by P. Dangelico
“Not here.” I clear my throat. “In the office. “My med bag is in there.”
I keep it in the small office attached to the barn because that’s where I usually need it.
Shane follows me there and takes a seat in the armless chair. He inspects the wound with a grimace. It’s a bleeder. Reaching into the bag, I immediately open a sterile gauze package and hand it to him to stop the bleeding.
“You were a paramedic?”
I nod. “In L.A.” I take the supplies I need out of the med bag one by one. Alcohol, sterile cotton, the suture kit.
“Why’d you quit?”
The million-dollar question. I open the sterile cotton package and pour chlorhexidine alcohol on it. He searches my face. “Does it have something to do with the plate you have in your shoulder and the pins in your right leg?”
I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear him say it. He’s always been super observant and I don’t do much to hide the small scars I have on my body as a result of that night. I place the soaked cotton pad on his wound and he flinches.
“Sorry,” I say, fighting a smile.
With his opposite hand, he touches my elbow gently. It’s a fleeting gesture, but I feel it long after he takes his hand back. “We don’t have to talk about it.” His warm brown eyes take me in, flickering to the beauty mark and away.
I want him. I’m tired of pretending I don’t. I’m even more tired of him being stubborn about it because I know he wants me, too.
“I can talk about it. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I just never know how other people will react… that’s why I don’t. Most people have one of two reactions. I either see pity on their face. Or I see the relief that it wasn’t them… nobody ever thinks it can happen to them.”
Watching me closely, he waits for me to speak again.
“I loved being a paramedic. I thought I would do it forever. I was good at it, too.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says with absolute sincerity.
I can see that night––the sounds and the smells––as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Memories are tricky like that. It’s usually the worst ones we remember best.
“I rolled into the parking lot of my old building around 2 a.m. after a double shift. I was living with my fiancé at the time, but his place was in North Hollywood and my dad’s apartment was ten minutes away on Van Nuys… I texted Jaime and told him I was too tired to drive and I’d be home in the morning… I parked my car and walked to the elevators… A homeless guy I knew from the neighborhood was walking back and forth in between buildings.
“I knew him. He was usually sweet.” I lick my lips, nerves making my mouth dry. “Yes, he had mental health and drug issues, but he was never aggressive––not with me.
“Anyway… I was tired and distracted, but the guy obviously needed help. I thought, he’s probably tweaking. I’ll check him out and be on my way. As soon as I got close enough, he punched me in the face. I don’t remember anything after that.”
I do remember the physical pain and the months of rehab, however. The panic attacks and the fights with Jaime about getting on anti-depressants; I didn’t want to and he was practically insisting that I do it. All the talks I had with my dad about going back to work; he wanted me to take more time off and I was desperate to do anything other than sit around and think.
I peel open the suture kit and get to work closing the cut on Shane’s chorded forearm. “He kicked me so hard he broke my shoulder, three ribs, collapsed my lung, and snapped my tibia in two. Then he ran into oncoming traffic and got hit by a bus… he died on the scene.”
I finish with the sutures and run my fingers along the edge of the silicone patch to make sure it adheres properly. Shane grabs my wrist with the opposite hand and squeezes softly. We stare at each other until the tension between us nearly snaps in two, my heart beating so hard it hurts.
I swallow, and the air between us shrinks. So does the distance. He leans in, his attention trained on my mouth with the focus of a sniper. His fingertips on the hand attached to the injured arm skate gently up my bare thigh to the edge of my short shorts, leaving a third-degree burn in their wake. Then he tugs on the hem, pulling me closer.
Aidan bursts through the door of the office and frowns. “Are we working on the barn or are we sitting around making cartoon eyes at each other?”
Shane leans away and stands, while my face flushes a deeply embarrassed cherry red. Aidan watches us like he just caught the fox raiding the chicken coop.
I follow Shane out the door and hear Aidan scream, “Is it something I said?”
