by Sandy James
“Well, well, well.” Drake tossed her a wicked smile. “You wantin’ me in your bed, Kayla?”
“No, Mr. Myers. Not only do I not want you in my bed, this is not even my room. It belongs to Drew.” And Gideon.
“I ain’t sleepin’ with no man.”
“No one has asked that of you.”
He lifted a hand to rub his furrowed forehead. “You’re makin’ my head ache with tryin’ to understand what you want. You invited me in. We’re in a bedroom. You’re a woman—”
“So I noticed.”
“—and I’m a man. What else is there for a man and woman to do in a bedroom?”
A deep breath helped her keep from blistering his ears. She grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the tall looking glass—the one Gideon had bought for Drew as a birthday present. “As I told you, I need to show you something.” She stopped when she’d pulled him right in front of his own reflection. “Look.”
Drake’s eyes shifted to the mirror. “At what?” He nodded at his image. “That’s me. So what? I’ve seen a lookin’ glass before.”
“No, Mr. Myers. I would like you to truly look at yourself—at what you’ve become.”
“What are you sayin’?”
She jerked the bottle from his hand and then pointed at the mirror. “You need to see what others see. Your eyes are red and dull. Your hair is far too long and dirty. Your face is dirty. You haven’t shaved in days. And your clothing looks as though you slept in it.”
“I did sleep in it.”
“Clearly. But what breaks my heart—what I pity most—is that you were probably a very handsome man.”
“What’cha mean were?” He fixed his eyes on the mirror. “I’m handsome.”
Kayla shook her head. “The reflection I see in this mirror bears little resemblance to the man who came to White Pines last year. Drew told me you were kind—that you’d helped Sara when her child arrived early. He told me you had wit and humor. So tell me, Mr. Myers... Do you see a handsome man in that looking glass now? Do you see a man with wit and humor? Or do you see what we all now see, a pathetic drunkard who is throwing his life away like so much rubbish?”
As Drake stared at himself, she shook her head and left the room, hoping the next few moments would be illuminating for him. That, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to consider her own reflection too awfully long.
God only knew what she’d find if she looked too deeply inside herself.
She left the bottle on the wash table on her way out.
* * *
Drake let out a scoffing laugh as Kayla left.
Look in the mirror?
What the hell was she trying to prove?
Even though he’d always assumed people with looking glasses suffered from pure, naked vanity, he decided to oblige her.
With a snort, he shook his head and let his gaze fall on his reflection.
His heart took a leap before it began slamming in his chest the moment he realized that the wretched waste of man he was seeing was himself. He blinked and blinked, thinking what he saw was an illusion, a vision drawn in his mind from Kayla’s scolding and criticism.
The man in the mirror didn’t change.
His hair was long and tangled, hanging to his shoulders in strings. Dirt was smeared on his face—at least what he could see of his face since it was covered with a week’s growth of whiskers. There were dark circles framing his bloodshot eyes, and his nose was red and dripping as though he had a nasty cold.
Despite his disgust, he kept gaping. First at his ragged clothes—a tattered shirt, a coat that was dirty and ripped, and pants that were filthy and too large for him.
When had all this happened?
Drake had arrived in Montana a healthy man, a good-looking one in his opinion. Now, he was a man who’d aged a decade in less than a year. As he raised a hand to comb his fingers through his hair, he stopped and held that hand in front of his face. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the damn thing from trembling.
Angry at Kayla for forcing him into this uncomfortable enlightenment, he snatched the bottle from the table. He lifted it to his lips, chugging the last of the whiskey he’d brought out to the farm. Fire burned down his throat and into his stomach, where it churned what remained of his evening meal. He wanted—needed—the forgetfulness the strong drink gave him.
His image blurred as he swayed, willing himself to stay on his feet. He shook his head at the disgusting, broken man staring back at him from the mirror. It was some magic trick. It had to be. That was the only explanation.
Yes, that was what had happened. The woman was playing him as though he were some rube at a carnival.
He thumped the looking glass with his knuckles, checking the thickness, hoping to discover exactly how Kayla had pulled off such a ruse. Yet the thickness wasn’t abnormal. He stumbled behind the freestanding mirror, searching for a handle or a button that might restore the image to a true reflection.
God, his head hurt, pounding hard and making his heartbeat echo in his ears. With a grunt, he moved back to stare at the reflection of the man he’d become—a man who was wasting away.
Drake’s stomach lurched, and he dove for the empty chamber pot resting near the bed. Wave after wave assaulted him as the food and drink emptied from his sore belly. After several moments, he was reduced to dry heaves as his nose ran and his eyes watered.
Suddenly, a cold, wet cloth was laid on the back of his neck. “Are you finished?”
He swiped the sleeve of his coat across his mouth before he nodded. A glass of water was thrust in front of face.
“Take a sip and spit it out,” Kayla said in a gentle voice.
He obeyed, although after he took the glass from her, his hands shook hard enough that it was difficult to get the water to his mouth. After swishing the cold drink around his sour mouth, he spit it into the chamber pot.
