A sob escaped her cold lips. I thought he would always be here.

Jeb quickly headed over to the corner and bent down, fiddling with the knob until the creaking contraption produced the much-welcomed heat. He turned back to her, a huge smile on his face. Ta-dah. All fixed.

And that’s the moment she noticed Jeb, really noticed him. Had he lost weight? Her kaleidoscope eyes had always viewed him in shades of orange—fun, warm, with a gypsy soul—and she knew there was someone out there who would someday see those great qualities and snatch him up. But not her. Jeb was like a brother, and besides, she had already decided she would never marry again. Her parents left her. Tate left her. She couldn’t handle the mental devastation of another abandonment. If God insisted she remain among the living, then she would do it alone.

Turning her attention back to her friend, she gratefully said, Thank you, Jeb. You’ve been a lifesaver as usual. She looked down at her wet dress, suddenly self-conscious of the way the material had molded to her body. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, I don’t mean to rush you, but a hot shower would feel great right now.

No problem. I’m supposed to leave early in the morning for a three-day run anyway. Concerned eyes moved over her. But maybe I should cancel it after what I found earlier.

Vigorously shaking her head, she countered, I’ll be okay, Jeb. It’s just going to take some time. The skepticism in his eyes still showed so she added, I swear I’ll do better. Go do your job, and I’ll be here, safe and sound, when you get back.

She could tell he still wasn’t convinced but he finally caved. I’ll take you out for supper when I get back. You need some attention, Ali. You look terrible.

That was one thing she could agree with him on. She did look terrible. That would be nice, but I don’t think I’m ready to go out in public yet. We can eat here. It will be nice to cook for someone again.

You got it, he said, his eyes growing sad. We can get through this together. Tate would haunt me for the rest of my life if he knew I wasn’t doing my part to take care of you. I’m here for you. Day or night.

She nodded, watching him leave before wearily turning toward a bedroom she now viewed as the threshold to loneliness. Standing in the doorway, sad eyes moved to the king bed, and it suddenly occurred to her what a large role this simple piece of furniture once played in her wedded life, a silent witness to the rites of passage every bride goes through, from the painful loss of her virginity to the conception of a child she would never hold. She still cringed at the early days of her marriage and her clumsy attempts to please her husband, only to be chided for her unnecessary efforts.

Ali, you don’t need to move. The quicker we get this done, the sooner we can go to sleep.

Since she was new to this, she deferred to Tate’s knowledge on the subject, but she had to do something while she lay so compliant beneath him. That’s when she made a game of it, mentally counting the number of moves it took to finish the deed, most of the time making it to six and on occasion to eight, all depending on what kind of day her tired husband had. Maybe this is what every wife in America does while their husband performs. She had this cartoonish image of housewives sitting around in their terrycloth bathrobes with a cigarette in one hand and telephone in the other, calling close friends to brag over their morning coffee.

Bob and I had a productive night last night. He made it all the way to twelve. I’m still smiling.

Twelve? How about fifteen? That’s right. Ten plus five more. My man’s a keeper.

But then again, she wouldn’t know since she had no friends to confide in other than Jeb, and she certainly couldn’t discuss that with him.

Sluggishly pulling her black dress over her head, she dropped it on the floor, breaking out in goosepimples at the feel of the cool air on her damp skin. Kicking off her boots, she walked quickly out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom when she was stopped dead in her tracks by a hulking figure in the living room, and for a split second, she thought it was Tate until Jeb cleared his throat, ducking his eyes from her naked body. Jesus...uh...sorry, Ali. I left my keys by the radiator.

She let out a loud cry and stumbled backwards into her bedroom. Slamming the door, she leaned against the wood panel, rapidly breathing in and out to calm her quaking heart. Mortified, she gripped the doorknob as she waited for a sign that he was gone for good this time. Eventually, she heard the familiar rumble of his truck muffler fade slowly into the distance. Peeking around the door, she raced down the hall to the safety of the bathroom, clicking the lock behind her.

Secure again, she took a deep breath, still reeling from the encounter with Jeb. What must he think of me? Her slight, girlish figure had never been a source of pride, and now Jeb knew what she was hiding beneath those shapeless dresses. She wasn’t sure she would ever be able to look him in the eye again.

Turning the shower knob, she loosened her long braid as she waited for the water to warm. Dark, lengthy strands unfurled down her spine, and she thought of Tate and how he loved to run his fingers through her thick mane, expressing his desire that she never cut it. And just like that, the anger that had burned inside her since Tate’s murder erupted in a frenzy of unchecked emotions. Small hands balled into fists as all the hurt and pain from the past two weeks came boiling to the surface. She looked in the mirror, screaming at the pale reflection with enlarged green eyes. You left me alone, Tate! Just like my parents did. You swore you would be there for me no matter what, but you lied. I hate you. I HATE you!

Red with a blinding fury, she marched to the kitchen and jerked open a drawer, snatching a butcher knife. Back in the bathroom again, she manically watched herself in the mirror as she grabbed a chunk of hair and sawed at it with the serrated blade, dropping large hunks on the tile floor before moving on to the next piece. Like a woman possessed, she sliced and chopped until there was nothing left but jagged ends barely covering the tops of her bare breasts. And when the red film of rage lifted, she stared in horror at the dark carnage on the floor. Sobbing, her hand slowly opened and released the knife, blankly registering the clatter of the blade as it fell into the metal sink.

In slow motion, she melted to the floor where her long and beautiful brown hair now lay, coiled around her body like snakes ready to strike.

Three

SHE TRIED NOT TO NOTICE the shocked look on Joel Sherman’s face as she settled in the wingback chair across from his oak desk. Her hair looked worse this morning, especially after falling asleep with it wet. Each time she passed a mirror, she wondered who the washed-out woman with the wild hair was.

This is the new me. The old me. The widowed me.

What did it matter anyway? There was no one at home who cared what she looked like. She could be bald like Jeb, and nothing would change the situation she currently found herself in.

Attempting some measure of composure, she folded her hands and rested them on her lap, calmly saying, I’m assuming when you called yesterday to schedule this meeting, it wasn’t to tell me how sorry you are for my husband’s death. You could have done that over the phone.

The middle-aged banker was now looking at her with an annoying sympathy. "I am sorry for your loss. Tate was a good man. A lot of people in this town, including me, will miss him."

It’s been a struggle, she murmured, blinking back tears that never seemed far from the surface. But I’m ready, Joel. Just give me the bad news and let’s get this over with.

He cleared his throat, obviously struggling to deliver the news. I wish there was a simple way to say this without sounding like a total jerk.

Let me make it easy for you. I’m going to lose the ranch.

Joel leaned back in his chair, his expression blank. "Tell me