Arrogant Devil

by R.S. Grey

  “Max!” I shout, catching the attention of one of the younger guys as he runs in front of my porch. He stops pursuing a pig, whips off his baseball cap, and wipes sweat from his brow. “Weren’t you on hog duty today?”

  His eyes go wide in fear. “I swear to God I closed the gate after the morning feed!”

  “Might wanna take back that oath because it sure doesn’t look like you did.”

  He frowns and looks away, swallowing slowly. His voice cracks with fear as he answers, “Damn sure I did, but I s’pose—”

  I step forward and drop the piglet in his hands. “You have ten minutes to fix this. If these pigs aren’t put up by then, I’m docking your pay.”

  “Yes sir.” He tips his head in a nod and then he’s off again, running full speed with the piglet in hand.

  On another day, I’d find this scene amusing. Today, I’ve reached my wit’s end. It’s Monday and I’ve nearly lost my mind. My executive assistant, Helen, is gallivanting halfway across the world. My housekeeper quit last week to move closer to her daughter, and now my ranch hands are recreating Three Stooges skits on the clock. I have too much on my plate and I feel overwhelmed. I don’t like it. I’ve run Blue Stone Ranch for a decade and I hate to think I’ve gone soft in the last few years and relied too much on Helen. She warned me I wouldn’t be able to function with her in Paris, and now I regret giving her time off. Is it too much to ask that she work every damn day from now until she croaks? What’s so great about France anyway? That place made Van Gogh so depressed he cut his own ear off.

  I stomp up to my office on the second floor and slam the door. My grandmother is downstairs, standing at the living room window, thoroughly enjoying the pig debacle taking place outside. The old bird takes too much pleasure in my problems.

  I take a seat at my desk and heave a deep breath. My ball cap gets tossed onto the desk and I drag a hand through my hair, no doubt making it stand every which way. I need a haircut. Normally, Helen would’ve scheduled something. I sigh and put the cap on backward, saving that problem for another day.

  There are 32 emails waiting for my reply. I don’t answer a single one of them. Instead, I turn my attention to the blinking red light on my work phone. I have no doubt I have enough voicemails to occupy my entire morning. Once again, I curse Helen for leaving me to fend for myself.

  Blue Stone Ranch used to be a 1000-acre cattle ranch. In the late 1960s, during a bad drought, my grandfather sold off most of the cattle and started a restaurant, Blue Stone Farm. With its farm-to-table fare and world-class barbecue, it was an overnight success. My father expanded that endeavor with a winery, and since then, the company has grown tenfold. Now, families travel from all across the south to experience everything Blue Stone Ranch has to offer. We have a small luxury bed & breakfast, a vineyard, a restaurant, and a wedding venue. Some might call it being diversified; others might say it’s a good way to get stretched too thin.

  It’s been ten years since I took the helm, and even with managers running each arm of the business, I still feel like I’m in over my head most days.

  I start scrolling through voicemails, listening to a few seconds of each before I skip to the next one. When I get to one Helen left late last night, I try not to get my hopes up. Please say France sucks and you’re coming back to work.

  “Hey Jack, call me when you get this. It’s urgent.”

  I call her back immediately and she answers after the second ring.

  “Missed me too much? Understandable. So when’s your flight home?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.

  She sighs, annoyed. “Stop that. I’m not coming home.”

  “Aren’t you sick of traveling yet?”

  “We’ve only been here a week.”

  “Paris can’t be that entertaining.”

  “Brent and I are really enjoying it.”

  “Seen the Mona Lisa yet? Starry Night? Stuff’s all on Google, hi-res and everything.”

  “Jack—”

  “Right, well, did you hear that Mary left two days after you did? Yeah, moved back to Houston to be closer to her daughter. I’ve lost my assistant and my housekeeper in one fell swoop, so I don’t really have time to chat about how much you’re enjoying your vacation. I have enough on my plate as is.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m calling—I have a solution for that. I found you a temp.”

  “I told you I don’t need one.”

