by P. Dangelico
He wiggles them and deadpans, “I’m glad you noticed. Never trust a man who doesn’t believe in pedicures.”
I make no attempt hide the eye roll. “Thanks for the life hack.”
He shrugs. “Happy to help.”
Taking my suggestion for a change, he leaves and returns a few minutes later wearing his work boots and pushing the wheelbarrow I left outside the barn. Still no shirt, though. I will give him props for not needing to be led by the hand to the wheelbarrow. This is how low my standards are for him.
“We pick the poop and wet shaving out of the stall and place it in the wheelbarrow for disposal. Try to scoop as little of the clean shaving as you can,” I demonstrate as I explain. “Bedding is expensive. The wheelbarrow gets dumped in the big containers out back. We compost it and use it as fertilizer over the fields later.”
“I got this, Tweetie. I did a western a few years ago and the director made the cast live on a working ranch for a month. This ain’t my first stall cleaning job.”
Oh, right. It’s gotten to the point that I’ve forgotten he’s a world class actor and a movie star. To me, he’s Aidan, the nuisance who lives on the property. Then it dawns on me…
“Tweetie?”
“Blue bird. Twitter. Tweetie.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. This I will not abide.
“Try and stop me.” His lips curve up into a textbook movie villain smile.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laughter wins.
Together, we make quick work of the stalls. It cuts my time by two-thirds. Amazing what a little help can do. Maybe having Darby give me a hand a few days a week wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
Aidan has an almost bottomless abundance of energy when he focuses. I now understand why he’s so successful and why he’s been working consistently for the past decade. With his help, I finish feeding the animals their grain for lunch, throw hay to the ones living in the large pasture, and still have time to repair a few loose boards in the fence.
The Mustang drives up while we’re in the middle of this task, and even though I do a really good job of hiding my interest––I find a nail head in the post that needs to be pounded in a little deeper so it doesn’t injure any of the animals––I can’t stop staring.
Shane gets out of the driver’s side wearing a white linen shirt with a vest over it, dark jeans, and his usual aviator sunglasses, and grabs a couple of grocery bags out of the trunk. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ. You know it’s time to seek help when the simple act of a man exiting a car kickstarts your sex drive.
From the attire, I figure he must’ve been meeting someone because he’s usually in a t-shirt and basketball shorts when he’s home working. This is how low I’ve sunk. I know what the man prefers in loungewear.
“You want some popcorn to go with that show you can’t stop watching?” I hear Aidan say, his voice edged in humor.
My head whips around, my skin the color of hot chili peppers. I’m ready to deny everything and anything at all costs. “Umm, what?”
“You’re going with denial?” His face is the very picture of mischief. “Bold move, Baldwin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He points to the screwdriver I’m holding. “That’s not a hammer.”
Shane spots us standing side by side along the fence, his gaze bouncing between me and Aidan. His expression is one that can only be described as coldly furious. What the heck is his problem?
It has not escaped me that Shane and Aidan have not been seen together since they both arrived. At least not since Aidan decided to use the water through as a personal bidet and his brother had to tuck him in.
Shane walks inside and I turn to his brother.
“What was that about?”
Aidan looks off into the distance. “We came into the world like brother and brother,” he recites with the gravitas it’s due. I’m almost tempted to take a picture of him. He can go from playful to thoughtful in a nanosecond. From clownish to noble in even less time. I’m getting whiplash being around him. “And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.” Then he gives me a blank stare which I rightfully return. “Shakespeare,” he adds.
“I know,” I reply in a casual tone and pick up a nail out of the box, placing the head between my lips.
It’s a lie. I am flat-out lying. I don’t know. But I’m not about to be patronized by a man who goes to a salon for highlights.
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, shut up and hand me that hammer.”
He laughs and a smile sneaks onto my face. The look on Shane’s face has its hooks in me, though. “Hey, Aidan…”
“Yeah,” he says, grabbing the hammer while he hands me the end of the board to hold in place.
“Maybe you could, I dunno, help your brother out with his career? Have you considered that it’s hard for him because you’re so accomplished and successful and he’s still struggling?”
He’s about to start hammering the nail into the board but suddenly stops. He turns to me looking completely bewildered. “Struggling? What do you mean struggling?”
“Struggling as in the textbook definition: trying to make a living as a writer.”
Aidan laughs. “He sold fifty million copies of his series and he has a deal with HBO. If that’s struggling, I don’t want to see what success looks like. It might kill him.”
What? Why do I feel like the world’s been flipped upside down and I suddenly live in an alternate universe? “Fifty what?”
“His Last Patriot series sold fifty million––”
“I heard you the first time. I just…” I know those books. Military thrillers aren’t my thing. But everyone knows Shane’s books. “He’s E.S. Hughes?”
“Eamon Shane Hughes… You didn’t know?”
Humiliation threatens to swallow me whole. It makes me prickly. I think of all the stupid things I said to him that night. Boy, he must’ve had a good laugh at my expense. “How would I know that? Hughes is a common last name.”