Chapter 15
The barn is done. And it’s not just done being repaired, Shane and Aidan threw in a few upgrades because they were ‘already at it.’
Mother Goose Rescue now has a brand new state-of-the-art wash stall with infrared lights, hot and cold running water, and perfect drainage. If you’ve ever managed a barn, you understand. I still haven’t gotten a bill for the materials and I’m starting to suspect that I won’t be getting one. I’ve asked the store to send it to me a thousand times and still nothing. All that’s left to be done now is to fix the cracks in the exterior stucco that the earthquake left behind and then it should be good for another hundred years.
A strange sense of peace has settled over the place. Shane and Aidan have started to mend their relationship––it’s been argument-free since the day they came to blows. Love looks to have permanently set up shop at Harris Ranch. Darby is always here now and is often found helping to care for the animals. I suspect Mona wants to tell me that he’s moving in and doesn’t know how to go about it.
Three more weeks and life will change for all of us. Aidan will have fulfilled all the court mandated requirements and Shane… Shane will go back to being a nomad. As for me…
“Who’s that?” Aidan asks. He’s on the ladder, spackling over a crack, while I’m working down below, painting over the patches that have already dried.
In the distance, a shiny, black Ram pickup truck approaches.
“That’s my friend, Johnny Barrios. His family owns the orchard down the road.”
I know it’s Johnny’s black pickup truck approaching because of the beautiful tree logo belonging to his family’s orchard painted on the door. Johnny parks the truck and gets out, waving. Then he walks over to the flatbed, pops the back, and grabs a crate.
Placing the paint brush down, I wipe my hands on a rag. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I see Shane, who (I kid you not) was throwing hay to Hazel and her herd, catch sight of Johnny and frown. He rubs Hazels ears, pets her muzzle, and exits the paddock, closing the gate behind him.
“Hey there, beautiful. How are you?” Johnny has a big infectious smile and a happy-go-lucky attitude that I can appreciate. He seldom lets anything get him down. And he’s attractive: olive skin, green eyes, a bright white smile. All that and a promising career. What more could a woman want?
“Hi, Johnny. Long time, no see.”
“I was in L.A. for the food festival.”
Johnny’s family owns one of the largest and oldest orchards in the area. A year ago he branched out and started growing heirloom vegetables to cater to the top restaurants in the country.
He places the crate down on a bale of hay. “Brought you some goodies.”
“Nice. I give you shit, and you give me treasure.” Johnny’s farm gets the extra composted manure to use as fertilizer and we get fruits and vegetables. It’s a win for everyone. I sort through the baby bok choy, the different colored tomatoes, the baby kale, and an assortment of fruits. “Mona’s gonna love cooking these.”
“Hey, man. What’s up,” Aidan says by way of introduction.
Johnny tips his chin and eyeballs Aidan suspiciously. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Aidan Hughes?”
Aidan’s mouth hitches up on one side and he pushes his Elvis sunglasses to the top of his head. “All the time, man, it’s a major pain in the ass.”
&
nbsp; Such a monkey.
“Johnny, meet Aidan Hughes. Aidan is here doing some charity work. He’s big on charity, so he’s helping out with the rescue animals.”
Which is entirely true. No lies detected.
A slow grin takes over Johnny’s face. “No shit? Hey, man, that’s cool. Can I get a selfie with you?”
Aidan and I freeze. This could get us into hot water with the redheaded monster.
“Yeah, man, just make sure you don’t post where you saw me. Otherwise Blue will get into all sorts of trouble. You know how the tabloid media can be.”
Johnny’s expression shifts to concern. “Oh, yeah, dude. No worries.”
Aidan takes a selfie with Johnny, and then I watch Johnny crop the picture to include only the two men, no discernible landscape.
“Nice to meetcha,” Johnny says to Aidan. Then he turns his attention on me. “Hey, ah, Blue?” He’s shaken off his happy-go-lucky expression and traded it for an insecure one. I have no idea what prompted this, but I suspect I’m about to find out.
