by Joanna Bell
"Friend, then. We're going to keep you here for a few more hours, Ms. Wilson, but you have somewhere to go, right? Somewhere where you won't be alone? I wouldn't feel comfortable with you being alone for the next forty-eight hours or so, not until we can be sure you haven't suffered a concussion. I think you're fine but better safe than sorry. How about you, Sir?" The doctor turned to me. "You can put Ms. Wilson up for a night or two, can't you?"
"I – " I started, stalling immediately. "I'm not sure – I mean, I can put her up but I'm not sure if –"
"Good!" The doctor proclaimed brightly. "That's settled then! I'll be back to check on you one more time before you leave, Ms. Wilson, but it looks like you're going to be just fine."
As soon as the doctor was out of the room, Blaze picked up the edge of the blanket and began fidgeting with a loose thread, not quite catching my eye. "Yeah, I mean, I'm not familiar with the rules on staying the night at a client's house but –"
"Client?" I asked, amused. "I'm a 'client?'"
"Ha ha, yeah. It's some HR thing, we're supposed to use that word when we talk about the people we're investigating. I'll just go back to the motel. Honestly, my head doesn't hurt at all. My ankle does – the left one, I think I twisted it. But I don't have a headache or anything."
"Hmm," I said, looking at her critically.
"What? Doctors are always over-cautious, I'm fine. If I feel nauseous or dizzy or anything like that I'll just call the clinic. No biggie."
I didn't like the idea of Blaze spending the night in a motel, alone. Not in the state she was in. And I was familiar with the tendency of some people to immediately go into 'everything is just fine' mode after an accident or a disturbing event of one kind or another – probably because it was behavior the McMurtry family itself seemed to specialize in, and I was no exception. It's always easier to see faulty thinking in others than it is in yourself.
"I don't think so," I said slowly, wary of the tendency of some city-girls to take umbrage anytime a man did anything that resembled taking charge. "I don't think I'm OK with you being alone tonight."
Blaze looked at me defiantly, instantly fulfilling the expectations I had about her reaction. "Who cares if you're OK with it?!" She asked, in a tone that suggested there had never been anything in her life that mattered less than the fact that I was disagreeing with her. "You've got no say in this, Jack."
"You're right," I agreed, nodding and unable to suppress a smile, "I've got no say in this, I know that. But I can tell that doctor you're going to go back to your motel so she decides to keep you here for the night, if that's how you want to play it?"
"Ugh," Blaze frowned. "Don't do that. Do you have any idea how much it's going to cost to stay the night here? I might as well book a five star hotel in Manhattan. And what are you smiling about?"
I looked down at the shiny linoleum floor, trying to stop grinning and only succeeding in grinning harder.
"What?!" Blaze demanded. "What's so funny?"
I ran a hand through my hair in an attempt to be serious, but it didn't work. "Nothing," I chuckled. "Nothing's funny. Now am I going to have to tattle-tale on you to the doctor or are you going to act like a grown-up and stay the night at Sweetgrass Ranch?"
Blaze scoffed. "Act like a grown-up, huh? Is that what a grown-up would do, then? Just go spend the night with a strange man? Not just a strange man, but one who has a solid reason to be, um, not positively pre-disposed towards her?"
I shrugged. "Look. The house has, like, a thousand bedrooms in it. You don't even have to see me. I'm just being friendly, alright? Just offering to help someone out of a jam. Don't go reading anything into it, now."
I knew that last comment would get her even hotter under the collar and it did. That might have been half the reason I said it in the first place.
"Read anything into it?" She asked, her voice rising slightly. "What do you mean by that?"
"I don't know," I said, playing dumb. "Why do I have to mean anything? Other than just what I said, that is?"
Blaze leaned back on her pillow and crossed her arms. "Has anyone ever told you, Jack McMurtry, that you're not as funny as you think you are?"
I don't know why, but I've always enjoyed winding women like Blaze up. They do make it easy, after all, with their absolute willingness to get worked up over nothing. I made a face. "Nope. Can't say that they have. Don't know why you think I'm trying to be funny, either. Like I said, I'm just trying to help –"
"Look! You're doing it again! You've got that... smirk on your face again."
