by James, Marie
“Thank you,” he whispers just before bringing the cup to his lips.
Like the fool I’ve become, I watch his throat work as he drinks, mesmerized by the sleek line of his neck and the dark stubble dotting his chin.
He must shave every day because this is the first time I’ve noticed the hair growth. It makes him less of a boy and more of a man, but the shape of his body wrapped in layers of muscle have never left me confused of that fact.
He drains the glass, licking his tongue at the ice as if he’s still thirsty and needing more. My throat dries, making me wish I’d brought two glasses of the refreshing liquid out here, one for him to drink and one to pour over my head to cool myself down.
“Want me to get you more?” I ask as I hold my hand out to take the empty glass.
“No.” When he hands me the glass, he makes sure not to touch my fingers this time.
And even though he doesn’t sneer at me or throw an insult my way, I still can’t help but feel chastised when he turns around and walks away.
Chapter 13
Zeke
She knows.
The evidence that she’s already heard about my dad is clear on her face the second I notice her standing in the barn.
She doesn’t mention it.
She doesn’t offer her condolences, or willingness to pray for my family during this difficult time.
She doesn’t ask a million questions or offer me whispers of hope that a miracle will happen.
She just brings me a cold glass of lemonade.
I don’t deserve her kindness, but for some reason I find myself watching her while I drink and soaking up every single ounce she offers.
She doesn’t leave immediately after taking back the empty glass, and for the first time in as long as I want to admit, I don’t want her to leave. I want her eyes on me as I work. I want her presence near because there’s something wholesome and pure about her, and with the darkness closing in around me, I’m desperate for a little of her light.
She calms me a little, but this is the last place I want to be. I should be at the hospital helping Mom get him ready to come home to die. Our time is more limited than I ever anticipated it being. They give him weeks, not months or years. And I feel guilty for the hatred I feel toward my father. He’s been sick for months, and for months he’s refused to accept it. He wouldn’t go the doctor, and all the while, cancer spread through every organ until it was too late for anything to be done. His stubbornness will put him in an early grave. My mother will be without a husband. I’ll be left without a dad.
The calm that entered the barn when Frankie walked in disappears and the gloom of my mood settles again.
“Fuck,” I grunt as the wire cutters slip out of my hand.
I didn’t take the news of my father’s diagnosis well. The holes in my bedroom wall are proof of that. The damage to my hands and knuckles provides even more evidence. My swollen hands have been giving me trouble all damn day, and although I’m no stranger to pain, I’m pretty certain something is broken in my right hand, making it nearly impossible to squeeze the wire cutters enough to clip through the bailing wire on this bale.
“Let me help.” Frankie’s hand covers mine until I release the cutters and let her take over.
I don’t bother moving out of the way, and she doesn’t seem to mind being pressed right up against me as she has to use both hands to make the cutters clamp enough to snip through the wire.
“What are we doing with this?”
“Huh?” I look over at her, but the pity in her eyes is too much to bear. She’s sad for me, and I clear my throat before I allow my emotions to clog it up.
“The hay. Where does it need to go?”
“I cleaned the goat pen. This is for a new layer in there.”
She nods before gripping the remaining wire holding the bale together and dragging it toward the goat pen. If I weren’t so upset with everything, I’d find it comical the way she struggles to get the bale where she needs it to be. Although clumsy at first, she eventually gets the hang of separating the bale of hay and layering it in the pen. The goats are roaming right now, but will be more than grateful for a clean pen by the time I put them up for the evening.
When it’s done, she doesn’t look to me for praise for her help, she merely asks me what’s next. We spend the next several hours getting the work done. She only opens her mouth to ask for clarification when she’s unsure of how to do something, but she doesn’t seem disgruntled about being out here helping me.
I have no doubt that Mrs. Jacobson sent her out here with the lemonade, but she’s here helping because she wants to be, because she knows I need it. She’s not being forced to spend time with me, and it’s evident in the way she holds her shoulders.
We manage to knock all the chores for today off my list and even get a head start on things for tomorrow. I keep working both to get ahead and also to see how far she’s willing to extend her offer to help. She’s slower than I am, but faster than some guys I’ve worked with before. What she lacks in strength, she makes up for in determination.
Not once while we’re working does it cross my mind to insult her or tell her to leave, but I can tell she’s waiting for it to come. I’ve conditioned her to believe I can’t go a day without hurting her, and I hate myself for it. I’m not going to apologize because I know she’d see it as shallow or just another way to manipulate her into doing the things I’d suggested in my truck after our day in town.
And God do I want those things.
Even with her hair littered with bits of hay and the trails of sweat flowing from her temple.
Even with the dirt under her nails and a hint of sunburn on her cheeks.
“I need to make a trip into town,” I tell her as we make it back from the field late in the afternoon. “They’re open for another two hours, and it’ll help me in the morning.”
It’s the most I’ve said to her since she came out of the house earlier, even though our day wasn’t filled with awkward silence.
