The station is quiet after the boys are gone, peaceful but empty. Ellie feels like she can finally breathe after Forrest leaves. Relief and gratitude wash over her, lifting the weight that's been heavy on her chest since she had to pack her things as the bank took the house. She misses her father, misses her home, but hope has wormed its way back into her heart.
She waits a few minutes before grabbing her suitcase from outside, taking note of the wildflowers dotting the field next to the station. She'll pick some later, she decides, to try to brighten up her room and make it feel like home. Her father had sometimes come in from the orchards for dinner, smelling of hard work, with flowers in his hand. "Just to see you smile," he used to say. The thought brings tears to her eyes as she climbs the steps and makes her way to the second floor of the station. She shakes them off, determined not to cry anymore today.
She accidentally opens the door to what must be Forrest's room first. It's spartan, to say the least. Just a mattress on the floor with a mess of blankets and a worn dresser in the corner, no adornments or knickknacks to be seen. It doesn't surprise her, it is Forrest, after all.
The next door she opens is to a small bathroom, complete with a bathtub that looks too small for Forrest, but certainly big enough for her. Her reflection causes her to stop and stare, rubbing her eyes in frustration; she looks a mess. She tries to smooth her hair, even pinches her cheeks to bring some color into her face. It doesn't satisfy her, but it seems to help a little.
The final door finally reveals itself as what must be the spare room. The bed is neatly made, a desk in the corner and a small set of drawers. A few months ago, she may have turned her nose up at such a tiny room. Now, she knows better. Appreciation washes over her again as she surveys her new home.
She lays open the suitcase on the bed, unpacking her one picture frame first. It's the only photograph she's ever seen of her mother, but it gives her strength. Her father's arms are wrapped around her, both of them smiling. Her father looks open and honest, same as she always knew. But her mother's smile is something else: secretive and playful, like she knows something that you're just dying to know.
Before she can attend to her clothes, a bell rings downstairs. "Miss you," she whispers to the picture, before closing the door and hurrying off to attend to a customer.
The morning isn't too busy, something for which Ellie is grateful. She takes time between customers to familiarize herself with the Blackwater kitchen and pantry, going through her mental roster of recipes and figuring out what she can make with what's on hand. By the time the boys return, she has some jam simmering on the stove for morning biscuits, greens and bacon in a skillet, and some Crisco in another, melting down to fry chicken once it comes to temperature. She has some potatoes cooling, just waiting for some of the mayonnaise she made earlier.
"Smells good, Miss Ellie!" Jack calls out to her as he enters, stomping through the station. "Looks like you've been busy."
She blushes as she continues to attend to the stove, stirring the greens silently. Forrest must have told them, she muses. Yet another thing she's thankful for. She's not sure she could have been the one to announce her employment and boarding to the other brothers. "Go wash up, Jack, I'll get the chicken going and lunch will be ready in just a bit."
He joins her behind the bar, giving her a start when she feels his chin on her shoulder. Even above the smells of the cooking food, she can smell him. And it's not pleasant. "You stink, Jack Bondurant. Go clean up before I pass out and can't fix your lunch." She swats at him until he finally moves, an unapologetic grin on his face.
Her focus back on the food is quickly interrupted again as Forrest comes up beside her, placing a half bushel of peaches on the counter next to her. He doesn't speak for a few minutes, just watches as she starts to fry the chicken. She can smell him too, now, though he smells nothing like Jack. It's a smell that she associates with her father, of hard work and sweat, and a lingering hint of tobacco. That coupled with the peaches makes her heart twist, and she hates it. She has always been strong, and proud. Now, even the simplest things remind her of what she's lost. Yet again, she has to fight off tears.
"Finding everything okay?" His voice is low, but firm, and she's happy when he finally speaks. He's close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off of him. Then again, it may just be the stove.
"Yes, thank you Forrest."
"Smells good," he mutters as he walks away, Ellie letting out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding as he goes.
