by KJ Bell
“You stubborn, stubborn woman…”
I smile, resting my head against his chest. I am stubborn when it comes to him, because I don’t trust myself to be in his presence. He approaches a shiny, black Ford F-450 truck. I hang on tight when he holds me with one arm and lowers the tailgate. He sets me down on the back of the truck and goes to the passenger side door. A long trail of blood runs down my leg and my hands sting, but it’s my pride that’s hurt.
Battle returns with a first-aid kit, and without his cowboy hat.
“You have hat-head,” I say, teasing him.
He smiles, ripping open a packet containing an antiseptic wipe, and removing the small towelette. His gentle touch as he cleans my hands and knees makes me smile. He smiles back and says, “You have a small gash on your knee, but I don’t think it needs stitches.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“Me, too,” he smirks. “Friends?”
“Friends.” I shake his hand, feeling the ever present attraction between us. The electricity coursing through my veins causes me to blush. He lifts me from the tailgate and carries me to the passenger seat where he puts me down and closes the door.
God help me if I’m not one hundred percent smitten with the devil himself.
His door opens, and I watch him strip from his suit coat and tie. He tosses them into the back seat. As he rolls up his sleeves, I admire his sculpted forearms and strong hands. He undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, exposing the top of his hard chest. He leans into the truck, wearing a delectable grin and says, “It ain’t polite to stare.”
My cheeks flush instantly. I quickly turn my head.
Battle McCoy is trouble in every way imaginable, but I can’t deny I have romantic feelings for him. That I want to feel his hands on my body again. That I want to kiss him. That I wish he wanted more than casual sex. Since he’s now a client, my feelings are irrelevant. Our relationship has to stay professional. Or at least work is the excuse I’m clinging to for now.
Through the flat lands of small-town Kansas, silence falls between us as I stare out the window with thoughts of our night together keeping me company—confusing and delighting me at the same time. The hint of a smile on his lips makes me wonder if he’s thinking about me as well.
His phone rings. He picks it up and his lips turn down when he glances at the screen. There’s no mistaking the sadness in his sigh as he answers. “Hi, Mom … No, I can pick her up … Three’s fine.”
He ends the call. I watch him, studying the tightness of his jaw, the fine creases around his eyes and his furrowed brow as I wait for him to speak. His troubled expression makes me uneasy. The phone call was a private moment.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t look over, but answers, “Yes. I need to pick up my sister.”
I had no idea he had a sister. Proof the women running Rider’s Monthly aren’t doing a thorough job investigating for their second-rate magazine.
“Do you want to reschedule?” I ask.
“I need to pick her up immediately.”
His response doesn’t answer my question, but I don’t attempt to clarify. His mood has completely shifted after the phone call from his mother. I decide not to repeat the question and sit quietly for the remainder of the drive. I’m far too vested in our relationship. We’re significantly more than friends already. I have no clue how I’m going to manage working with him.
I’m surprised when we pull into the parking lot of an elementary school. Is his sister a teacher? It’s early in the school day. Why would she need to leave abruptly? No, she would probably drive if she was a teacher. He doesn’t volunteer any information, and I stuff down my curiosity.
I follow him into the office. He stops at the desk, greeted by the school secretary, who looks like every other school secretary days before school lets out; exhausted, face slightly pinched—stressed.
“I’m here to pick up Erinn Randolf,” he tells her.
She points at a binder. “Please sign her out. I’ll let Mrs. Jacoby know you’re here.”
His sister is obviously a student. She has a different last name, which I assume means she’s a step-sister.
Battle signs quickly. I follow him to two chairs along the wall outside a door marked, Vice Principal. Uncomfortable silence fills the air between us. I wish he would speak. The despondency when he spoke with his mother now radiates from him. I struggle with how to diffuse it, or if I should try to.
The door opens and a woman with short blonde hair smiles. “Please come in,” she says to Battle.
He stands and glances down at me. “I’ll be right out.”
The heavy door doesn’t latch when he enters the woman’s office. The small crack left allows me to hear inside.
A girl shrieks. “It wasn’t my fault! They were bein’ mean to me.” Nervous laughter comes after her words, followed by a low hum.
“Erinn,” I hear a commanding female voice say and assume it’s the same woman who opened the door. “Their behavior doesn’t excuse your actions. I need you to sit down quietly while I speak with your brother, or you’ll have to wait outside.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Erinn says.
“Erinn was involved in an incident with some typical girls at lunch today. One of the girls called her a name, and Erinn choked her.”
“Erinn!” Battle shouts.
“I’m sorry, but it was a mean word. A mean word.” Erinn laughs and hums, again.
“What did this girl call her?” Battle asks.
“What she said isn’t relevant. I’ve spoken to the girl’s parents, and she’s been disciplined. We’re discussing Erinn’s actions.”
“What did the girl call my sister?” Battle asks, accentuating each word, his tone laced with irritation.
“She called her retarded,” the woman answers. “But that’s not the issue at hand.”
“It’s a mean word,” Erinn shouts. “She said a mean word. Mama said we aren’t allowed to say that word. It’s a mean word.” Again, Erinn laughs nervously.