“I dunno… Search Google like everyone else?” He starts hammering the nail in the board; hard, confident, precise strokes that indicate he’s done this before.
“I’m not like everyone else,” I mutter in my defense. I’m far more clueless than most.
“Yes, I’m starting to see that.”
Why is it that when one aspect of your life improves, some other part inevitably turns into a flaming turd?
Aidan’s finally doing his part, working hard to fulfill his community service hours. In turn with all the help I’m getting around the ranch, I actually finish days without being completely exhausted for a change. We’re even having some fun in the process.
Then Pepper gets sick.
“She hasn’t eaten in two days,” I tell Tom who’s looking at me with an overabundance of sympathy. He had to make a barn call today when Pepper again refused her morning grain and treats. This is very much unlike her and cause for concern.
Pepper was already around twenty-six, a senior citizen, when we rescued her from the kill pen years ago, her spirit broken by years of neglect. She was so shut down it took months for her to trust us. But the true transformation happened when Hazel came to live with us.
Hazel’s mother died giving birth to her. We weren’t sure she would survive at first, but she did, and as soon as she was strong enough to be turned out with another mini donkey, we placed them together. Hazel got the mother figure she desperately needed and Pepper turned into a loving, doting, adoptive parent.
Tom takes the longish dark blonde hair falling over his hazel eye and tucks it behind his ear, exposing his sharp jawline. If I was a normal person, I would find this hot. “Blue…” His words stall. Like he’s searching for the right combination that will hurt the least. “She’s old. Almost thirty.”
“So what can we do?”
“Be kind. Don’t prolong her life because you’re not ready to say goodbye. I can
give her an IV, but she’ll continue to deteriorate, and I’ll be back here tomorrow, telling you the same thing again.” He places his big warm hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Make her comfortable and let her go.”
I pace the barn for a few more hours and make the decision with Mona’s help. Tom comes back at sundown and finds me in the stall with Pepper’s head on my lap. She’s hurting and the decision to let her go is the right one.
Pepper travels over the rainbow bridge with her head on my lap, peacefully and loved beyond measure. You can hear a pin drop in the barn. The animals know. They always know.
I text Mona when it’s done. She’s not good with them passing, so we’ve worked it out that I stay with them. I don’t fault her. Some of us love so hard it bleeds out of the seams and leaves us weak and defenseless, unable to cope.
Maybe that’s why I was a good paramedic. When tragedy strikes, a steady calmness comes over me. Sometimes it helps to save a life. Sometimes it’s to assist life in completing its cycle. I don’t know where it comes from, but it’s always been with me. Up until the assault.
While the other animals are quiet, Hazel is not. I had to put her in a separate stall down the aisle. She’s hysterical in fact, braying loudly. It’s a bloodcurdling sound if you’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing it. Once I’ve buried Pepper in the grave I asked Aidan to dig with the backhoe earlier, I run back to Hazel to try to calm her down, but it’s almost impossible.
Shane walks in and finds me in the stall, seated with my back against the wall. The look on his face is pure compassion. No pity. The line between those two is thin but important. I can see why he would make a good leader of men.
He’s a dream and a nightmare. I’m just not sure which is worse for me. Tears threaten to surface for the first time all day. Seeing all that resolute strength in such a great package stirs them up.
“How is she?” he asks, tipping his chin at Hazel who’s now quiet and standing but exhausted.
“She refuses to lay down and rest. The only thing that helped stop the braying is Frank Sinatra.”
“Frank?”
I hold up my iPhone and hit play. One For My Baby comes on softly.
He holds up a paper bag. “I brought you a sandwich and a bottle of water… Mona insisted you eat.”
Without invitation, he enters the stall and sits across from me, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His calves are tanned, cut muscle lightly covered with dark hair. Up close, I can see a few more shrapnel scars faded by time. I wonder about them. What their story is. Does he still carry it around or has he set it aside the way Pepper set aside years of abuse and chose to spend the rest of her life being happy?
When I don’t move to take the bag, he plucks the bottle of water out, loosens the top, and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“Anybody ever accuse you of being bossy?” I say quietly. Even though Hazel isn’t sleeping, I don’t want the energy to incite another braying spell.
“Lt. Colonel…” His half smile wakes me up. “I was paid to be bossy.”
“You must’ve been very good at your job.” Learning that he’s a successful writer is still hard to accept. It almost doesn’t fit my idea of him. He’s so low key that it feels incongruous with his level of fame. “Thank you,” I say. Taking a sip of water makes me realize how thirsty I was.
“You should eat.” He takes the sandwich wrapped in wax paper out and hands it to me. I can’t even think about food right now. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, I’m afraid it won’t stay down.
“I can’t, Shane.” He doesn’t press, tossing the sandwich back in the bag.
“I’m sorry about Pepper.”
Tears well in my eyes at his sudden sincere sympathy. This time they spill over. I brush them away with a knuckle and nod.
“Why do you do this? All the time you dedicate to these animals…”
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“I love them.” I reach out to pet Hazel. She sways and makes a helpless sound. “They need me… I have purpose here.” The silence that follows is rich and dense and meaningful. There’s an unspoken understanding in Shane’s eyes. I don’t know this man. I don’t know what he’s experienced in life, but I know that he understands me.