She was right, I did have that smirk on my face again. I forced it to go away and looked at the beautiful, filthy, annoyed woman in the hospital bed. "And what about you? Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly rude? Not to mention ungrateful?"
She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak and then closed it again abruptly. I watched her wrestling with herself, the angel on her shoulder telling her I was right, that I was the man who had just saved her life and the devil telling her to snap at me again, not to let some strange man tell her what to do, even if he did have her best interests at heart.
"Fine!" She said, finally. "I'm sorry!"
"Are you? You don't sound sorry at all. You know that, right? You actually sound angry. I just dragged your ass out of a flash flood, you know."
Blaze put her hands over her face and took a couple of slow breaths. "I know you did," she said quietly. "I know. I really am sorry. You're infuriating me and I don't know why. It doesn't make sense. I think I might still be a little freaked out or in shock or something. Anyway, Jack. I would really appreciate it if I could stay the night at Sweetgrass Ranch. Thank-you."
"There," I said, unable to resist. "Was that so difficult?"
Instead of replying, Blaze glared at me for a few seconds before relenting and laughing. "Yeah, actually. It kind of was. But you're right, Jack. You just saved my life. I mean, I hope you don't think it means I can do you any favors with the investi –"
"I know that," I replied curtly. "That doesn't have a single thing to do with why I offered –"
"Look who's all snappy now," she cut me off, laughing.
"Yeah, OK. You got me. Listen, I need to get back to the Ranch. But I'll come back and pick you up at five, if that's alright?"
"Jack, you don't have to pick me up, I'll take a taxi. I need to go to the motel and get my stuff. And –" I looked at her sternly and she rolled her eyes. "OK, fine. Five o'clock."
I directed a hat-tipping gesture in her direction, even though I wasn't wearing a hat, and left her in bed. I'd wasted way too much time chatting it up with the person who was trying to take my property away when there were chores to be taken care of back at Sweetgrass Ranch.
Why the hell had I offered her a room for the night? Oh, right. Because she was pretty. And endearingly defiant, if one can be said to be such a thing. Also because she looked like a sad little drowned rat in the hospital bed and I would have done the same for anyone. I would have. Wouldn't I?
Chapter Four
Blaze
On the one hand, it didn't seem especially strange for Jack McMurtry to offer me a room at Sweetgrass Ranch. People are friendlier in the country, right? It was just a room. But on the other hand, I was still the woman who was probably going to make the call to take Sweetgrass Ranch out of McMurtry hands for the first time in its history. Was he trying to butter me up? He'd laughed at the notion, as if it was ridiculous, but was it? He had to know he was handsome and charming, with the kind of good-natured ease of manner that tends to drive women crazy. He also had to know his story was gripping, with an easy villain in the IRS trying to take property from a man who a)had nothing else and b)appeared to have nothing to do with his grandfather's years-long refusal to pay taxes.
I would stay at Sweetgrass Ranch, but I wouldn't be affected by Jack's tales of woe. I had a job to do, and everything they told me during training about it not being fair for some to pay their share and not others was still true. Sad story o
r not, the whole system would collapse if we let everyone with a sad story get away with their debts.
Before Jack arrived back at the clinic I went to the bathroom and got my first look in the mirror since a flash flood had nearly swept me to an awful death. I blinked at my reflection, not quite believing that muck-covered, Medusa-haired creature was me. But of course it was, why was I even surprised? Leaves and twigs were twisted into my hair so tightly I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get them out without just chopping it all off. Dirt and mud were caked everywhere – in my fingernails, behind my ears, and my clothes were torn and even filthier than I was. Briefly, I thought about going back to the hotel and washing my face, maybe putting a little make-up on before Jack showed up but he arrived too soon.
"Blaze?"
I poked my head out the bathroom door. "Do you have a washing machine? I wonder if I could wash my clothes?"
"Sure you can. You're going to have to have a shower, too – I can't have you dirtying the bedding."