  “And I think you do.” She trudges on before I can argue. “My sister will be there later today and she’s going to fill in for me while I’m gone.”

  “Sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  I lean back in my chair, suddenly interested. I imagine Helen 2.0: an older, no-nonsense brunette with a tight bun. Picture your favorite elementary school teacher, the hard-ass who managed to wrangle a group of disobedient nine-year-olds and teach them long division—that’s Helen.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t talk to her much, which is probably why you didn’t know she existed. She’s ten years younger and we didn’t grow up together. In fact, I hardly know her. Still, she says she needs a job, and it’s perfect timing since you sound like you’re pulling your hair out without me running the show.”

  I can hardly believe my luck. I didn’t think I’d survive three months without Helen, and here she is, fixing my problems from across the pond.

  “Perfect. Send her my way. If she’s anything like you, she’ll save my ass.”

  Helen laughs. “Bad news: she and I couldn’t be more different if we tried.”

  “Well if she has even half your work ethic, she’ll still be a pretty damn good employee.”

  There’s a pregnant silence that gives birth to a 10lb-4oz baby silence. Helen should be singing her sister’s praises, but she isn’t, and I’m suspicious.

  “Helen, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t want to taint your image of her before she even arrives.”

  “If you want me to hire her, you’d better start talking.”

  “Well…I guess I just don’t want you to expect her to be like me. Meredith is…” She sighs. “Meredith is one of those lucky people who life comes a little easier for. She was spoiled rotten growing up. We have different moms, and she looks just like hers: petite, beautiful, you know the type. Our father and—hell, half the world always gave her more attention.”

  “Is this leading somewhere?”

  I can practically hear her roll her eyes.

  “Anyway, she moved to California for college, married some rich movie producer right after graduation who dotes on her nonstop. All I’m saying is she’s used to a certain kind of life. Don’t expect too much…grit.”

  “Now I’m confused. Why the hell does she need a job working for me?”

  “Apparently she’s up and left her husband.”

  “The doting, rich movie producer? Makes sense.”

  “Exactly. There’s no way she would have left him willingly. If you ask me, I bet Meredith got herself into some kind of trouble. Maybe she has a spending problem or a boxed wine habit and he threatened to cut her off. Rich people always find some way to fill up their time with vices. I wouldn’t be surprised. Like I said, she was spoiled when we were younger. This is what happens when you’ve never wanted for anything.”

  As she drones on, I swear another ten emails pile up in my inbox. I have too much to do to be sitting on the phone listening to a story about some woman I have no plan to employ.

  I sit up and sandwich the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can start replying to the first email. “Well, you’ve given quite the glowing recommendation for this suspected overspending alcoholic. Good thing she’s someone else’s problem.”

  “Jack, I already promised her I’d get her a position with you.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “She’s family. If I were there, I’d help her.”

  “Let’s compromise: you get on a flight home, and I’ll consider it. Deal?”
/>   “Jack.”

  She sounds exasperated, but then so am I.

  “I gotta go. My assistant left me high and dry and I have emails to answer.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m calling in a favor. I’ve worked for you for six years and have never once called in a favor.”

  “You’re telling me you’re going to waste that on some spoiled brat who’s bound to go crawling back to California when she gets her first splinter?”

  “Isn’t that what you want? The sooner she leaves, the sooner you get your peace and quiet back.”

  She makes a good point.

  “You owe me.”

  “I’ll log in to your email remotely and answer those emails you have stacked up. How’s that?”

  “Let’s see if the princess shows up first. Something tells me she’ll take one look at the place and suddenly decide her valley girl life doesn’t look quite so bad anymore.”

  3

  Meredith

  “I can’t go on,” the taxi driver says, pulling over to the side of the road and putting his car in park.

  “Boy, do I know what you mean,” I agree ruefully.

  “No, I mean, you gotta get out.”

  “Oh, actually, I don’t think we’re there yet. We still have a while.”

