Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(43)

“Well, I actually already used that word.” I flip to the page where I tested myself one night after dinner with Ginny and read out loud. “Chicken equals dry. Potatoes equals dry.”

Meredith’s chuckles turn to full-fledged laughter and she glances at the page. “Beans equals knuckles?” That one didn’t make much sense to me. The confusion on Meredith’s face tells me it doesn’t make much sense to her either. “What did Dr. Weimer say about that?”

“ ‘That’s very interesting,’ ” I say, mocking the British woman’s lovely accent.

Several minutes of silence hang between us before Meredith suddenly says, “Baby.”

Baby . . . baby . . . “Impossible.”

“No.” Meredith’s stern gaze alternates between the road and my face. “I can tell you for certain, Jane, because I checked all the scans. You lost the baby due to the overall trauma to your body. It is not impossible for you to become pregnant again, when you’re ready.”

I quietly scribble the words down as Meredith drives along Highway 20 toward home, rambling on about my uterus and how protected those organs are, even in situations of rape. The truth is, the thought of me not being able to have children again never even crossed my mind. So why would that word be the first one to hit me? Why not “want,” or “love” or “hold” or “protect”? Those are the emotionally loaded words coming to me now when I imagine cradling a baby, but they’re so different from that first, instinctual response.

Why do I think a baby is impossible?

“Why don’t we go to town together?”

Ginny’s answering glare should be enough, but she tacks on a “What the hell for?” just in case I didn’t get the message.

“I don’t know. Something to do.”

“I’ve got something to do.” She drops her attention to her quilt, as if to prove a point. I can already see that this one—with blended shades of pink and purple forming a contrasting sky next to the snowy ground—will be entirely different from the one lying across my bed. Except for the giant black tree in the center. Ginny’s signature.

I can see how someone might think she wants to just sit out here all day long. Ginny does. Literally. From the crisp early mornings to the twilight hours, she sits here, talking to herself and her dog, making quilts.

No wonder she’s batty.

“Take the keys, go on into town,” she says.

“I need my license.”

“You don’t need a damn license to drive around these parts. Just stay on the road and stop when the sign says ‘stop.’ Two lefts and two rights and you’re there. Even a girl with amnesia can’t get lost.”

“I can’t. Sheriff’s orders,” I admit with a sigh.

“What’s he going to do, arrest you?” She snorts. “Gabe’s always been a stickler for the rules, even when he was a little boy. He used to hang out by the stables in his cowboy hat and tattle to my father if I didn’t spend enough time cleaning out each stall. I think the brat came out of his mother’s womb wearing a badge.”

I smile and try a different tactic. “You could see your quilt in the store window.”

“I remember what it looks like just fine. I made it.”

“Okay, well . . .” I drum my fingers across my knee. “Don’t you want to see how the town has changed in the last ten years?”

“It hasn’t changed. That’s the problem. Still a bunch of whispering, gossiping fools who want to declare me unstable so they can steal my land.”

“Have you always been so jaded?” I blurt out. I haven’t spent much time in town yet, so maybe she’s right, but . . . still!

“I guess you’d better get that license, fast. Or you’ll be stuck here . . . with me.” Shrewd eyes lift to offer me a look that says she’s not any more excited about that prospect than I am right now. “Why don’t you follow the stream and go down to the lake. Take the horses with you. That limpy leg of yours could use it.” I’m halfway down the stairs when she calls out, “Just don’t be fallin’ into any gopher holes out there. Jane.”

Ugh. That was so intentional.

My leg is throbbing by the time I reach the lake, but it was worth it. The cold blue water serves as a reflection pool, duplicating the picturesque backdrop of trees and mountains. I simply stand there, mesmerized.

“Come on,” I say to the horses, waving a carrot in the air. Both are big fans. Their steps speed up at the sight of the treat. “Good boys.” I pick my way through the longer grass to reach a sandy clearing by the water’s edge. Though I haven’t seen any, the last thing I need to do is step into an animal hole and break another bone.

Evidence of Amber out here with her friends sits in a circle in the sand—a man-made stone pit with a pile of ash nestled within. It’s small. If it gets as dry as she says it does during the summer, then I guess nothing larger than this would be safe.

I crouch to test the shallow edge of the water with my fingertips. Ice cold, just like the stream. A person would die of hypothermia, diving in here right now. How much warmer does it get? Making a seat for myself on a nearby boulder, I look out over the water, trying to imagine myself growing up here. But it’s hard. I have no experiences to draw from.