Here With Me by Beverly Long

their respect, and set
it aside because the fire, the pure need for revenge, had burned
hot in his belly. Probably some of the good townspeople had
disapproved, him being a lawman. But most knew, most understood,
that a man couldn’t go on when his soul was gone.
    He’d left them and spent six months chasing
the three men responsible for murdering his wife. Two were now
dead. The third was still out there somewhere.
    And that had the power to haunt him.
    Melody stopped walking and grabbed his arm.
Her skin was warm and her touch gentle. “You’re awfully quiet all
of a sudden,” she said. “Do you want to do this later?”
    “No. Now is fine.” They’d reached the
building and entered through the open, ten-foot-wide door. Barrels,
each three feet in diameter, stacked twelve feet high, flanked them
on either side. A young man, no more than sixteen, he guessed, sat
eight feet off the ground, on top of a big yellow machine that made
more noise than the car. Wide silver forks extended from the front
of it and a barrel rested on them. George watched the young man
pull a lever on the machine and the fork raised higher still. In
less than a minute, he’d moved the barrel up to the top of the
stack.
    Melody waved at the young man. “How goes it,
Montai?”
    He gave her a big grin. “I get to run the
forklift this year,” he yelled.
    She smiled at him. “Excellent. I’ll see you
later.”
    They walked another ten feet. “Montai’s
father has been working here for over twenty years. Montai and his
sister were both born here. His mother helps Bessie in the
kitchen.”
    When they were three-quarters through the
shed, they saw Bernard. He was talking with a man who looked to be
about his age, maybe a few years younger.
    “Gino,” Melody said.
    The man looked up and a smile crossed his
weathered face. “Well, if it ain’t Sweet Pea,” he said. He held a
clipboard in one hand, and with the other, he patted her head and
ruffled her hair, like one might a small child. “Good to have you
home.”
    “It’s good to be home, Gino. How are the
grapes?”
    He smiled. “It could be one of our best years
yet. But the season is young.”
    “I know, I know. Don’t count your wine until
it’s bottled and corked.”
    The older man laughed and turned toward
George. “Welcome,” he said, holding out his hand. “Know much about
grapes?”
    “No, sir,” George said. No sense trying to
kid this man. He had a look in his eye that told George he didn’t
suffer fools lightly.
    “Good. Then I can train you right.” He put
down the clipboard. When he looked at Melody, his eyes were
serious. “So, you’ve seen your grandmother?”
    “Yes.”
    Bernard and Gino exchanged a glance before
Gino again turned to Melody and said, “Your grandmother is sick.
Really sick. She won’t complain and she sure as hell won’t tell you
the truth about being scared or being so weak that she can’t walk
out to get her own mail.”
    Melody’s pretty eyes, which had been so
bright just minutes before, filled with tears. “How much time?” she
asked, her voice husky.
    Bernard shook his head. “We don’t know,” he
said. “But she told me that she doesn’t expect to see the fall
harvest.”
    Melody’s body swayed and George moved fast.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight up
against his body. “Steady,” he said, his voice low. This couldn’t
possibly be good for her child.
    “I’m all right,” she protested and moved out
of his reach. He let her go but stayed close enough that he could
easily catch her if she fell again. Her face was pale and she was
blinking her eyes furiously.
    She looked first at Bernard, then at Gino.
“Thank you both for being here for her, for taking care of things
the way you always have. I know that must be a comfort to her.”
    Gino shrugged. “Having you here is what’s a
comfort. Especially you being married and pregnant. When she told
Bernard and me about it, her face just lit