“Now, take a few small sips.”
Again, he obeyed. Although he’d brought up some of the whiskey, all he’d drank before supper was rapidly taking away the world. Kayla’s voice seemed to come from a distance, and what he could see grew fuzzy and dark.
As he stretched out on the cold floor, a pillow was suddenly under his head and a blanket draped over his body.
“Sleep,” she said.
Drake let go of his thoughts and allowed the fog of the whiskey claim him.
Chapter Six
Drake was fairly sure death might be better than what he was suffering now that he’d awakened. Light spilled through the window, drilling like hot pokers into his eyes. There were birds singing just outside, and each trill and whistle was akin to a hammer being struck against his skull.
He opened his burning eyes enough to try to figure out where he was since his memory was a dark void. The room wasn’t at all familiar, and his view from where he lay on the floor made the furniture seem out of proportion. A bed with a brass headboard took up a good portion of the room. A dark chest of drawers stood on one wall, and a table with a pitcher and bowl was within his reach. It wasn’t until he saw the expensive looking glass that memories of the night before began to blossom in his mind.
With a groan, he tried to push himself up on an elbow. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t ache—from the roots of his hair to his toenails. His tongue was covered with a foul-tasting film. A clean chamber pot rested next to him. He remembered getting sick, but his mind was blank after that.
Drake dragged off the quilt that had covered his body, figuring Kayla had taken pity on him and arranged it over him after he’d passed out. She’d also been kind enough to shove a pillow under his head. He’d have to swallow his pride enough to thank her.
He forced himself to sit up, setting the room to spinning. A few deep breaths kept him from upchucking again.
“Coffee?”
Although she’d only spoken one word, Kayla’s voice bored into his skull. He let out a groan and put his hands against his ears.
“I
feared you might suffer this morning,” she continued. “You did drink a great deal last night. In fact, you became quite ill. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you into a bed, but you were simply too heavy for me to lift after you’d passed out on the floor.”
Squeezing his dry, irritated eyes tightly shut, he wondered if there was anything he could do to convince her to bring him some whiskey. The only cure for what ailed him was hair of the dog, but all of the brew he’d brought with him was now gone. He’d finished it last night.
“I brought you coffee,” she said.
Drake opened his eyes to mere slits. “Coffee ain’t what I need.”
She set a delicate cup and saucer on the table next to the water pitcher. “Coffee is what I have.” She turned to face him, her skirts swishing loudly around her ankles. The smirk on her face made him believe she knew exactly what he’d like to drink. “Or I could brew some tea, should you prefer it.”
“Breakfast,” he mumbled. Having some food in his tender belly might help him get past this misery.
With another shake of her head, she folded her arms under her breasts and frowned. “Breakfast has come and gone.” As though to punctuate her words, a far-too-loud clock down the hall chimed twice. “As has the noon meal.”
“Need some food.” The simple act of talking made his head throb harder.
“We need to speak on an important matter first,” she insisted. “Then I shall prepare you a light fare.”
If his head hadn’t felt as though it would shatter into a thousand pieces, he would have given it a shake. “Eat first.”
She shook her stubborn head.
Although Drake wasn’t sure he could even carry on a coherent conversation, he acquiesced with a curt nod. Would the pain never cease?
“I have come to a decision regarding your assistance with building my home.”
He would’ve quirked an eyebrow had he not known it would cost him dearly. Instead, he flipped his hand in agitation, wondering how quickly he could hop on his horse, get to town, and find some whiskey.
Kayla drummed her fingers against her forearm and let out an exasperated sigh. “Should you wish to remain at this farm and employed in the building my home, you will no longer consume spirits.”
“Spirits?”
“Alcohol, Mr. Myers.”
Her words took a long time penetrating his foggy thoughts. She couldn’t be serious. Not consume spirits? No alcohol?
The woman was daft.
“Why?” was all he could choke out.
“I have no need of explaining myself, but I simply refuse to tolerate the behavior I saw last evening. It is quite evident that you cannot exercise any type of moderation; therefore, I have no choice but to bring an end to this reprehensible habit.”
Drake would chew off his own tongue before he admitted that he couldn’t understand half of what Kayla had said. Her speech was far too refined for him—she was far too refined for him. But the gist was unmistakable. “I can’t have my whiskey?”
“No, you may not have your whiskey.”
He wanted to shout at her, to scoff at her and ask how she could dare stand there judging him. She was nothing but a prim and proper virgin who knew absolutely nothing about life. Hell, she’d never even sipped whiskey, probably thought it was for other people. Common people.
Then it dawned on him. What was really eating at him was her belief that he was beneath her—not fit to kiss her dainty feet.
Anger making his temples throb in rhythm with his rapidly hammering heart, he got to his feet. “Lady, you can kiss my hairy ass.”
Standing her ground, she drew her lips into a thin, angry line.
“I mean it. Kiss. My. Ass. You can find someone else to build your stupid house. Ain’t a man in the world who’d share it with an ice queen like you anyhow. Likely freeze my pecker off if I put it in you.”
