3. Remi

Chapter 3

Remi

S tacks of Levi’s lined the wall next to the Carhart jackets and coveralls in the local farm store. I thumbed through them with my ears tuned to the conversations around me in the Monday morning rush.

Idaho was a goldmine. Everyone and their parakeet wanted to move from their over-priced lofts to the open fields and lower cost of living. I’d tipped my father off to its potential—and why wouldn’t I? That was my job. Plus, I’d always dreamed of being a part of one of the most rugged states in our country.

Scents from the numerous feed bags piled on shelves mixed in the stagnant air, creating a unique, veterinary-office-meets-Target smell.

Myles flicked through a rack of clearance clothes to my right, the metal hangers scraping against the hanging rod. “You sure this is the best place to—”

“Gather information,” I interrupted, still half-listening to two farmers in the chicken aisle bellyaching about a dog attacking their flock. “Yes. Trust me. This is where the action happens. Not only is this store owned by the mayor and his wife, but it’s also the only gas station in town.”

Myles leaned his arm against the freestanding clothing rod. “James really agreed to give us our seed money if you get this deal done? As in two million dollars?”

Although I shared a name with my father, he went by our middle name, whereas I much preferred our first. Anything to be different. “Yes. He is desperate to get this property. Nobody has ever told him no like this. And he can’t resist the challenge the Johnsons present, making him an easy target to get whatever I want.”

“How did you arrange to sit with them on the plane?” He ran his hands along the hoodies with Idaho splashed all over them.

“I didn’t. Crazy, huh?” Lady Luck was once again on my side. I’d been my normal charismatic self on the plane and now they loved me. “I didn’t put two and two together until we dropped them off at their house.”

I could kiss Tony, Nora, and most definitely Angie for standing up to my father but seeing how they were my problem now, made me conflicted.

“What did the Gucci Bag Rampager have to say about the two mil?”

Myles’s nickname for my mother never failed to put a smile on my face. Once, in our early teenage years, we sneaked into Mother’s closet and tried to count the number of Gucci and Louis Vuitton bags she owned. We didn’t get through half of them before we were caught. It was one of the many times Mother banned me from seeing Myles.

The more she pushed me to stop hanging out with him, the more I needed a friend like him in my life. Myles lived in the real world. He went to public school, ordered cheap Chinese take-out, and consumed SPAM, a canned block of supposed meat, regularly.

Without Myles, I would have never seen the inside of a thrift store … or a Wal-Mart. I’d be out of touch with reality like my parents and Matthew, which was why I succeeded where they failed. I spoke both billionaire and pauper.

“She wasn’t happy. But she’d never dream of going against James.”

Much like her endless Gucci collection, I couldn’t count the number of times I’d begged my mother to hold me on her lap and read me a story or do something corny, like play a card game or video game with me. She never did. It was the one deal I’d never been able to close.

A wide smile split across Myles’s face. “Texas Bros, here we come.” He held up his hand, and I high fived him. “What’s your plan?”

Myles and I had started dreaming about Texas Bros—a store to fit all your extreme sporting needs—in college. But here we were, years later, still in golden handcuffs by the wages and even better perks of working for Cockrell Development Co. which I’d nicknamed the CDC.

Communicable diseases aside, working for the other CDC, Center for Disease Control and Prevention, would be a vacation compared to being a puppet for my brother and father. I even toyed with the idea of creating a badge for myself: Remington James, special agent, CDC.

Yesterday when we’d dropped Angie and her parents off, I’d told Myles to circle around to the back entrance of the neighborhood. We were staying in the model home in Mountain Meadows , a house appearing to be ostentatious and fancy, yet, upon closer inspection, it was as cheap as quarter-machine jewelry.

If I headed the company, our houses wouldn’t be garbage builds, but I didn’t want the responsibility of being CEO. I didn’t enjoy my job, yet I couldn’t leave. Getting out was harder than leaving the mafia. Let me rephrase. Sure, my dad would let me quit, but without a penny to my name. I’d be disowned. Cut off. With a few phone calls, he’d make sure I wasn’t hirable and that no bank would give me a business loan. He had the personal cell phone number for the Pope himself. His reach was global. And more than my dreams were riding on my success.

Buying this farm was my one and only way to a future I wanted to live.

“I’m assuming you have a plan,” Myles said.

I was interrupted in replying when the bell above the door rang, and three guys in greasy, dark-blue coveralls walked in.

“Hey, Myles,” the one with short brown hair said with a wave.

He was flanked by a tall, muscly, curly-headed dude who could be on a calendar cut-out for working mechanics, and a shorter man with black hair, bronze skin, a thick mustache, and rockin’ a dad bod.

Grabbing the nearest Carhart jacket, I walked to Myles. “You have friends,” I muttered under my breath. “Perfect. This’ll speed things along.”

“I always make friends, you dumbass.” Myles spoke through his smile and then returned the man’s wave. “Mornin’ Blake.” He amped up his Texas twang, then nodded to the other two men. First to the tall, shaggy-headed one, then to the shorter one with the wicked Tom-Selleck-worthy mustache. “Chuck … Pedro. This is my friend from Texas I told you about, Remi.”

Blake took my hand and shook it.

“Dude, did you really BASE jump the Eiffel Tower?” Pedro asked on his way to the fountain drinks.

All three men stared at me, waiting for an answer. The rest of the store quieted as the two cashiers behind the register stopped mid-conversation and eyed me.

I looked at Myles. “You told them about that?”

“What can I say? I was one too many beers in.”

“You really did it?” Chuck grabbed a king-sized bag of peanut M like a girlfriend. Typically, I didn’t have this issue. I was always upfront and honest about everything when I engaged in any type of activity involving a woman. Kathryn and I had hooked up a couple of times, and we’d had a ton of fun, but I’d made it clear I didn’t want any commitment.

I’d met her at my brother’s office.

My first big mistake.

Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I knocked on the door. The porch light turned on—even though the sun had fully risen, dark clouds blocked its rays—and Nora opened the door.

Her eyes widened when she saw me, a soft smile breaking over her face. “Remi?” She tightened her knit sweater over her chest. “What brings you here? Oh, where are my manners? Come in. Get out of that weather.”

I stepped into the entryway, and she closed the door behind me. The old oak floors groaned underneath my weight. Warmth filled the small space, and I began to sweat. The smell of homemade bread combined with the scent of the old stuff in the rest of the house, like an antique store was hosting a baking competition. The acrid aroma of Tony’s medical supplies added tension to the otherwise cozy feel in the home.

The TV echoed down the hall; faint snoring accompanied the sound. An arched opening led into a formal living space to my right, where a large window framed the view of the mountains. Stairs angled upward on my left, the wall above them covered in family pictures and images of little Angie, and a boy I assumed was her brother. The only light in the room came from a lamp on a table that stood against the half-wall supporting the stairs.

“If I’d have known you were comin’ over, I would have tidied up a bit. Or at least I would have run a brush through my hair.” Ms. Nora fluffed a flattened section of her short, red hair, gathered a stack of mail on the entryway table, and tucked it under her arm. “Travel knocks us out these days.” Shifting in her slippers, which looked like loaves of French bread, she stopped talking and waited for me to speak.

“Don’t be frettin’ over me. You look lovely.” I smiled.

“Oh, hush.” She flicked her wrist at me, waving away my compliment.

“I overheard someone saying at the Country Store you’re looking for a farmhand.”

“Wendy.” Nora shook her head. “If you’re ever wondering what’s happening around town, spend ten minutes there.” She laughed.

Her laughter came so easily that I guessed she did it often despite her husband’s current health problems.

“I’d like to take the job,” I said, even though she hadn’t said anything about a position being available.

She eyed me up and down. “You?” she asked. Then she laughed again.

I frowned and tugged at the end of my jacket. Maybe Agnes, Mitch, and Joe had led me astray with my wardrobe. Did I not look the part?

“I’m sorry.” She covered her mouth.

“Look. Even though I currently live in Dallas, I’ve worked on land my whole life.” I stuck to the truth even though I’d stretched it like a snake sunnin’ on a rock. I’d worked on purchasing and developing land since childhood, not actually ever putting a shovel into dirt. “But still, I want to experience Idaho farm life while I’m here. I’ll work for free.”

Nora waved her hand again. “We don’t accept any charity. You’ll be paid a fair wage. Ten dollars an hour.”

I didn’t react to that number. I hadn’t made so little since elementary school. Obviously, coming up with a wage of any kind would be a sacrifice for them. “Sounds good.”

“Angie’s out in the field,” Nora said, pointing through the front window, where a tractor kicked up dust in the broody weather. “Why don’t you head out there? Use our truck. The keys are in it.”

“Thanks, Ms. Nora.”

“Nora’s fine. Angie’s going to love this.”

Her laughter gained strength as I opened the door and stepped outside.