Forrest is smoking on the porch as she makes her way back in from picking flowers. The station is closed and quiet, peaceful. Ellie can't help but feel a little embarrassed, like Forrest may consider picking some wildflowers childish. She knows he's watching her as she makes her way back inside, filling a spare mason jar and bringing it up to her room. Briefly, she considers staying there, curling up into a ball on the bed and trying to sleep before her emotions catch up to her. But she feels like she shouldn't, and instead makes her way back outside to sit with Forrest.
She heaves herself into the chair next to him with a quiet sigh. It's dark, the only light offered is from the Forrest's cigar each time he inhales. So she doesn't realize that he's pushed a jar full of liquid her way at first. Once she does, she stares at it for a while, debating, before finally deciding to take her first sip of alcohol.
It burns on the way down, and it's so surprising, she starts to spit and choke. She swears she can hear him chuckle next to her, but he's so quiet that she's not sure. "How, on God's green earth, does anyone drink this regularly?" she sputters as the fire makes its way down to her stomach.
"Give it a minute, Ell."
The taste of apples hits her throat with notes of cinnamon. Slowly, warmth starts to radiate through her, from the inside out. She feels ignited, and she's sure her face is red as the liquor courses its way through her body. It's caused by the applejack, of that she has no doubt, but her heart flutters a bit at the fact that Forrest just called her Ell.
"Better?"
She responds to his question by taking another sip of liquor, and this time she's sure that he's laughing under his breath. The alcohol is much easier to take the second time around, but she still pushes the jar back to him, not trusting herself to have anymore.
He takes it back from her, slipping a lid on and twisting the cap. They sit there silently for a while, just taking in the sounds of nature surrounding them. The longer they sit, the better she feels. Not just from the liquor, but from Forrest's presence. He is the stability in her small world right now, she realizes. She had always been curious about the quiet Bondurant, she muses. Howard is impish and funny, Jack sincere and sweet, but Forrest has always been something else entirely.
"You did good today." It sounds like it takes him some effort to say it, like heaping out praise is tough for him. She can believe it. "Why don't you head up to bed, get some rest." It's not a question or a suggestion, she realizes, but a quiet command. While he may have enjoyed her company thus far, he apparently wants some solitude now.
"Good night then, Forrest." Emboldened by the alcohol and before she can stop herself, she leans over to kiss him lightly on the temple. "Thank you, again." At that, she takes her leave, blushing furiously as she makes her way upstairs.
It's the first night she dreams of him.
Forrest stays out at least an hour after she leaves him, sipping on moonshine and watching the dark, his mind mostly quiet. He's glad she came to him for help, and he's happy he was able to provide it. She reminds him of his sisters, before the flu took them. Passionate, generous, playful at times. Stubborn and proud at others.
He puts out his cigar before making his way inside, locking the station up behind him as he goes. He takes care to tread lightly on the stairs, or as lightly as he can, lest he wake her.
"Forrest."
Her voice is low and husky, the sound freezing him in place. Did he wake her despite his best efforts?
"Please?"
The whine in that one word pulls him towards her door without conscious thought, suddenly drawn to her. He can't help looking into her room. He can't see much, though the moonlight filtering through the window shows him all he needs to know.
The first thing he sees is the creamy expanse of her thigh, peeking out of her slip, moving and dancing to some unknown music. She's writhing, he realizes. Ellie whispers his name again, and he's frozen in place, watching as she wiggles and moves on the bed, moaning as her hand slowly makes its way between her legs. He's torn between being a gentleman and walking away, and being a peeping tom and watching the effect he didn't know he had on her. A surprised gasp escapes her lips, her breath hitching in her throat.
The gentlemanly side of him wins out. Reluctantly, he turns away and goes to his room, laying in his own bed without undressing and staring up at the ceiling. He swears he can still hear her panting from across the hall and has to fight the urgings of his own body. And now he knows, beyond any shadow of doubt, any likeness Eleanor Whitford may have had to his sisters is now long gone.