“Yeah?” I say, pretending not to have noticed.
“We have a booth set up at the fair tonight and, uh, I thought I would extend an invitation.”
I don’t answer right away because I’m in heavy thought, trying to extrapolate from the assembly of vague words what exactly he means by this.
Is he asking me out on a date? Does he want me there to support the family business? When did men get so complicated?
“Umm, okay,” I answer, keeping it neutral. “Yes, I’ll be there. Tonight? What time?”
Johnny grins and it’s a huge happy one, underscored with relief. I’m leaning toward this being a date? Maybe? “Around eight? I’ll be there early to set up, but eight works.”
I still don’t know if I just agreed to a date. Going to the fair was something I was already considering, so two birds, I guess. This family I want isn’t going to start itself. I gotta get a move on. Keeping it vague is good, however. Less chance to mess up our amicable relationship, rendering it awkward if it doesn’t work out.
“Eight is good. See you then.”
“See you later,” Johnny says, smiling again.
Johnny leaves and Aidan and I watch him go. Shane is still making himself scarce, lurking in the far side of the barn, a spackling tool in hand.
Aidan scoffs. “Did he just ask you out on a date while I was standing right here?”
I shake my head. Men: so much to unpack.
“I have no freaking idea, but I’m gonna find out tonight.”
Seated at the kitchen table reading a book, Darby tips his chin down to inspect me over the top of his reading glasses. He doesn’t look impressed. “You going out?”
I grab a soda from the refrigerator, pop the top, and sip.
“I sure am. The fair.”
I’m wearing another one of my usual outfits tonight: a short, cotton summer dress, white with an eyelet hem, and spaghetti straps. I threw a small, fitted, cropped cardigan over it with my cowboy boots.
“Storm’s coming,” he says.
“Yeah, I saw that. But it’s not supposed to break until much later I heard.”
Mona waltzes in having just gotten out of a bath, the lavender bath bomb scent still clinging to her skin. “Hi, sweetie.” She looks me over. “You goin’ out again?”
“The fair. Johnny invited me.”
“Storm’s coming.”
Getting rain here is equivalent to the second coming. Everyone knows, and then they make sure everyone else knows. Then everyone talks about it.
“Yep. I’m not worried. I’ll be home by then.”
“You goin’ on a date?” Mona asks, both of them watching me expectantly.
“I’m not sure.”
“See, that right there is the problem. If you don’t know, then the answer is no.”
My shoulders fall. Dang it, she’s right again. “Do you ever get tired of being right?”
She thinks about it. “Not so far.”
I don’t make the same mistake twice. No siree, I do not. This time, I wait inside the house until the Uber I ordered to go to the fair pulls up and parks. Then I make a mad dash for it.
Throwing open the door, I jump in the back seat and startle the driver. “Drive! Go, go, go!” I strongly encourage at a very high volume, higher than absolutely necessary. When he doesn’t immediately floor it, I add waving at him. “Gooooo.”
He hits the gas and the car fishtails, shooting down the driveway. No Shane in sight, but it’s dark out tonight with the storm brewing and I don’t trust him not to be lurking somewhere. Which means I trust him to lurk. The man has got lurking down pat.
“You okay, lady?” The driver glances in the rearview mirror at me, expression concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” Then it dawns on me. “Oh. Oh, no, I wasn’t being held against my will or anything. There’s a guy…” I exhale tiredly. “He’s… he’s very bossy and doesn’t like me having fun, so he insists on coming with me on the very few occasions I do go out, and then he cockblocks me––”
“Your husband?” he asks with an accent I can’t place.
“My husband? No, not my husband.” I snort. “I’m not trying to cheat on my husband. I’m trying to find a husband.”
“Ohhh, haha.”
“Yes, haha. It’s not easy.”
“You are pretty woman. Cannot be hard.”
“What’s your name?”
“Yashar.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Yashar.”