She didn’t even blink at his crude tirade. “I can understand that you might be angry, but if you—”
“Angry don’t even scratch the surface.” He got to his feet, holding tight to the bed’s footboard until the room stopped shifting beneath him. “I’m gettin’ my things and leavin’.”
Damn if she didn’t shake her head yet again.
“I mean it, lady. I’m not stayin’ here.”
“I’m afraid that you have no choice,” she calmly announced.
Confusion reigned. She was shoving him out the door, then she was telling him he couldn’t leave? He chose to focus on one important thing. If he wanted to quit this job, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
Drake snorted. “You think a little bit of a thing like you could stop me?”
Why did her eyes seem to sparkle with humor? “I have no doubt you possess superior strength. What I know that you clearly do not is that we had a great amount of snow fall overnight. I doubt you will be able to go anywhere for at least a few days.”
“What?” Even nature was conspiring against him now. He made his way to the window, squinting hard against the light and finding more snow than he thought should’ve been able to accumulate in the short amount of time he’d been dead to the world. “Damn.” His gaze shifted to Kayla. “Did you take care of—?”
“The animals have all been tended to.”
Shame washed through him. While his main job was to build the house, he’d promised Drew and Gideon that he’d also tend the livestock while they were away. Instead, he’d slept through the morning feeding and milking. Had Kayla not done his chores, the poor milk cow would’ve been in pain from a swollen udder.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t take care of the animals for you.”
He dragged his fingers through his dirty, messy hair. “All the same, thanks.”
She moved to stand by the mirror. “Have you peered at your reflection this morning, Mr. Myers?”
The woman knew good and well he hated it when she called him that, especially when she emphasized his name with what he heard as snootiness. “No,” he snapped, unable to keep his voice down despite his aching head.
Her eyes widened at his near shout. “You should. Just as last evening, I believe what you shall see staring back at you is a man I am quite sure you never wanted to be. You might also try to remember exactly how long it has been since you’ve passed a day—an entire day—without needing the swill that is slowly destroying you.” On that, she left him alone, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Even though he wanted nothing more than to march right out of that room—out of that house—and forget all about the looking glass, he found himself stepping closer again. The cursed thing had been difficult for him to gaze into last night, the reflection one that made him wince. But his appearance had been altered by the amount of whiskey he consumed. Surely by this morning, even though his head and body were suffering, he would look more like himself. That was the tale he told himself before he stepped in front of the mirror.
A stranger still stared back. Eyes more red than white. The lines on his gray face were deep, marking him a man much older than his thirty years. His hair would’ve made a great nest for the barn mice judging from the tangles. He’d grown thin, no doubt from his erratic pattern of taking meals—or from drinking them. The food Kayla had made the night before had been tasty, but he’d been in such a hurry to drown his anger that he’d wolfed it down too fast to enjoy. The whole meal had ended up in a chamber pot anyway.
As he raised his hand to try to straighten his collar, he realized how badly it was still shaking. Holding it at eye level, Drake concentrated hard on keeping his outstretched hand steady. He’d always taken pride in his shooting skill because of that stable, sturdy hand. Now, it trembled enough that anyone who saw it would think he suffered from the ague.
His shocking appearance paired with the misery of the pain he suffered made him wonder if some of the people in White Pines had refused to hire him because of his pathetic appearance. He looked, quite simply, like a drunkard.
Denial raced through him. “I can stop whenever I want,” he said to himself with a firm nod. I can. I can take or leave whiskey.
So why did his stomach knot at the thought that he might be snowed in at this godforsaken farm for a few days?
Because there wasn’t a drop of the brew anywhere near.
A shudder raced through Drake when he thought hard about all Kayla had said, especially when she challenged him to remember a day when he hadn’t had a shot of whiskey. There was no memory of a time when the drink hadn’t been a part of his life, at least not in the last handful of years. Even on the trail, he’d indulged with the other cowboys, probably more often than not. In fact, one of the other bosses had pulled him aside and cautioned him not to get so friendly with the men, saying they wouldn’t respect him. He especially advised Drake to temper his drinking.
Clarity rang like a bell. All this time he’d heaped responsibility on Sara Young’s slender shoulders, blaming her theft of the payroll on him losing his job even though the money was returned. In reality, the decision to dismiss him had been because of his drinking. The payroll had merely been a good reason to finally act.
“What you shall see staring back at you is a man I am quite sure you never wanted to be.”
Kayla’s words haunted him, and he looked at his reflection again, knowing she was entirely right. That face wasn’t his—not the true Drake Myers.
Where had he gone?
He’d drowned in bottles of cheap whiskey.
Truth was, he needed this job. Desperately. He had no place else to go, and while he wanted to stomp right out of there to escape Kayla’s knowing stare, he simply couldn’t.
Which meant one thing.
No whiskey.
“It’ll all come out in the wash,” he whispered to himself. He would do this. He could do this. She wanted him to walk away from whiskey; he’d do exactly that.