“You’re right, Erinn, it isn’t a nice word. Sometimes people say mean things, but you can only control how you respond, and what you did was inappropriate,” the woman says firmly.
“It’s a mean word … A mean word … A mean word,” Erinn chants. “You’re not allowed to say that word.”
“Mrs. Jacoby, no offense to you, but I think this girl callin’ Erinn retarded is the issue at hand,” Battle says, clearly agitated. “Erinn has been encouraged to attend school in a quote, typical environment, since pre-school. The thought process of teachin’ tolerance to typical children is clearly flawed if a girl Erinn’s known her entire life feels comfortable referrin’ to her as a retard.”
“Please understand, this is typical child behavior, and we do our best to correct and redirect. Adolescence is a struggle for every child, and one with Erinn’s diagnosis may find it more difficult to fit it in.”
“Which I understand, but as we’re all aware, Erinn isn’t typical. Why do you continue to encourage her to stay in an environment that clearly frustrates her?”
“Because we believe in the process, and your mother does as well.”
“Clearly the process is working out splendidly. She’s thrivin’!”
The room quiets. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but there’s nowhere else to sit.
“Mr. McCoy, being rude will not help the situation.”
“Erinn is my sister, not a situation. I think this year has been a huge setback for her, but I will speak with my mother and have her contact you. Come on, Erinn, it’s time to go.”
The door swings open. A young girl I assume is Erinn exits the office in front of Battle. She smiles, not directed at me as we haven’t made eye contact, but seemingly to herself. Dimples form deep in her cheeks as she giggles. Long brown curls frame her round, girlish face. She hugs a spiral notebook, covered in doodles and letters, to her chest. A neon-green backpack hangs off of her shoulders.
“Yes, and Mr. McCoy, please understand this is natural behavior at Erinn’s age. Most eleven-year-old girls are trying to find themselves.”
“Erinn isn’t most eleven-year-old girls,” Battle tells her quietly. “However, I hear what you’re sayin’, and I appreciate you tryin’ to do what’s best for her.”
“I am, and I truly believe what’s best is her continuing her education with her peers.”
“I disagree,” he responds instantly. “My mother will call you.”
“Of course.” After a polite nod, the Vice Principal returns to her office.
I stand, feeling nervous and out of place.
Battle smiles at Erinn. His blue eyes twinkle with awe. Obviously, he adores his sister. “You ready, Bean?”
She nods with a bashful innocence that makes her appear much younger than eleven. He cups her shoulder and says, “This is my friend, Faye. Say hello.”
Her eyes dart around the room, never landing on mine, and she says, “Hello.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Erinn,” I smile and offer my hand.
“Oh … Erinn doesn’t like to …” Battle starts to say something, but stops when Erinn takes my hand and shakes it. She hums, and giggles in a peculiar and delightful way. I find her quirky nature endearing.
She releases my hand and says, “Can we go home now?”
“Yes, Bean, we sure can,” Battle answers. Erinn strides to the door ahead of us.
As Battle and I follow, he touches my hand. I look over at him, and he says, “She likes you.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“She doesn’t let anyone touch her.”
I smile with pride and lower my head as we continue walking. Why doesn’t she let people touch her? I’ll ask later, as now would be inappropriate. When we reach Battle’s truck, Erinn climbs into the back seat of the king cab and closes her door.
Battle puts his hand on the passenger side handle to open my door. Before he does, he says, “I should take you back to your office.”
“I understand.” I send him a soft smile and heave myself up into his enormous truck.
Erinn’s headphones are firmly in place, her eyes glued to whatever projects from the iPad in her hands. She giggles every so often, and talks, only the speed of her words prevent me from understanding what she’s saying. I wonder about Erinn’s diagnosis. She’s definitely not mentally challenged. She’s a bit eccentric, but she seems fairly normal to me. We all have our idiosyncrasies, things we do that make us unique.
Open mouth and insert foot, I think, considering the night I met Battle. I guess I do agree with him about people being individuals and not fitting into a neat little box. I realize Erinn may be the reason for his staunch integrity.
I’ve only known her for all of five minutes, and I don’t actually care what her diagnosis is. Yes, she’s different, but there’s also something sweet and pure that radiates from her. It’s hard for me to imagine her hurting another child.
“You were supposed to turn,” Erinn shouts from the back seat.
“I know, Bean, but I need to take Faye back to her office, okay?”
“No,” she whines. “First you go straight, then right, then left, then straight for seven minutes, then left again.”
“That’s the way to my house, but I have to drop Faye off first.”
“Straight, right, left, straight, left,” Erinn repeats several times to herself.
Battle sighs and glances over at me. “She kinda has a routine. Would you mind if I took you back after my mother picks her up?”
“No, not at all.”
“Thank you,” he says, his features relaxing.
He turns the truck around and Erinn quits repeating the directions. When we pull into the garage at his house, she leaps from the car before the engine shuts off and runs inside.
I laugh, looking over at Battle. “She’s a handful, huh?”
