The Last Harvest(68)

“Okay … but there’s six of us … from the sixth generation.”

“I see where you’re going with this, but where’s the other six?”

“2016?”

“Grasping.” She shakes her head and takes another drink.

I read the next line. “In exchange for our sacrifice and obedience, the lord has placed a protective seal over this covenant.” I take another drink. “A seal over this covenant? Like a witch thing?”

“No.” She pulls me over to the original land map hanging on the wall. “They’re talking about the county.”

“Okay. If you squint your eye just right, the dividing lines kind of look like they form a pentagram. How do you explain that?”

“Those were the original plot lines,” she says. “Our ancestors certainly didn’t get to choose that, or believe me, our plots would all be shaped like potatoes or something.”

I study the book with the prophecy in it, holding it up to the light. “It looks like a page might’ve been torn out.”

“Oh my God … alert the media, it’s a conspiracy.” She laughs as she refills our glasses. “Or maybe Jethro just needed a piece of toilet paper. You could go crazy thinking about all this stuff.”

“Believe me … I know.”

“Here, check this out.” She pulls an old ledger from the shelf, filled with stats. “These are all the natural disasters to hit Oklahoma in the last hundred or so years. Famine … drought … tornados … floods … earthquakes … the dust bowl…”

“Exactly. And Midland escaped every single one of them. How do you even begin to explain that?”

“You can’t. Isn’t it amazing? It sounds more like God than the Devil, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know,” I mutter into my glass as I take another drink.

“The way I see it, it’s all about perspective. It’s like that time we were at the lake, on the floating dock, and we were looking up at the clouds. I saw a dancer. You saw a football player going for the extra point.”

“Did I really say that?” I cringe.

“You really did.”

“Wow. I was super smooth, wasn’t I?”

She studies me, her hazel eyes smoldering in the candlelight. “You were perfect … still are.”

She clinks my glass again and we drink. It doesn’t burn anymore, but there’s a weird chalky aftertaste coating the roof of my mouth. The rye moves through my body, coaxing the tension out of my muscles like warm liquid fingers.

“My point is, I can see how somebody like Miss Granger might want to string all this together, connect the dots. I really do, but she’s an outsider, she doesn’t understand. This town has always been a little off-kilter. I mean, look at our ancestors.” She takes my hand, leading me to their photo on the wall. “They came over on a boat from Ireland with no money, no prospects. And when they heard about the land rush, only the craziest of the crazy decided to head west to fight it out for the tiniest chance at free land. We come from a long line of risk takers with nothing to lose. It’s in our DNA. But they did it for us. I’m not saying our ancestors were saints, but think of Noodle. She’s a Tate through and through. Do you think she’s evil?”

“No way.” I laugh.

“Well, there you go. We have to hang on to the light. Wherever we can find it.”

She laces her fingers through mine, her thumb lingering on my palm, and something vibrates inside me.

“What if we’re not cursed … but blessed.”

“What about Jimmy? Or Ben?” I ask, my gaze settling on their family trees. “The last time I saw them, they looked far from blessed.”

“Free will. That was their choice. It says right here in the next line, ‘Only the strong will prevail.’”

She takes my glass, setting it next to hers on the bookshelf.

“That’s how I know that won’t happen to you,” she says as she steps in close, wrapping her arms around me. Her warmth spreads like embers across my chest. She stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear, “You’re strong, Clay.”

My skin explodes in goose bumps. The feel of her breath on my skin only fans the flames.

She unzips her hoodie, letting it drop to the floor. I try not to look, but I can’t help it. She’s wearing a white, loose-fitting silk camisole. No bra. “Feel my heart, Clay.” She places my hand on her chest. Her heartbeat is like an arrow shooting straight through my palm—strong and steady. The room seems to be spinning around us.

“You must know I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”

Her fingers move down my chest and I swear I can see trails of sunlight and electricity sparking from her fingertips.

She pulls me over to the leather ottoman and lies back, stretching out her long tan legs.

I sit beside her on the edge, willing the room to stop moving. The nail studs securing the leather to the bottom of the bench feel good, like chips of ice against my feverish fingertips.

Ali pulls her rich brown hair over her shoulder. I fixate on the brand on the back of her neck.

When she catches my stare, she says, “In some cultures a woman is marked when she’s ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask.