Heartland

  Heartland

  A True North Novel

  Sarina Bowen

  Tuxbury Publishing LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarina Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photo by David Vance.

  Cover design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations.

  Editing by Edie’s Edits.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Also by Sarina Bowen

  One

  Chastity

  “Please be careful, Chastity. Don’t drink anything that doesn’t come from a sealed bottle—unless Dylan is the one who pours it for you.”

  “I’ll be careful, Leah,” I reply. But at the same time I roll my eyes in the mirror where I’m giving myself a last-minute once-over before I leave for my first college party.

  The dormitory phone has a long curly cord that stretches just far enough into the bathroom. So I can listen to all Leah’s worries and check my look at the same time.

  Squinting at my reflection, I button the second button on my blouse. But then I unbutton it again. I want to look attractive, but I don’t need my top to shout: HERE ARE MY BOOBS FOR YOUR PERUSAL.

  It’s a fine line.

  “Don’t go into the basement,” Leah says. “That’s where all the bad ideas happen.”

  “What kind of bad ideas?” I ask, perking up. I don’t remember Dylan’s house on Spruce Street even having a finished basement. But if it did, I’d probably go into it, in spite of Leah’s warning. I’m more interested in bad ideas than anyone seems to understand. And I always have been. It’s just that my life hasn’t afforded much opportunity to try them out.

  “Just be careful. Trust your gut. There are men who would get you drunk or high just to take advantage of you.”

  “I’ll be very careful,” I promise, just because it’s the fastest way to end this conversation.

  Leah means well. She’s only nine years older than I am, but she considers herself my guardian. Two years ago—when I was nineteen—I ran away from the cult where we both grew up.

  I owe her a lot. She took me in, no questions asked, even though we’re only distant cousins. Leah cares about me and my future, which is a lot more than I can say about my actual parents. If I’d stayed on the Paradise Ranch I’d be married by now to a fifty-year-old man with four other wives.

  Sometimes when people hear this story they say we have a “colorful history.” But it’s just the opposite. It wasn’t colorful at all; it was really drab. And that’s why I’m standing here in a burgundy silk blouse I bought secondhand and a pair of tight jeans that would have earned me a beating at the compound.

  Leah bought me my first pair of jeans two years ago. I’d put them on immediately, feeling very defiant. Then I’d looked in the mirror and thought: whore. Because that’s what they used to call me.

  I still hear their voices in my head sometimes. I was a whore to them. And all because I kissed a boy.

  “Are you coming home this weekend?” Leah asks. By home she means her farm in Tuxbury, which is about an hour’s drive from the university in Burlington.

  “I think so?” I uncap my only tube of tinted lip gloss and touch up my lips in the mirror.

  “Did you tell Dylan your idea?”

  “Not yet.” And that’s one of the reasons I’m going to this party at his house.

  It’s Wednesday, when we have a standing tutoring date. But today he didn’t show. I don’t have a cell phone, which is probably why I didn’t hear from him. He must have called the land line while I was out.

  Dylan is a little flighty, but he’s a good friend. He hasn’t missed a Wednesday yet. That hour of the week is a double-edged sword for me. I love spending time with Dylan. But algebra. Oof. It’s not my forte. I spend the whole time trying not to look either stupid or heartsick, with varying degrees of success.

  I’m probably failing at the first thing, but Dylan has no idea how I feel about him, and I plan to keep it that way.

  “I hope Dylan likes your idea,” Leah says. “It’s got a lot of potential. And the kitchen is wide open on Friday and Saturday nights. Nobody ever wants to claim those hours.” Leah makes fancy cheeses, but it’s a seasonal business. So she rents out the commercial kitchen in her creamery to other businesses during the winter months.

  “If Dylan wants in, he’ll pick Saturday,” I tell her. “Fridays are reserved for his awful girlfriend.”

  “Shhh!” Leah hisses. “Won’t she hear you?”

  “No. She’s not here.” The biggest mistake of my college career—all four weeks of it—was asking Dylan to help me carry my things into the dormitory on move-in day.

  I hadn’t even asked, come to think of it. He’d volunteered. He’d driven me to school in his old truck and brought me to the housing office to pick up my keys.

  And I’d been so, so grateful. Right up until Dylan carried my one box into the dormitory. I’d been so nervous I’d felt like throwing up, but Dylan had whistled a happy tune as he led me down the hallway to suite 302.

  “Open ’er up,” he’d said kindly. “Let’s see if the housing gods were kind.”

  They weren’t. I mean—the suite is fine. My twin bed is in a separate room from Kaitlyn’s twin bed. We share a bathroom that’s just ours. I have a desk and a dresser and a window. I can’t complain.

  I’d been hoping to be paired with a roommate who would also be a friend, but Kaitlyn had been instantly chilly to me. She’d barely glanced in my direction.

  She had not, however, dismissed Dylan. You know that expression—“her eyes lit up”? Well, I’ve never seen anyone so obviously and instantly in lust. She was like a cartoon character with hearts in her eyes.

  “Is this your brother?” she’d asked.

  “Just about,” Dylan had said with a chuckle. “We live on neighboring farms.”

  “That’s so sweet,” she’d gushed.

  And then, as I’d put my meager possessions away, she’d chatted him up. I learned all about her life in Manhattan and her troubles at Barnard College, wherever that is. “There was a dalliance with a professor,” she’d said with a sigh. “It didn’t end well. My family is horrified.” She’d given him a sexy grin. “So here I am, banished to the hinterlands to finish school.”

  “Welcome to Moo U,” Dylan had said with a slow smile. “It’s not New York City, but we have other kinds of fun.”

  The very next day she’d asked me for his phone number. “I had a question about which dry cleaner to use. He said to ask h
im anything.”

  “I’d be stunned if Dylan ever had anything dry cleaned,” I’d said. But I gave her the number, anyway.

  Big mistake.

  The following week she didn’t come home at all on two different nights. At first I thought this was a terrific development. I loved having our suite to myself. But then, just as I was crossing the center of campus and congratulating myself on figuring out a shortcut to the math department, I’d seen them. Kaitlyn had been standing under a tree with Dylan. And then he’d leaned in and kissed her.

  No—that isn’t even an accurate description. He practically devoured her right there between classes in broad daylight. I’ve never walked away from anything faster in my life.

  Three weeks later, and I’m still not over it. I already knew Dylan had a lot of sex. His twin sister refers to him as “the family slut.” There are always girls from his high school class hanging around the Shipley farm, riding shotgun in his truck. I’m always jealous of those girls.

  But Kaitlyn? Just the idea of her with Dylan makes me insane. It doesn’t matter if I express that aloud, either. Kaitlyn is almost certainly at Dylan’s house right now. If it turns out that he spent our tutoring hours with her instead of me, that will sting.

  But Dylan will make it up to me. He really is a good friend.

  “Let me know how it goes,” Leah says. “I’d better go and put Maeve to bed. I can hear her begging Isaac for another story.”

  “Kiss her goodnight for me,” I say. “I’ll call you about the weekend. I’ll let you know if we need to use the kitchen Saturday night.”

  “Have fun tonight, Chass. Just be—”

  “—careful. I know, Leah. I will.”

  We hang up. I give myself one more glance in the mirror, then I grab my backpack and leave the little suite behind.

  I hurry down two flights of stairs, heading for the dormitory exit. It’s already dark outside, and I can see my reflection in the glass door. My backpack strap has tugged the silk blouse aside, revealing a tiny glimpse of my bra.

  I stop suddenly to fix it, and that’s when somebody plows into my back.

  We let out twin shrieks.

  “Sorry!” I yelp, turning around.

  “No, that was totally my fault,” the other girl babbles. Her name is Ellie, I think. We’re in the same English class. She holds the door open for me. “Your outfit looks fine, by the way. Stop fussing with that collar.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “Going on a date? Kinda fancy for a Wednesday night.” We’re heading in the same direction down the sidewalk. “I’m going to the library, because I’m fun like that.”

  “Oh, I already spent four hours there,” I assure her. I don’t tell her that I spent all that time waiting for Dylan Shipley to show up for tutoring. “I’m going to a party off campus.”

  “Really,” Ellie says, grinning. She has a mouth full of braces. Aren’t those just for kids? It’s been two years since I left the cult where I grew up, but there are still a lot of things that baffle me. Twenty-four months isn’t a long time to learn how the entire world works. “You have fun. I’ll be trying to understand Aristotle.”

  “Cool.” I don’t know what Aristotle is, either.

  She reaches for my hand and tugs it away from the second button of my blouse, which I’m fingering. “Don’t fidget. That’s how buttons come off.”

  “Right. But—” I hesitate. “Is this too much?” I wave a hand in front of my chest.

  “Too much what? Too much hotness? No. If I had boobs, I’d wear them proudly. Whoever it is you’re trying to impress is going to love it.” She gives me a wave and trots away toward the library. “Have fun!” she calls over her shoulder.

  I keep walking, still feeling uncertain. Going to Dylan’s house right now is probably a mistake. I don’t know why he blew off our tutoring session today. It isn’t like him. On the other hand, he has a lot on his plate. And I’m the one who doesn’t have a cell phone.

  It’s not Dylan’s fault that I sat there in the library from four until seven thirty, missing dinner like a dummy. But I’ve always been a little dumb when it comes to Dylan.

  My stomach had been rumbling by the time I’d given up on him. On my way home, I’d paused outside the convenience store, wondering what a girl could buy for two dollars. Only candy, really. I hadn’t bought anything, but I had bumped into Dylan’s roommate, a character named Rickie.

  “Chastity!” he’d exclaimed, coming out of the store with a bag full of various kinds of chips in one hand and a bag of ice in the other. “What’s up, lady? You coming over later?”

  “For…?” I’d only been to their house once before. It’s out of the way, which is why Dylan always meets me on campus.

  “The party! Didn’t Dylan tell you?”

  He did not. But I hadn’t let it show on my face. “I didn’t catch Dylan today,” I’d told him. “Do you happen to know where he went?”

  “Home to Tuxbury,” Rickie had said. “Shit, Chastity. He said he was going to call you. The goats got loose and ate something they weren’t supposed to.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Yeah. He got a call and there was yelling, and then Dylan got in the truck and went home. But he’s back at nine for the party. Come over. I’m making mulled cider and guacamole.”

  My stomach had gurgled, and the decision had seemed easy.

  But now, as I trudge uphill toward the old Victorian house where Dylan lives with Rickie and another guy named Keith, I’m questioning all my life choices. I’ll probably have to make conversation with strangers, which isn’t my strong suit.

  Or they’ll just ignore me, which also sounds bleak.

  And then there’s my algebra homework which is in my backpack still incomplete. If I turn up now, Dylan is only going to feel guilty for missing our session.

  There are two things powering me uphill, though. The first is guacamole. I’d never seen an avocado until I became a nineteen-year-old runaway to Vermont, and I’d been seriously missing out. The second thing is morbid curiosity. In the four weeks since I came to Burlington U, I’ve had only glimpses of College Dylan. And I want to know more.

  The Dylan I know from Tuxbury is Family Dylan. He milks goats and cows. He whistles in the orchard while picking apples. He takes off his shirt to stack hay. He eats third helpings at the dinner table. He spars with his siblings and takes his mother to church.

  And? He’s a good friend to me.

  College Dylan is different, though. And—fine—even more intoxicating. College Dylan drinks and smokes pot and has (from what I can guess) a lot of sex. Some of it with my evil roommate.

  None of it with me.

  Two

  Chastity

  The temperature has plunged since nightfall, so by the time I reach the house, I’m shivering.

  Still, I stand on the front walk for a minute or two, acclimating. It’s a beautiful house on a treelined street. There are three floors and several roofline peaks. Dylan says he’s lucky to live here. Rickie doesn’t charge much rent. Tonight the house is lit up like a Halloween pumpkin, with yellow light glowing from every window.

  The windows are closed, but the sound of voices—lots of them—reaches me on the sidewalk. And some music. The sounds of people enjoying themselves. The longer I stand here, the harder it gets to imagine myself walking in there. I won’t know anybody besides Rickie and Dylan. And Kaitlyn, who won’t talk to me anyway.

  I spot Dylan in the bay window. It’s not hard. I’m tuned in to the Dylan Shipley channel, and have been since the day I met him two years ago. I’d know his big frame anywhere, and his familiar head of thick, wavy hair. All the Shipleys have brown hair, but Dylan’s is kissed with lighter highlights. As if the sun loves him just a little bit more than it loves everyone else.

  His back is to me, so I can’t see his laughing eyes. But he’s gesturing as he speaks, a beer bottle waving wildly between two fingers, half forgotten. All you have to do is glance at him, and
you know he’s a fun person.

  Fun, and also nice. And warm. And hilarious.

  Okay. I can do this.

  I march up the porch steps and open the big oak door, where I’m greeted by shiny old wooden floors and an arched doorway leading to the living room. Dylan still stands in front of the window wearing his signature outfit—worn jeans and a tight T-shirt. And since it's October, he's pulled a flannel shirt on over it, the cuffs rolled up over his muscular forearms.

  “…these goats are little fucking Houdinis. Griff calls me once a day at least to complain. But today they ate all my mom’s spinach and kale, so he was shouting at me when I picked up the phone.” Dylan takes a sip from the beer in his hand, shaking his head. “I drove home to calm him down. As if that would even work. And when I get there he wants me to raise the height of the fence, right? So I take a look around…”

  I’ve met the two dairy goats in question. They’re wily little animals and cute as heck. Dylan loves them a lot. Maybe even more than he loves his cows.

  “…and the fence is fine. So I asked Mr. Grumpy if by chance he brought a feed bucket into the goat enclosure earlier? And he’s like—‘So what if I did?’ And then I ask if it had the cover on it. And he said—‘How did you know?’” Dylan shakes his head, as if he can’t believe the stupidity. “Well, because you’re ripping me a new one even though you’re the idiot who gave those little fuckers a bucket to climb up onto and launch themselves over the fence.”