  I lean forward and point through the front windshield as if to prove my point. There’s nothing but trees and dirt road until the sky meets the horizon.

  “Lady, this is it. Odometer says I’m officially losing money on you. I run a business, not a church shuttle.”

  I officially regret my bold, symbolic gesture with the diamond ring.

  “How about you give me your address and I’ll send more money after my first paycheck—”

  “Yeah right, I’ve heard that one about a million times.”

  I’m going to have to get creative.

  “If only there was something I could do for you…” I say, making my eyebrows dance suggestively. “Non-sexually, of course. I could clip those hard-to-reach toenails, or—or, how about plucking back some of that unibrow you’ve got going on—”

  “GET OUT,” he insists, and I know it’s hopeless.

  The crabby old man kicks me to the curb—or rather, the edge of the dirt road. His tires stir up dust as he turns back for the main road. A sign back there claimed Blue Stone Ranch was only a few miles in this direction. A few miles…shit.

  For the first time all morning, I’m grateful I don’t have much with me, just my purse. Inside, hilariously, I have what used to be my life’s essentials: a dead cell phone, a makeup bag for touchups, a bottle of perfume, my wallet, breath mints, a tub of La Mer moisturizer, and the wrapper of a protein bar I failed to ration properly.

  No tennis shoes. No GPS tracking system. Hell, a compass would be much appreciated at this point.

  As it is, I’m on my own, for real this time. I even left the last of my precious peanuts in the seat pocket of the taxi.

  It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Everything is fine.

  I hoist my purse higher on my shoulder and set off down the road. The soles of my loafers have such little padding that I feel every pebble. I’d walk in the grass beside the road, but it’s thick and overgrown, and I fear snakes more than I fear pebbles digging into the soles of my feet. I have nothing but time as I trudge along in the dirt. I try to convince myself I only have a little bit longer, but truthfully, I have no way to gauge how far I’ve gone. I left the fancy watch that tracks my steps back in California.

  I distract myself by trying to see the positive details of my current situation: I am alive and well, I’ve taken back control of my life, and I am on my way to building something new. I am at the start of a grand adventure. Sure, there will be bumps along the way, but anything is better than the direction I was headed with Andrew.

  I think I hear the rumble of a car behind me. I whip around, half convinced I’m hallucinating from dehydration (should’ve opted for low sodium peanuts), and spot an old truck rumbling down the road. It’s coming straight for me, and two things run through my mind at once. First: Hallelujah! My salvation has arrived! Second: In what part of Texas did that chainsaw massacre take place?

  Honestly, I’m just happy to see another human being, even if he turns out to be a cannibal with power tools. The truck barrels closer and it’s too late to escape detection, so I settle for a cheerful wave and one of my big, enchanting smiles. The gesture should say, Hi there! Look at me, I’m too pleasant to murder!

  The truck pulls to a stop beside me and two older, tanned men with beat-up cowboy hats take up the entire bench seat. The one closer to me rolls down the window and props his elbow on the sill. I scan the front seat for killing implements but instead spot a tub of chewing tobacco and two matching Big Gulps.

  “Lost, darlin’?”

  DARLIN! I swoon and forget I’m supposed to be fearing for my life.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” I smile and explain confidently, “I’m looking for Blue Stone Ranch.”

  The man near me frowns and tips his head, confused. “You mean Blue Stone Farm?”

  I’m pretty sure Helen said Blue Stone Ranch in her email.

  “Umm, now I’m not sure. Is there a difference?”

  “Blue Stone Farm is the fancy restaurant a few miles that way.” He points back in the direction I’ve been walking and my heart sinks. No. NO. I am not turning back. “Blue Stone Ranch is…well, a ranch.”

  “Where would I find Jack McNight?”

  He nods. “Jack’ll be at the ranch.”

  “Okay then that’s where I’m going.”

  They exchange a glance, and then the one closer to me nods toward the bed of the truck. “We’re going that way too. It ain’t the smoothest ride, but you’re welcome to hop in there if ya want.”

