rubbing his chest. “No, it didn’t hurt. But I could feel things coming apart and reassembling.” His hands rocked up and down over our empty plates. I felt my own wrenching internal realignment.
He smiled and shrugged. “I feel okay. I feel . . . stable. Fixed again.”
He put his hand over mine. “And you?”
“I am not stable yet,” I whispered and began clearing the table.
We washed the dishes, side by side, not touching, though I felt his warmth next to me, waiting, available.
Near sunset, he went out into the barn. Quietly, I followed to watch. Hobo stood alert at the barn door, barked once, then wagged his tail. Addie stopped and knelt. Hobo approached her with familiarity but no affection. Addie took Hobo’s muzzle in her hands—in his hands. Suddenly, Hobo leapt up, licking Addie and running excitedly around him, barking.
In the barn, the livestock rustled—a muted snort, a whinny of interest. I walked down the porch steps to get a better view. Addie went first to Darling’s stall. I heard that faint hum. Darling nosed him and nickered in recognition. He ran his hand down her neck, Addie’s touch. But a man’s deep, full laugh accompanied it. When he opened the stall gate, she pressed into him. Hobo circled them, yapping. The cows bellowed at the excitement, the chickens clattered in the coop.
Addie bridled Darling, mounted bareback. With a wave, he cantered off, disappearing into the pasture. I could see them for a long time, then, at the far end of the pasture, dusk snuffed them out of sight.
By the time I heard him shutting up the barn for the night, I’d made his bed—the same bed I tried to get him to sleep in after I found him in the mud. I laid out some of Lester’s clothes for him, certain this time they would fit, at least in length. The shoulders might be too narrow.
That was all I could do. To do more, to have him in my bed then, on that first night, felt like it would be the undoing of me. Too much for one day. I was numb.
He did not comment when he saw the bedroom door open and the bed turned down, but stopped and, taking my head in his hands, kissed me gently, squarely on the forehead and said good night.
“Good night, Addie,” I replied. But I could not walk away from him. “You need a man’s name. I can’t call you Addie. And I can’t call you Roy. He knows where we live. What if he shows up again? You need a name, one that sounds like Addie.” Then I said the first name I could think of, “Adam. You can be Adam.”
“Adam? Yeah, I like that. Adam.” He sat on the bed and took his shoes off. “I don’t think Roy will be back this way to raise questions. But I might run into someone who sees a resemblance. It would make sense for us to be from the same clan. And I owe him for this.” He swept his hand across his lap. “My last name should be Hope. Roy can be a middle name.”
“You need a story, too. Where do you come from? And why are you here?”
My questions filled the room for a minute.
Adam took a deep breath. “From here. For you. As always. Though I forgot to think up a name, on the way back, I decided that I’m from Kentucky, like Roy. The other side of the mountains. I came here because I heard about how good Addie was with horses. I’m good with horses, too. So I came to see if you two could give me a job. And now it looks like you will really need a new hand. So do I get the job?” He smiled an invitation.
I let it pass. “Adam Roy Hope,” I pronounced him. He gave me Addie’s smile, her gaze through his new face.
We went to our separate beds.
I could sense him through the walls. Then the fatigue of my confusion and desire came down like a hammer and knocked me into a sleep in which there was no skin, no voice, no entangled limbs.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of footsteps in the hall, the floorboards telegraphing the new weight of Addie—of Adam. Everything else remained the same, the squeak of the oven door as he opened it, the groan and sputter of the pump as he drew water for coffee.
I dressed slowly and went