He was joking. After procuring a second hospital gown – this one to wear backwards so I wasn't forced to walk out of the clinic and to Jack's truck with my bare ass hanging out – we set off for Sweetgrass Ranch.
"Well this isn't awkward at all," I commented as we drove in silence.
"Awkward?" Jack asked, turning to me. "How is this awkward?"
I ignored him, because he had to know damn well why it was awkward. Also because I felt guilty, and I wasn't ready to recognize that guilt for what it was.
About five minutes into the drive, a horrific smell suddenly filled the truck. I glanced briefly at Jack, wondering if it could possibly be emanating from him.
"What?" He asked, looking like he hadn't noticed the stench.
"What is that –" I started, when it suddenly became even worse and I leaned forward and gagged violently.
"Oh shit!" Jack exclaimed, pulling over, jumping out of the cab, running around to my side and yanking the door open faster than I would have thought possible. I undid my seatbelt and hopped out, eager to get away from the mysterious smell. But it was even worse outside. How was that possible?
"What," I retched again, "the hell is that?!"
"You're sick," Jack said, leading me away from the truck. "The doctor said to bring you back right away if you showed any signs of nausea or vomiting, so if you need to throw up get it over with so we can go back."
I started to chuckle before being cut off by more gagging. When it seemed to stop, I bent over and put my hands on my knees, feeling hot and sweaty in the early evening heat. "It's not a concussion," I gasped. "It's that smell. It smells like, oh my God, it smells like shit."
Jack stared at me for a few seconds, his eyes widening, and then surprised me by bursting into laughter.
"What's so funny? Don't you smell it?"
Jack kept laughing for a good couple of minutes, stopping every now and again to look at me as if he couldn't believe what was happening. Since I had no idea myself, all I could do was wait until he was finished.
"You really are a tenderfoot, aren't ya?"
I peered at him. "What? I'm a what? Jack, ugh, oh God," I gagged again and yanked the hospital gown up over my face, breathing through the fabric even thought it did next to nothing to keep the stench out of my nose.
"A tenderfoot. A city-slicker. You know, the kind of person who damn near pukes when they smell a little manure."
As soon as it was confirmed that what I was smelling was, in fact, excrement, the gagging became something much more productive and I promptly threw up all over the ground near Jack's feet. Well, OK, some of it was on Jacks feet.
"Jesus!" He yelled, leaping back, half-laughing, half-grossed out. When he saw my face, though, and realized that this humiliation was apparently the straw that broke the camel's back of an already supremely-shitty day, he stepped back towards me and put his hand on my back.
"Hey, Blaze. Hey, tenderfoot. Are you OK?"
I tried to blink back the tears that were just making my embarrassment even more acute, and threw up again, although I managed to miss Jack's feet that time.
"OK then," he said gently, pulling my hair away from my face. "Alright. You just get it all out. I'm surprised you've got anything left in there! I've got some water in the truck, let me grab that for you." He ran to get the water and passed it to me, watching as I took a feeble sip. "How's that? I'm sorry I made fun of you, Blaze, I thought you'd see the funny side, too."
"I would," I muttered, out of breath from the vomiting and the humiliation. "Usually, anyway."
"Not today, though," Jack said soothingly, still rubbing my back.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I croaked, when the urge to puke again seemed to have passed. "Because it's not like I don't realize that, out of the two of us, my problems are small potatoes compared to yours."
Jack put the cap back on the water bottle. "How about we get you back to Sweetgrass Ranch? You need to get yourself cleaned up, and the way the wind comes down off the mountains it usually doesn't smell like this out there, so maybe you can keep some food down. How does that sound?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to open my mouth again without barfing, and climbed back into the truck. The rest of the trip out to Jack's ranch was awful. My stomach lurched with every fresh intake of breath but there was nothing else to purge, so I just sat there retching and hacking and wishing I'd never gotten it into my head to come out to Montana and track down the money Jack McMurtry owed the IRS.
Jack was right, though – the air around Sweetgrass Ranch was completely free of the thick, visceral smell of manure. He led me inside, into the kitchen, and told me to wait there. A few minutes later he returned with a towel and what looked to be some clothing.