  The driver thumps his friend on the head. “Karl, don’t be an idiot—you get in the back and let the nice lady sit up here. Didn’t your mama teach you jack shit?”

  I leap into action before Karl can move. “No! No. It’s all right. I insist on riding in the back. It’ll remind me of hayrides when I was a kid. I’m very nostalgic.”

  My survival instincts have kicked in again: at least if I’m sitting back there, I can toss myself out of the truck if I get the feeling they’ve decided to kidnap me.

  It takes me a few tries before I’m able to hoist myself into the bed of the truck using one of the back tires. I am a picture of grace and elegance as I take a seat near the tailgate, situate my purse on my lap, and then smack the bed twice to signal that I’m ready. The truck shifts into drive and away we go.

  I spend the next ten minutes in hell as we trudge along the neglected country road. It’s a bumpy ride, to say the least. I spit dirt out of my mouth and squeeze my eyes closed to keep dust out of them. Pebbles ping off the tires and somehow fling themselves at my head. I’m getting assaulted on all fronts, and that doesn’t even include what the wind is doing to my hair. It takes me too long to realize it’s much more pleasant to sit with my back against the cab of the truck rather than the tailgate. As we pull up to a tall, arched wrought iron gate that boldly announces that we’ve arrived at Blue Stone Ranch, I am convinced I look as if I’ve just stepped off the front line of a war. I think I even have some blood on my forehead from a particularly beefy bug.

  My current physical condition aside, I’m shocked by the sight before me. I’ve never set foot on a ranch before, but I had concocted a pretty dismal picture in my head, preparing for the worst so I wouldn’t be disappointed. Instead, it seems I’ve stumbled upon what can only be described as an adorable movie set. The main road we’re on dead-ends into a circular gravel drive, smack-dab in the center of it all. On one side of the circle, there’s a two-story white farmhouse with a metal roof and an inviting porch swing swaying in the wind. There are potted plants and flowers soaking up the sun on the rim of the porch. Beyond that, cows amble in a pasture beneath the shade of massive oak tr
ees. I scan past a large chicken coop and a field with a few glistening horses, and beside that, a massive red barn divides the animals from the largest garden I’ve ever seen.

  There are people at work everywhere—scratch that, not people, men. There isn’t a single female in sight, which is probably why I garner quite a few sideways stares as I ride up in the back of the truck like I’m the grand marshal of the saddest one-car parade in history.

  The truck pulls up and parks beside the other ranch vehicles. I hop down from the bed and try my best to restore my battered appearance, dabbing tentatively at the blood on my forehead, patting my hair down, and then heaving a sigh of defeat. At this point, it is what it is, and it’s gonna be what it’s gonna be.

  “He’ll probably be up in the house,” Karl says, pointing in the direction of the farmhouse I was just admiring. “Jack.”

  I tip my head in thanks and offer a limp wave before I set off to meet my new boss. All eyes are on me as I walk the few yards between the truck and the front porch. I stick out like a sore thumb in this setting, but instead of giving in to the sudden flood of nerves, I try to recall any details Helen might have mentioned about her job over the years.

  Let’s see, I know she’s an executive assistant, and in that role she…assists. Damn. I know nothing. Has she ever said anything about her boss? I can’t remember. I mean, she must enjoy her job if she’s been here for almost six years…or maybe she’s stayed so long because it’s her only option? It’s probably hard to find work in such a rural area—and I mean RURAL. The journey from San Antonio to Cedar Creek felt like I was going through some kind of time warp. With each passing mile, the countryside became less and less populated, the roads transitioned from concrete to asphalt to dirt, and I’m not sure they even get cell service out here. That’s what I’m thinking about when I knock on the front door of the farmhouse and it’s whipped open a second later.

  A tall, thin woman stands on the threshold wearing jeans and a pearl snap shirt. Her white-gray hair is cropped short in a pixie style and her steel eyes seem to cut right through me. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup. Still, she’s beautiful, regal almost, with a few wrinkles rimming the corners of her eyes.