“Nice to meet you.” He smiles at me in the mirror and I can see he’s young, in his early twenties.
“Not a lot of men want to settle down and have a big family these days, you know,” I continue on my rant. He did nothing to deserve this, but I don’t feel like stopping. “They want to have fun, and travel, and rifle through their choices.”
We finally reach the entrance of the fairgrounds, the sky lit up with the reflection of the light on the rides. They used to have fireworks displays, but they’ve been canceled with the threat of fires they pose.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I find myself asking him. The pathetic is strong tonight.
“Yes, I’m married. I have two children. Boy and a girl.”
I’m on the verge of tears.
“That is wonderful. Good for you. Well, thanks for the ride.” I hop out, feeling worse about myself than I did before. All in all, not such a great start to the evening.
What does one do when one is in a generally crappy mood and one needs to feel better? One goes looking for sugar.
The first food booth I want to hit up is the funnel cake booth. These are not your ordinary funnel cakes. It’s Ojai, which means they’re gourmet.
I think about going to see Johnny first and sussing out whether we could be a thing, but I should probably do it in a better state of mind. It wouldn’t be fair to him otherwise.
On the way to stuffing my face, I run into Brandon, my farrier. He’s an amazing person. Dry sense of humor. Huge heart. So patient with all my scared babies. He’s also married with three kids. I joke that if they finally decide to clone people like they clone sheep and expensive polo ponies, I am signing up for a first-generation Brandon clone.
“Bluebird,” he drawls standing in line with his daughter to ride the tea cup ride.
“Brandon Markey, what trouble are you stirring up at the fair?” I turn my attention to his eleven-year-old daughter who’s a frequent guest at the rescue. “Hi, Darla.” She waves and smiles with crooked teeth. She’s so adorable she makes me yearn.
“How’s Legend?” Darla asks.
“Getting stronger every day. He’s put on about five hundred pounds already. You should come and see him next time your dad comes to do his feet.”
“Hey, listen,” Brandon says, leaning in. “Keep your eyes and ears open tonight. I saw a couple of guys carrying, and although it could be nothing, it’s better you know.”
“What do they look like?
” I suddenly hear, a deep, bossy rasp coming from somewhere over my shoulder.
Brandon isn’t fazed by anything, and he’s definitely not fazed by Shane.
“Hessians––motorcycle gang,” Brandon tells him.
“I saw a couple in town a week ago.”
“I’ve seen you at the ranch, right?” Brandon asks, extending a hand to greet Shane like a normal person. “Hi, Brandon Markey.”
Shane shakes his hand. “Shane Hughes. Yeah, you have. You’re the farrier?”
“My dad does all the rescue animals at Mother Goose,” Darla chirps.
Shane smiles. His lips actually shape into a soft, genuine smile when he looks at Darla Markey, and I swear I almost get pregnant right there in the middle of the fairgrounds.
“Your dad’s a good man,” Shane tells her.
The line for the teacup ride moves and the Markeys are next. “Catch you guys later,” Brandon say. “Have a good time.”
“Bye, Darla. Have fun.” I wave.
“Say hi to Legend and Hazel for me,” Darla shouts as her father nudges her onto the ride.
“I will,” I shout back.
The silence is deafening. Shane stands next to me wearing a white t-shirt, dark jeans, and boots like he’s a throwback to 1950s movie icons and I’m starting to hate him for it.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to the fair. It’s still a free country, isn’t it?”
“Depends on what you mean by free. Am I free to do whatever I want?”
“You are. And I’m free to make sure you do it safely.”
Oh, no. Not this again. I’m so hot I’m starting to sweat. Placing a hand on my forehead, I test the temperature. I take a deep breath.
“Look, Shane,” I start quietly. I don’t want to draw any attention to us. “I can appreciate what you’re trying to do here. I don’t want to argue or debate with you. I genuinely like you. You are a good man and I respect you. But this dance,” I motion with my finger between us, “is tiresome.