"I got some of my sister's clothes, I think you're about the same size. And here's a towel. Why don't you go have a shower and I'll fix you something to eat?"
"You don't have to –"
"I know. Now go have a shower, you'll feel better afterwards."
I wasn't sure that was true, but I obeyed Jack's instructions anyway, because I was too tired to argue.
The bathroom I eventually found was like something out of a movie from the 1930s or 40s, all thick jadeite tiles and heavy ceramic. There was a claw-foot bathtub which looked like it had seen better days. Its sides were so high I only just managed to step into it – the bruising on my body was starting to set in at that point and with it came a soreness that made even the smallest movement agony. It was only once I'd adjusted the water temperature so it wasn't either scalding or freezing that I realized there wasn't a single bar of soap or bottle of shampoo to be found.
I washed myself as best as I could without them, bending over and letting the warm water rinse the thick creek dirt out of my hair for a good five minutes. When I got out I stumbled slightly, suddenly realizing that I was so tired my legs actually felt shaky. It was also then I realized I was absolutely starving. Unsurprising, as I hadn't eaten since early that morning, and what I had eaten had been pretty efficiently expelled over two separate bouts of barfing.
I put Jack's sister's pajamas on carefully, wincing as even the soft fabric on my cuts and bruises caused me pain, and then shuffled back down the long, high-ceilinged hallway to the wide staircase that led back down to the first floor of the house. Before I even got to the bottom of the stairs the smell of something delicious filled my nostrils.
"Oh my God," I said, walking into the kitchen to Jack standing in front of the stove. "What is that?"
He turned around to look at me and I thought I caught something in his expression, a softening of some sort, before he turned away again. "Bacon. Bacon from one of my own pigs – we raise one pig a year and slaughter it in November. And maple-smoked baked beans, fried eggs and hash browns. I know it's breakfast food but I figured you needed something stick-to-your-ribs."
I smiled at the colloquialism. "My grandmother says that."
"So does mine," Jack replied. "Well, she did, an
yway."
I'm afraid I might have embarrassed myself a little during that dinner. It was so good, and I was so hungry and traumatized, that I didn't really think twice about wolfing it down and then swiping the back of my wrist against my chin as I asked for seconds.
"Seconds of what? Everything?"
"Um. Beans? And – yeah, just beans. Maybe one piece of bacon?"
"One? Or Two?"
"OK," I laughed. "Two."
Jack brought me back a plate piled with beans and five strips of bacon and eyed me while I ate. "Your hair is still full of crap."
"I know. You don't have any shampoo in your bathroom! Or a hairbrush."
"What? Yes I do. Wait – did you use the up-upstairs bathroom? Oh Blaze, no one's used that for years."
"The up-upstairs bathroom?"
"Yeah, surely you noticed that this is a big house? It has six bathrooms in total, and you managed to find the most out-of-the-way one. I'll show you where the main bathroom is when you're finished eating."
"I don't know," I said quietly, because even talking at a regular volume was beyond me at that point. "I don't think I have the energy to have another shower." I reached up and touched my hair, making a face at the matted, snarled mess. "This is going to be a delight to brush out, though. Ugh. I'll do it in the morning."
Jack looked skeptical. "You probably shouldn't sleep on it. If it dries like that it's going to be a goddamned nightmare."
"How do you know?" I asked, curious as to how Jack McMurtry, a man who in no way looked like he might be familiar with the trials and tribulations of long hair, knew it would be more difficult to deal with my own hair once I'd slept on it.
He turned his head and looked out the window into the dark night for a moment, making me wonder if I'd said something wrong. "Oh, no reason," he replied. "I used to help someone brush her hair before she went to sleep."
If I'd been less tired, and Jack had looked less sad when he talked about this woman whose hair he used to brush, I would have questioned him further. But I was tired, and he did look sad, so I didn't. What I did do was clear my plate and then lean back in my chair, realizing with some dismay that I'd eaten so much my stomach felt like it might burst.
