Author's Note: Chapter Five is here! Not much to say other than this: I apologize to those who'd wish I'd skip on some of the details and get to the action. Unfortunately, I don't see that happening - I am details writer, to a fault perhaps, but details nonetheless. Plus, I am trying to get it all set up and out of the way so in later chapters I'm not going back and explaining too much back story. I hope you stay patient with me, because next chapter is going to be action packed. And thank you so much for all the sweet responses, favorites, alerts, etc. You are all so wonderful & encouraging. Thank you for going on this journey with me in my first THG fic. Hopefully the first of many!

And as always, Ivory makes all of this ten times better with her amazing beta skills. Thank you dear! You are too wonderful for words.
And random sidenote: Happy Superbowl to all my readers who will be watching today - I know I will be :)

Summary: There are also three types of people in Dawson, Texas: those who are trying to flee, those who embrace their small town fate, and the Mellarks. Mellark Ranch; largest cattle ranch South of Dallas, employer of ranch hand, Katniss Everdeen, and home of Ohio State Buckeye running back, Peeta Mellark. And Peeta Mellark is coming home today.

Lone Star State of Mine
Chapter Five: Cupid's Got A Shotgun

"He gave up on arrows & I ain't bulletproof."

Avoidance.

It's the best defensive tactic that no one admits to. It's the reason at least one out of five disagreements don't end in murder. Sure, it's not statistically proven, but I'm no naïve fool. It's one of those defensive tactics that, if used just right, can completely defuse a situation entirely. Look at celebrities; they've got it down to a fine art. One makes an embarrassing public move, goes into hiding for a while, and then come out with a brand new blockbuster and smelling like roses some time later. Alright, maybe not the best example since most of us don't have blockbuster success on our side.

But the sentiment still rings true: there is much to be said about avoidance when used properly. Properly used I'm sure it's probably stopped a few wars, or at least stalled them dramatically. Again, my facts are not proven, but I avoid such formalities. Avoidance has its perks - that much is obvious. For example, avoiding doing homework usually means I have more time to be outside with Gale or my sister. Avoiding my mother's presence usually means that I can pretend there was no elephant in the room for another moment. Avoiding memories of high school usually keeps my sanity in tack for another day. And avoiding Peeta Mellark since last Saturday night has meant that I do not have to face my pride's triumph over common sense.

Of course avoidance, as it's more commonly known for, tends to make the matters worse once they are faced again. My grades certainly suffered from my lack of attention in high school. My mother certainly didn't change in my absence; in fact, I think she began to believe it was alright to be completely void of emotion toward her children. And my high school memories are still there waiting in vivid color whenever I lapse and turn down Memory Lane. And Peeta Mellark? Well, that's an avoidance I have yet to break.

But all good things must come to an end.

And I have to say…avoiding someone on a three-hundred acre ranch on the outskirts of a tiny town is a lot harder than it sounds. It's like avoiding snow in the Arctic. I've all but resorted to doing office work in order to avoid the youngest Mellark.

On Sunday, whether you believe or not, everyone shows up at church. And so guess who's involved in 'everyone'? You guessed it: Peeta Mellark and myself. The church really isn't that big, so avoiding him there took all but hiding out in the baptistery. Fortunately after that it was easy to take sanctuary with Prim and my mother at their home for the afternoon. Of course, Prim being the busy body that she naturally is meant that she wanted to know all of the details. Again, it's fortunate that's she's long since realized that I am abysmal at details so she gives up soon enough. Monday soon follows and I'm almost naïve enough to think our paths won't cross, but they do and far too early. It's only seven and I've just met Samantha in the barn when he walks in.

I don't mean to stare - I never mean to stare - but sleepiness looks good on him. I'm beginning to think most things look good on him. His eyes are still lazy from slumber, but their vibrant blue is still the same. His curls flop every which way and his cheeks are red from the early summer sunburn that we all get by the end of May. His t-shirt rises when he reaches for a pair of nearby work gloves and a toolbox.