He smiles. “You have no idea.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask without thinking and without tact. My skin burns with humiliation, and I want to shrivel up and die. “That came out all wrong. I’m sorry.”
“I know what you meant,” he smiles reassuringly. “She’s autistic.”
Oh. I’ve heard of autism, but I’ve never been around anyone who was autistic. When I think about it, I’ve always considered autism to look a certain way, like Down's syndrome. I frown, knowing I’m once again lumping people in with expectations.
“Why did she choke that girl?” I ask.
“Let’s just say autism and adolescence aren’t exactly friends,” he answers with a small laugh.
“Why doesn’t she let people touch her?”
“It’s a sensory issue people with autism struggle with. I’m still shocked she shook your hand.”
“Why?” I ask confused. “You’re the one who says people don’t fit into a box. Does that not apply to people with autism?”
“You make a mighty fine point, and no, not all people with autism fit into a box. Sometimes with Erinn, I forget. So, thank you for the reminder.” He smiles and gets out of the truck.
My eyes move behind him to a cherry red Camaro parked on the far side of the garage. It’s not a classic, and not new, but it’s gorgeous. I get out of the truck and walk over to it. “Nice car,” I say. Battle doesn’t respond. A thick coating of dust and dirt cover the hood. “Do you drive it much?”
“Never.” He frowns. “Let’s get some lunch.”
“Never?” My shock comes out in my voice.
“No.” His response is as instant as his mood swing.
I follow him inside, wondering why he would own a car without driving it. I don’t bring it up again.
Earthy and masculine, a bachelor definitely lives in the expansive single-story ranch house. While the décor lacks feminine touches—mainly browns and tans, the home is beautiful. An enormous stone fireplace dwarfs the living room. Barn rafters overhead elongate the cathedral ceilings.
We continue into the kitchen, where he sets his phone and keys on the sideboard. Erinn skips into the room, her smile lighting up the entire space. “Henry’s here. Can I go ridin’?”
“Sure, Bean,” Battle answers. She spins on her heels and leaves as he yells, “Wear your helmet.”
“I will,” she calls back.
“Who’s Henry?” I ask.
“He keeps the place runnin’ and takes care of the cattle,” he answers. “You hungry?”
“Not really.” Curiosity has taken over my appetite. He avoids every question about himself. While I want to take it personally, I don’t. “Why don’t we do a little work first. Where’s your office?”
He grins. “You’re lookin’ at it.”
“Oh. Let’s get started then,” I say, taking a seat on one of the stools at the large bead board and granite island.
“I’ll get my paperwork,” he says and leaves.
I drop my head on the counter. What am I doin’ here? Spending time with this man will be the death of me. I want him in a way that isn’t possible. This has to be punishment for something I’ve done, like ignoring my father and breaking up with Wyatt.
A heavy panting comes from the other side of the wall, as if someone’s run a marathon. I get off the stool and walk slowly toward the sound. As I make my way through the door, I scream. The high pitch echoes off the walls as I clutch my chest.
A dog the size of a small horse looks up at me with large black eyes.
“Well, hello there,” I say, holding my hand out and praying it’s friendly. The dog sniffs my hand before collapsing to the floor at my feet. So, Battle does have a dog. “You must be Roy.” I kneel beside him.
His tail thumps loudly into the wall as I pet the soft black fur on top of his head. Stark white fur lines his nose and chest with areas of brown patches. He peers up wi
th gentle eyes, like he’s thanking me for the attention.
I hear Battle’s footsteps before he says, “I see you met Roy.”
“He’s a sweet boy,” I say, standing up. Roy scratches his paw over my foot. I glance down and smile. “What kind of dog is he?”
“A Bernese Mountain Dog. He’s great with the cattle.” Battle looks down and says, “Aren’t you boy.”
I swear Roy smiles at Battle.
“Is that all you have?” I ask, noticing the small file box he holds with one hand.
“This is all of it.”
I follow him back into the kitchen and resume my spot at the island. He places the box in front of me and removes the lid.
When I glance inside, I find it half full and a single pile—no folders or labels. I shake my head and pull out several pieces of paper from the top, noticing they’re cashier’s checks for sums upwards of six figures. I drop them back inside the box, my eyes landing on a thick envelope. I pick it up and drop it the second I realize it’s filled with cash.
“I told your boss I needed help,” Battle says, a nervous edge to his voice.
I stare at the contents completely baffled. “You don’t have a bank account? Why?”
“I closed it recently.”
Annoyance rumbles in my throat—half sigh, half growl. As a finance manager, trust in my clients is imperative for us to work together. “If you want my help, you’ll have to provide more than vague responses. I’m not willin’ to get involved with anything illegal.”
He runs his hands through his hair, and sighs. “I assure you I’m not involved in anything illegal. It’s a long story. Can’t we open a new bank account? I can add you as a signer.”
“What?” I ask horrified.
“Isn’t that what I’m payin’ you for?”
“No, it’s not what you’re payin’ me for,” I say, standing. He slides behind me. “I’m not an accountant. I don’t write checks, and pay bills. I invest. I’ll call Marty and see if she will pick me up. Call me when you have your affairs in order.”