“I can help again tomorrow,” she offers, but I can tell from the way her eyes are darting away from mine that she doesn’t want to be caged in the truck with me again right now. It didn’t end so well last time, and I don’t blame her for the caution.
“Okay,” I tell her before turning away and walking to my truck.
I’m pulling open the driver’s side door when I hear her voice again.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” I answer immediately without looking back at her. “Thanks for your help today.”
I want her more now than I ever have in the past, and I know I wouldn’t be able to restrain myself. Not after she smashed so many of my preconceived notions to smithereens today. Not after watching her work all damn day without complaint. There isn’t a single part of me that could turn down the chance to touch her again.
Instead of backing away, I sit in my truck and watch her turn on the water hose, tilting her head to the side to take a drink. It’s something I’ve done at least a billion times but watching this girl drink from a hose is nothing short of spectacular.
After wetting her hand, she rubs at the base of her neck, and I know she has to be sore. Her offer to help may not be there in the morning when she wakes up with muscles stiffer than I imagine they’ve ever been.
“Not such a city girl anymore, are you?” I mutter as she turns off the hose and disappears inside the house, and for the first time since I dialed 911 to help my dad, my lips want to smile. I don’t quite manage it, but maybe tomorrow will be better.
I don’t waste any time at the feed store. I grab the things we’ll need for the next couple of days and place an order for the things they don’t keep in stock. Mr. Alfred tries to speak with me, but the second the discussion turns to my dad and how much he’ll be missed, I haul ass out of there. I can’t stand the thought of my dad being gone, but I’ll be damned if I stick around while people act like he’s already dead.
&
nbsp; Leaving the feed in the bed of my truck, I drive home instead of going back to the barn. I kept a respectable distance between Frankie and me today, but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep that up. I know it would be impossible if I laid eyes on her tonight after all the work has been done, and I have nothing to keep my hands busy.
At lunch, Mrs. Jacobson insisted I come to supper, and I told her no. My dad is coming home from the hospital tomorrow, and I need to make sure the house is ready for him.
It was a lie. There’s nothing that needs to be done at home, but I’m too raw to be around anyone.
“Except, Frankie,” I mutter.
I want to be around her. Hell, even when I’m spitting terrible things her way, I want to be around her.
After a quick shower, I re-dress and head over there, knowing I can’t stay away. It’ll just eat at me all damn night if I don’t.
They’re already sitting down to eat when I arrive, but Mrs. Jacobson just smiles at me when Frankie gets up to grab an extra plate from the cabinet.
“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to look up from the table in fear that the effects of her kindness will start rolling down my cheeks.
Supper is a quiet affair, filled periodically with small talk no one is really interested in. Mrs. Jacobson has to clear her throat multiple times, and I don’t have to look at her to know she’s doing her best to hold back her emotions. I’m grateful she doesn’t mention my dad, but that doesn’t keep her from lingering when I press my lips to her temple in thanks.
I don’t bolt the second supper is over like usual, and as if sensing I need some time alone with Frankie, Mrs. Jacobson makes herself scarce.
I help as best I can to clean up the kitchen, and I can tell that even though Frankie is shocked at my assistance, she doesn’t say anything.
Like every other day I’ve eaten over here, once she’s done, she turns to the front door to walk me out, but instead of climbing off the porch and heading to my truck, I clasp her hand in mine and sit on the front steps.
She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t pull her hand from mine either. Other than our clasped fingers, we don’t touch, and for the first time, this is exactly enough. I feed off of her energy, soaking up everything I know she wants to say but doesn’t, and we remain silent when I stand to leave.
I press my lips to her cheek and walk away. After I climb into my truck and look at the front of the house, she’s already gone.
Chapter 14
Frankie
“We used the last of it yesterday.” I bite my lip before continuing, unsure of how he’s going to react. “I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“No big deal,” he answers immediately. “I’ll grab some this evening.”
I nod and get back to work. It’s been two weeks since the first day I helped him with the goat pen. Every day, I’m ready to help him before he arrives. Every evening, I’m exhausted, falling into my bed not sure I’ll be able to get up the next day.
I’ve honestly never felt better in my life, despite the cuts and scratches on my arms and the ache in my muscles. I’ve learned why people who work on a ranch wear jeans, and even though I feel like stripping out of them when I get too hot, I also don’t want to get cut up the way I did the first couple of days. I even went to town with Nan and bought a pair of real boots. It was clear from day one that sneakers weren’t going to cut it on the ranch.
“After we’re done here, I’ll need some help. The patch job we did on the east side fence last week isn’t going to cut it for long.”
I only nod my agreement as I carry a bag of feed from the stockroom and sling it into the back of the truck. I’m not nearly as strong as Zeke, so each bag I carry over means I also have to climb into the truck with it and stack it correctly.
He tried to help me once, but it’s a matter of pride doing it myself, and he backed off, not growing frustrated like I thought he would because it takes me a little longer.
We don’t talk, not even pleasant chatter. If words leave our mouths, it’s about the ranch. What needs to be done. What we’re doing. What we plan to do the next day.