Apparently he's said good morning without me knowing because Samantha subtly elbows me in the ribs. I quickly look from the now visible skin of his side to her face and then to his. I think I mumble a greeting, but I'm too quickly working to hide my flushed features by grabbing at any work utensil available to busy myself. It's not until he leaves that Samantha's laughter can be heard echoing through the empty structure.

"What?" I grumble, trying to act aloof. A game I'm never good at.

"We're changing horseshoes this morning," she says as she smiles.

"I know that." I'm aware I sound agitated.

"We probably won't need barbed wire." Samantha looks at the bucket of tools I've just assembled and my eyes follow hers.

My hands instantly cover my face as I feel Samantha wrap her arm around me in amusement. I've obviously never been very good at trying to look busy either. I think I've become the ranch's laughing stock overnight.

"Do you want to tell me why you've been hiding in the shadows these past couple of days?" Gale asks, lifting his pitchfork covered in muck over the wheelbarrow.

I glance at him for a moment before finding anything else to look at while I put on my work gloves. I don't want to tell him about Saturday night. He knows the basics, but he doesn't know the full reason why I disappeared without telling him goodbye. Not that it is completely uncommon. The uncommon part has come in the last couple of days when I've hardly been around to socialize. Normally I'll stick around with the others after chores to grab dinner or just relax, but both Sunday and Monday nights you can find me hiding away in my small home.

Gale tenses, I see it out of the corner of my eye, and I already know what he's coming to the conclusion of. I look up at him fully and see the silent anger that's set into his strong features. Before I can voice my objection to his thoughts he's dropped his pitchfork and stepped closer to me.

"What did he do to you?" His voice is low and deadly, just like I remember it being the day some senior tried to get the best of me our freshman year.

Forever my protector.

"Gale, relax." I groan, my voice loud compared to his. "He didn't do anything. I – I don't have to answer to you. Just leave it alone."

It comes out harder than I expected it to, but I don't waver. Instead I stare into his eyes, waiting for him to back down. I know he will because as much as Gale wants to protect me, he wants to trust me that much more. When I ask him to back off he will. Because although he may not completely understand my need to avoid certain realities, he respects my opinion enough to allow it.

Slowly his eyes soften and I feel him scan my features, because so much between us are the things that go unsaid. He's checking my stance; seeing if my confident voice echoes through to my demeanor. He then reads my expression. I know my jaw is clenched, mirroring his, and my eyes never leave his.

After a momentary standoff he must be satisfied with what he sees because he backs away and starts back toward the stall he was mucking out. That's when I realize I had been holding my breath and I exhale. Why does Peeta cause such tension between the two of us? And then it hits me. I know Gale isn't fond of Peeta, but that's not the reason for the tension. The reason for the tension stems from my sudden need to defend him. To prove to Gale he's not this superficial jock that he's somehow chalked him up to be.

"What happened?" I ask, cutting the silence like a sharp knife. The question comes out before I can even think about it. "Between you and Peeta. What happened? And when? You two used to be as thick as thieves."

"Used to be." He mumbles, but I'm not sure he wanted me to hear him because he doesn't look at me. He looks past me as though the answers are written on the stall walls behind me.

I'm waiting and I truly believe this is going to be the moment where it all comes to light. The moment where I finally understand Gale's sudden climate change toward the shining star of Dawson, toward the guy he used to stand by through thick and thin. Those times seem so long ago that I'm not sure if they ever even existed anymore. And I also realize how I'm desperate to know. I realize why: because I will side with Gale. I always have and I always will. And that means then I can finally cut these unfamiliar feelings I have toward Peeta. I can finally rid myself of the awareness and excitement I feel whenever he's near. I will no longer be in this self-proclaimed dance with the boy I've spent my entire life avoiding.

But then he grabs his once forgotten pitchfork and disappears into the stall, "Just be careful."

I'm stunned. I want to run in after him and knock him over the head. Demand that if he's going to root himself so deep into my business that he better be good and ready to tell me why he's Peeta's anti-cheerleader. But then I realize this is what Gale and I do; we test each other. We push each other's buttons to see where we lie. Because most everything between goes unsaid. And it works for us. But now it pisses me off. He wants me to push because that shows him I have something truly invested. I bite my lip and dig twice as hard into the muck of my stall.

Damn you, Gale.

Tuesday afternoon is far less eventful than Tuesday morning. Gale and I, like always, have called a silent truce and have decided to steer clear of all issues that could be even remotely linked back to past friendships, Saturday night, burnt bridges, and all things Peeta Mellark. In fact, the afternoon is pretty standard as far as conversation and events go. Gale talks about his younger siblings, I mention Prim's attention to Rory, we both laugh at the idea. We know they're playing with a fire we never could get right. And we both know it's better left unlit. At least for us.

Gale sets two paint cans atop the workbench and looks over at me. He has a goofy grin on his face that can only be accompanied by an equally goofy plan for what we should be doing tonight.

"I hear Sae is making lamb stew tonight." He starts; tossing a few used paintbrushes in the pan I'm currently sorting through, causing several splatters to land on my arms. He laughs and I just give him my best glare. "I owe Beetee a round for losing last week."

"You lost to Beetee at darts?" I laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Sounds like you're getting a bit rough around the edges, Hawthorne."

He elbows me in the side, "It was an off night. So are you coming or not?"

"Not." I admit, still laughing. "If you don't mind I think I'll live vicariously through reruns of Dallas."

"Vicariously? You have been hanging around College Boy too much."

His comment is meant to be light, but it's tender territory and I'm not ignorant to the catch of bitterness in his voice. But I'm not interested in another pointless fight and it doesn't seem Gale is either because he quickly grabs his old work gloves, shoves them in his back pocket and heads toward the door.

"If you change your mind we'll be there around six." He's smiling, but I can tell he's feeling a bit foolish. "Have a good night, Catnip."

I watch him leave. It's hard to be mad at him for long especially since I know the reason we butt heads so much: we're cut from the same cloth. His temper burns bright, just like mine. He's as stubborn as a mule and I live to be that much more stubborn. We cut at each other just as much as we sooth. I suppose that's just our fate.

Before long I find myself at the brass sink positioned toward the back of the familiar barn. These paintbrushes aren't going to wash themselves. I half laugh and curse Gale for so smoothly removing himself from this chore. He's a hard worker, no one would argue otherwise, but when it comes to getting a cleanup crew afterwards I'd say he's lacking. He knows it too.

I turn on the water and start scrubbing, knowing as soon as I finish this task my day is complete. I do love my job, but the call to end the day is always a strong one. I suppose that comes with working your tail off for nearly ten hours with the sun beating down on you like a leather whip. I hear the side door open, but I don't take notice of who opened them until I hear a toolbox slam down nearby.

Of course it's Peeta Mellark. I'm beginning to think this damn barn is the essence of this forsaken dance we've been doing. He's noticed me, I'm sure of it. He hasn't particularly told me so, but it's hard to miss the person standing in front of the large – and rather loud – sink in the back. He doesn't say anything, but continues to look through the draws of the workbench. I continue to scrub the brushes, doing my best to focus on each tiny piece of whitewash that travels toward the drain.

These brushes have never been cleaner, I'm sure of it, but I was hoping my work would keep me busy until he left. It didn't and he's still rummaging around. And my hands have all but shriveled up beneath the warm water. I look up at the dirty mirror; I can just make out his form behind me. He's look through the wiring tools and I can tell from the hunch of his shoulders he's becoming a bit frustrated. I take this opportunity to turn the water off, the silence so very prominent now, and watch him through the mirror.

"Are you done avoiding me?" He asks and my heart stops.

I quickly avert my eyes, not that he could truly know if I was looking at him or not. I grab a nearby towel and start to dry the brushes. I replay the question over in my head. I'd expected him to sound at least somewhat annoyed, but he doesn't. In fact, to my frustration, he sounds slightly amused. I'm on my third brush when I glance up into the mirror again and I stare directly into his eyes. He's now looking at me through the reflection, leaning against the workbench. I want to look away, but I'm drawn to those blue eyes that still hold their vibrancy even in this old, mistreated mirror.

"Because if you are, I could really use your help fixing a snag in the western fence line." His eyes don't leave mine.

"I – um," I want so desperately for the floor to open up and swallow me yet again, but it doesn't and I'm left standing here like a stuttering fool.

"Your secret's safe with me anyway." Peeta smiles, "No one knows I practically saved your life from the evil monsters of Dawson. Well, no one except for Finnick."

Except for Finnick? That's like writing a letter to the town paper. Everyone will have known for at least twenty-four hours at this point. Finnick couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. Well, that may not be the case, I don't really know, but that boy sure does love to talk.

Peeta must see my distress because he laughs, pushing himself away from the workbench to head toward me, "I'm kidding."

My skin betrays me when he's near and I feel it start to tingle with the awareness I wish wasn't there. He stops short just behind me and we're at tense standstill. His eyes still don't leave mine. I want to kick him for being so light and amused when I feel so very on edge when he's near. And yet him I want him this close. That's what this avoidance of mine has taught me; I think of Peeta more when he's not near. I find my thoughts lingering to the last time I saw him. I find myself wanting to search him out.

"So are you going to help me or not?" He asks, his smile turning up on one side.

I turn around to face him, realizing we're much closer than the mirror had allowed me to believe. My breath catches, but only for a moment and I look up to him as I pull my work gloves from my back pocket.

"Like you could do it without me." And before I lose my momentary confidence, I turn on my heels and head toward the door he just came in through.

After about an hour into repairing the fence I realize that the word "snag" is truly an understatement of the century. Apparently a rather large branch had fallen during a recent storm and taken part of the fence with it, but fortunately Peeta had come prepared. While he made easy work of taking the chainsaw and cutting up the offending branch into pieces, I made myself useful by straightening the new wire we'll be using. Luckily this was a part of the ranch that even the cattle didn't venture to often thanks to the lack of water source and harsher terrain. It wasn't a wooded area by any means, but the low hills made it ideal for heavy brush and several large trees.

We work in silence; any conversation we could wish to have is easily overpowered by the noise of the chainsaw. Of course, that doesn't stop my eyes from wandering in Peeta's direction more often than I'd ever admit to.

His grey OSU shirt is damp with sweat and his curls are beginning to stick to his forehead like a soggy mop. He's wearing sunglasses to protect his eyes from any sort of stray woodchip. And my eyes could not overlook his arms. Those strong arms that look somehow so perfect working here on the ranch. Those strong arms that I know have helped him win several important football games. Those strong arms that so willingly jumped to my defense on Saturday. Those strong arms that I'm so suddenly afraid to push away from.

I hate the Mellark genes. It would be one thing if he were good looking and a complete asshole or ugly with a heart of gold, but no. God has decided it be best to give Peeta Mellark both pleasing traits. Another sign to me that God and I have not always been on same page when it comes to my life.

Finally Peeta kills the engine of the chainsaw, pulling me from my thoughts, and starts moving away the pieces from the snagged fence. I quickly fall in beside him to move some of the larger pieces that require two sets of able hands. I appreciate how he doesn't even give me a look of uncertainty that I can actually help. It's a small gesture, but even in my years on the ranch I still have some that look at me like I'm a delicate flower whenever I try to do something one of the men usually do. I appreciate his trust and it's immediately something I don't want to lose.

Within a half hour the task is finally complete, the hard part behind us with moving the pieces of wood, and step back to look at our handy work. It's a wired fence, I don't expect to see a work a beauty, but I'm more concerned that it's stabilized enough to stop a rebellious young calf should they stray this far.

When I turn back around I see Peeta sitting on the tailgate of his truck drinking from a bottle of water. Without a word I start toward the spot next to him, silently accepting the bottle of water he himself just drank from. We sit in silence, once more, appreciating the setting Texas sun and evening breeze rolling over the hills.

"God, I love this place." Peeta says.

I smile as I look over at him. I can feel the reverence he speaks with and I understand it completely.

The comfortable silence falls over us again and this time my mind is wandering in directions I know it shouldn't. Peeta is the youngest, Clement and Reese have both set their lives in different directions away from Mellark Ranch. And Ohio is certainly a far cry from the rural lands of Dawson. The mumbles have been going on for years now, but with Peeta's graduation in two years time they've gotten louder. The cynics of the group swear they'll be out of their jobs soon and those too afraid to see it end avoid the topic altogether.

"Do you –" I start to ask, but lose my courage and look down at the ground below us before trying again. "Are you coming back after school? To take over for your dad?"

"I want to." Peeta says, taking in a deep breath. "I plan to. But not without a good degrading from my mother for the choices I've made, I'm sure."

I watch as his hands run up and down the denim on his thighs. He's obviously anxious when talking about his mother and I don't blame him. Everyone is anxious when it comes to dealing with Mrs. Mellark. And her reputation with her three sons is not a bright one. Most know of the abuse they've all taken in one way or another, but no one would admit to knowing a single thing. I want to say something, but I'm not sure what. Instead I left my left foot up to rest on the tailgate so I can rest my chin on my knee. I'm still looking over at him when he turns to look at me with that trademark easy smile.

"She's not all bad though." He must know what we all say about her, but he stops short of what he's about to say to defend her. It's like he can't even think of a defending argument. "I – I think she just wants us to have better than what she has here. I think she expected more out of her life."

More? I can't imagine many people in Dawson wanting more out of life than what the Mellarks have. They are the shining example of what a little piece of paradise looks like.

"I don't get it either," Peeta smiles, seeing the confusion I thought I was doing well to hide. "I prefer the worst day here to any day away from here. But I think she thought my father would get tired of playing cowboy sooner or later and sell the place. When that didn't happen she turned – well, you know."

I nod, because I do know. I realized a long time ago that Peeta and I have something pretty trying in common: less than perfect mothers. Mothers that we will spend forever trying to please in our own way, but always come up short. But Peeta is better for it where as I'm not convinced that I am. I know I've become bitter toward the woman who has all but written Prim and I off. Peeta refuses to even admit to Mrs. Mellark's abuse where I continually look down upon my mother for her blatant disregard for us.

"At least we have one decent parental figure, right?" I give a weak smile, speaking of my father in the present tense sends a shock of pain to my heart that I wasn't expecting. Peeta looks at me and I can see the sadness in his eyes and for the first time I don't resent it. I usually resented those who felt pity for me at the loss of my father, but with Peeta I see a genuine understanding. Like the look I receive from Gale from time to time.

"How's Prim and your mother doing?" He asks and I know he means specifically with the loss of my father. Everyone knew how hard my family took it and everyone knows the difficulty my mother has been since.

"They're okay. I know it was years ago," I shake my head, looking back toward the sunset, "But some days I wake up and I feel like it just happened."

I'm not sure where the sudden honesty came from, but I feel slightly relieved when I say it. Like I'm finally able to be honest about how its affecting me. With Prim I have to be strong. With my mother I have to tough. With Gale I have to be slightly removed, because I don't want him to think that I somehow believe my situation is worse than his. And with everyone else I am just fine. It feels good to not be okay, even if the moment is fleeting.

He's watching me; I can see it out of the corner of my eye. I wrap my arms around my propped up knee and smile, wanting to move on before I completely lose all control. "Prim is getting ready to start high school in the fall. So of course, she now knows everything."

"Naturally." He laughs and I'm grateful for his ease into a new conversation. "Wow, I can't believe Prim is going to be in high school. I remember when she was still chasing you around and you still had two braids instead of one. And you always wore overalls. Always."

The expression of surprise isn't hidden well on my face. I want to say something witty, but, alas, I am still Katniss Everdeen and cunning responses are usually not forthcoming when I am surprised. He looks over at me and laughs again, shaking his head.

"Don't worry, if it makes you feel any better, when I was eight I wore my mom's apron. Every day. For an entire summer. Clement and Reese both have blackmail pictures." Peeta grins. "I think overalls pale in comparison."

I smile, but it's slightly forced as I work on suppressing the sense of surprise that I still feel in my stomach. I clear my throat and shake my head, "I can't believe you remember that, but I suppose Dawson is pretty small. Not a lot of people to notice."

"I think I'd notice you in the largest of cities."