“It scares me that I won’t be able to fix them. That I don’t have the power to make them whole again… I don’t want to fail them.”
He’s watching me so intensely that if I wasn’t completely wrecked, it would make me nervous. Good thing I’m completely wrecked.
“I have my days, too, when everything seems to be working against us and I feel like I’m drowning and it’s time to walk away. But then I get a comment like this…”
I open the screen of my phone and click on the IG app. The most recent picture of Legend, who’s doing remarkably well with his recovery, pops up. Then I go to the direct messages, and quietly read, “Hi Mother Goose Rescue. I’m eleven and immunocompromised. Which means I’m homeschooled and don’t have any friends my age that aren’t in my exact same situation. It sucks. I just wanna tell you that I check your pictures every day. I love to see the animals you save. Pumpkin Spice and Hazel were my favorites, but I have a new favorite now: Legend. Because…” My voice cracks and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from crying. Exhaling, I start again, “Because he never gave up. Even when he almost died when his owner stopped feeding him. Whenever I have a bad day and want to give up, I think of Legend. If he can get better, maybe I can, too.” I put the phone down. “That’s why I do it.”
We sit quietly in each other’s company until Hazel gets restless and starts making noises again.
“Wait here,” Shane says and gets up. I watch his perfect round ass with the dents on the side walk out of the stall and disappear into the dimly-lit barn aisle.
A few minutes later, he returns with an acoustic guitar under his arm. Taking his place back on the stall floor, he cradles the guitar under his arm, leans over it, and begins softly picking strings. The tune sounds Spanish, the perfect sound to soothe an aching heart.
The music starts working its magic and Hazel takes a few steps closer to nuzzle Shane’s scruffy cheek. Shane looks up, our eyes meet, and his lips curve up softly.
Right here––see this moment? This is the moment I died. Write my obituary because I just died of lust for a man playing guitar to a heartbroken miniature donkey.
Hazel walks over to me and finally lays down. Cuddled against my leg, she lays her head on my lap and I pet her gently. She closes her eyes and sighs and the ugly tears I was hoping to save for later, to shed in the privacy of my room, fall down my cheeks. In minutes, I’m going to look like a bruised tomato in front of my dirty fantasy man and there’s nothing I can do about it. If you’ve ever seen a bruised tomato, you understand.
Shane puts the guitar down and slides his big hard body against mine. He throws an arm around my shoulders and I stiffen. It’s an automatic reaction. Not because I don’t want to melt into him, shove my nose into his clean pits, and inhale him like he’s coke and it’s the 80s again. Because I do want to do that with every fiber of my body.
It’s because I don’t trust myself to not fall for him hard. And when I say fall, I mean in love for all the wrong reasons. He’s just that tempting. And with my track record, it would turn into a disaster. I need to stay away from any man that elicits this degree of reaction from me and go after the solid citizens… like Tom.
“Don’t worry, I won’t think you’re hitting on me,” he says in that deep raspy voice of his, the sound vibrating in his chest and sending sparks to every part me where we touch.
“Good. Because you’re not my type.”
“Good. Because I’m a bad bet.”
But maybe just for now…
I let myself melt into him and he pulls me closer, his scent more intoxicating that Columbian cocaine. If I knew what it was like… which I don’t.
“Two minutes. Then you can leave,” I mum
ble. With my face plastered against his hard chest covered in an Army t-shirt, my eyes drift shut.
“Hmm,” is the last thing I hear.
Chapter 10
Turning points: the topic of today’s unauthorized TED Talk. Turning points can be both good and bad. The problems creep in when you’re not sure which it is.
The morning after Pepper’s passing, I awakened at dawn to find myself being nuzzled by Hazel and covered in Shane’s extra-large Army t-shirt. He must have stayed with me most of the night because I remembered sleeping against something warm and hard.
I’m not ashamed to say I took the t-shirt home and have been taking hits of his scent like a smoker takes a drag of a last cigarette before he/she gets ready to quit––with feverish, almost violent force. It’s been a few days and I’m just not ready to return it yet.
We’ve seen each other in passing since then. I’ve received a tip of the head when he comes and goes, but he’s kept his distance otherwise.
Aidan’s another story altogether…
“No. No. No. Godfather II is the better movie. There’s no question.”
I swear it’s like he just found out Santa doesn’t exist. I’m afraid to tell him I like Star Wars more than Return Of The Jedi.
I hand him the keys to the tractor. The composted manure is ready to be spread over the large pasture and Aidan informed me that since it’s a “man’s job,” he should be the one to do it. I giggled for an hour. Who did he think had been doing it until today? Billy?
“Personal choice, my dude. I like the original Godfather better.” I watch him climb the tractor in his board shorts and work boots. No shirt. Like… ever. “Quick question. What is with the nudity? Seriously, put a shirt on. If I wanted to see your naked chest––or any other part of you, for that matter––I’d pay twelve bucks at the theater.”