But every evening he eats supper with us. Every evening we sit on the porch holding hands, and every evening he presses his soft lips against my cheek, not lingering any longer than he did the first time.
We’re friends. I think we are at least.
He doesn’t sling insults my way any longer. He doesn’t do things out of spite, and I want to believe that it has more to do with him no longer hating me than his desperate need for help around the ranch.
“Excuse me?”
We both turn at the sound of an unfamiliar man’s voice at the other end of the barn.
Before either of us can open our mouths to ask him who he is, Nan appears beside him, shaking his hand and speaking too low for us to hear.
“Zeke,” Nan calls. “I want you to meet Rowdy, the new foreman I was telling you about.”
My throat closes up as I watch for Zeke’s reaction to the new boss on the ranch. Nan may have spoken to Zeke about it, but this is the first time I’m getting wind of a new employee.
“Rowdy Hastings,” the guy says, holding his hand out for Zeke to shake, but his attention is diverted long before the handshake is over. “You must be Frances.”
His hand reaches for mine, and I don’t miss the gentlemanly way he tips his hat forward.
“Frankie, please.” I offer him my hand, smiling at the realization that he’s younger than I first thought, mid-twenties at the most.
“She’s been helping out a lot these last couple of weeks,” Nan informs the newcomer.
“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” Rowdy says, his eyes darting toward Zeke when an odd noise slips from his lips. “The barn ain’t no place for a lady.”
“Now, now,” Nan tsks. “Jacobson Ranch won’t tolerate any form of sexism.”
I grin at my grandmother, grateful that she put this guy in his place in a more professional way than I was planning to.
“Of course,” Rowdy says with an alarming smile. “I just mean that she doesn’t have to help now that I’m here.”
“I do,” I say the same time Zeke spits, “She does.”
I do my best to hide my smile as Rowdy’s eyes dart between the two of us. I see it the second he thinks something more than work is going on between the two of us, and I know Zeke can see it, too. Yet, he doesn’t clarify anything after Nan makes her excuses and heads back into the house.
Zeke rattles off the list of things left to be done for the day, and surprisingly, Rowdy doesn’t pull rank the way I imagined he would. He just nods his head, tips his hat at me once more, and gets to work.
***
“Like this,” Rowdy says as he places his hands over mine and helps me to reposition the pliers I’m using to help repair the fence.
“Wow,” I say in shock when it works much easier now than how I was doing it earlier.
My gaze darts to Zeke, and I see a frown on his lips, but at the same time, he could’ve been just as helpful. He’s been letting me do things the hard way for weeks, not bothering once to speak up and offer assistance.
“Wouldn’t want you to hurt these pretty hands of yours.” Rowdy pulls the glove off of my right hand, running his thumb down the middle of my palm over the red mark left from using the tool wrong for so long.
Zeke grunts, slamming the driver over the t-post much harder than necessary. He refuses to look our way, and irritation has been rolling off of him since Rowdy offered to help us with the fence as our final chore of the day.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Rowdy asks on a whisper after I pull my hand from his.
It takes me longer than it should to answer, and a knowing glint lights his pretty blue eyes.
He winks at me as I finally manage to shake my head. “Good to know.”
“You’re too old for me,” I spit, feeling like a fool the second the words leave my mouth.
Rowdy’s lips turn u
p in a mischievous grin. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” I kick the dirt with the toe of my boot. “I mean, that and I’m not interested. I mean you seem nice and all, but I’m leaving in a couple weeks.”
“Would you be telling him this if he wanted to date you?” The new foreman hitches his thumb over his shoulder to Zeke who has already driven four more t-posts.
“He’s not… it’s not like that between us.”
“But you want it to be.”
“No.” I shake my head a little too hard to be believable.
“You know what I think?” He takes a step closer. “I think he likes you.”
“He doesn’t,” I assure him as he lifts his palm to my cheek.
Jesus. Is he going to kiss me? I haven’t even known this man for twenty-four hours.
“City Girl!” Zeke yells. “How about a little help?”
“What did I tell you?” Rowdy winks at me before taking a step back. “Let’s make him jealous.”
My cheeks are flushed as I step around him to help Zeke. I wouldn’t consider myself a manipulative person, but the offer sticks in my head.
Zeke doesn’t insult me when I make it over to him. He doesn’t ask me what the hell just happened with the new guy. In fact, he refuses to make eye contact with me at all. The only thing that even hints at his irritation is his insistence on needing help and then proceeding not to let me do a damn thing the rest of the day. He moves faster than me, making it impossible to get ahead of him to help in any way.
Each time I look at Rowdy in frustration, he merely winks at me like his grand plan is already in motion and working like a charm.
When the work is done, we head back to the barn, Zeke and I in his truck and Rowdy alone in his. Zeke doesn’t say a word on the drive back, and I don’t offer anything in return. He doesn’t turn the engine off once we’re back in front of Nan’s.
“He’s too old for you,” Zeke says when I tug open the door.
“I’m old enough to make my own choices.” I don’t know which way to play this so I figure a non-answer will be best.
