Jagged (Colorado Mountain #5)(73)

“You gotta know, whole town’s talkin’ about your boy,” he muttered and my eyes went from the majesty to Cotton.

I didn’t know which “boy” he was talking about. Ham could be a boy to him, considering Cotton’s age. Or he could mean Zander. I did know that whatever this was he was bringing up was why I was there, he’d asked me to come before the Zander news broke, so I suspected it was Ham.

“You wanna explain that, Cotton?” I asked.

He took a sip from his mug and his eyes came to me.

“Xenia’s son,” he answered, surprising me but I nodded.

I’d told Mindy and Becca about Zander the night of Xenia’s funeral. I’d also told Arlene. Mins and Becs could keep their mouths shut. Arlene, no way in hell.

“’Spect you know this already, Zara, but your daddy’s a sumabitch,” Cotton shared.

I drank from my coffee and looked to the mountain. “Yeah, Cotton, learned that when I was around three.”

“He hurt you girls?” Cotton asked, and my gaze shot back to him.

“Cotton—”

“Did Xavier take his hand to you girls?” Cotton asked firmly.

“Yes,” I whispered, telling him something only Ham, Mins, Neens, Becs, Maybelle, Wanda, and my dead friend Kim knew, outside of Xenia, of course, but she was there.

“Dang nab it,” he muttered.

His head dropping, he looked at his lap.

“Cotton, it was a while ago,” I told him gently.

His gaze came back to mine before he said bizarrely, “Takes a village.”

“What?” I asked.

“It takes a village, Zara. You won’t know this, won’t have remembered her that way. If I recall, by the time you and your sister could cipher, she’d lost it so you didn’t get her that way, but Amy Cinders before she became a Cinders was the prettiest girl in town before she gave our town you and your sister. And that’s sayin’ somethin’, seein’ as we got a lot of talent about. Thing about her was, she wasn’t just pretty, she was sweet. Couldn’t tell a joke and wouldn’t, seein’ as she was a might shy, but you’d work hard to make her laugh, hear that sound that was pretty as her, watch her face light up.”

His eyes grew sharp on me before he finished.

“And she laughed a lot back then, girl.”

I didn’t like this, knowing Mom was pretty… once. Happy… once. Laughed… once.

Cotton was right. I never saw her smile, definitely not laugh, and by the time I could “cipher,” although it wasn’t lost on me she was vaguely attractive, that was defined as “vaguely” due to the fact that timidity shrouded her and fear poured off her in waves.

I didn’t like knowing she’d lost that. More, I didn’t like knowing she gave it up, apparently without much of a fight.

“I’m not sure I want to hear this,” I told him carefully, also not wanting to offend him.

“What I’m sayin’ is, he broke her. So we knew. The town did. Xenia and you hightailin’ it outta there the minute you could. Xenia abusin’ her body in an effort to dull the pain. We knew. And we shoulda done somethin’ about it.”

I felt bad for him because he clearly felt bad about all this but it was way past the point anything could be done now.

“You seem to be takin’ this hard, Cotton, and I won’t say it wasn’t tough but it was a long time ago and there were people closer to the situation who should have done something about it.”

“Your mother,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“You’re right,” he stated.

“I know I am,” I told him.

“Your man now, what’s that about?” he changed the subject suddenly.

And there we were, just as I suspected.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t confused at his question.

“I’m not following,” I replied.

“He’s got years on you, girl,” he shared something I knew.

“And you had years on Alana,” I returned the favor, referring to his wife, a beauty, Native American, statuesque, graceful, soft-spoken, kind, and now, upsettingly, gone.

It was before the time I could “cipher,” but I knew she’d been in her twenties when they married, Cotton in his forties. That didn’t stop them from building a family, which they did, all adopted because Alana got ovarian cancer when she was way too young, had her entire womb removed, enjoyed a good spell with her man then it came back and devoured her.

But unlike my friend Kim, who died within months of diagnosis, for Alana, it took its time the second time around, drew it out, so when Alana finally faded away, it was a relief, even to Cotton, who was ravaged by her illness, his powerlessness against it but not her loss. His relief was so great, you could see it, feel it. It wasn’t a celebration. It was a stillness of expression and manner. And it lasted a long time.

Then he got crotchety and now he was a new Cotton, one who didn’t smile as much as I remembered him doing when I was a kid. And he didn’t laugh as much either.

He found his way to live on without the woman he adored.

But it wasn’t the same.

“We’re not talkin’ ’bout Alana, Zara. We’re talkin’ ’bout you,” Cotton shot back.