by Lexi Whitlow
Grace
Camden was right. My ankle is swelling, and it’s sore. It’s only going to get worse if I don’t elevate it. I should get ice, but I don’t want to venture downstairs and risk running into Camden. I have an hour before I need to pick up Emma, so I stretch out with my foot propped up on a pillow, open my laptop, and begin writing.
This one’s probably not going to make it to the blog, but I need to get it on the page so I know what to do with all the conflict swirling around in my brain. Writing is how I process difficult things.
“What’s the very worst thing that can happen?
For me, that’s a hard question to answer, mostly because I’ve been through some tough shit, and survived it. I’m not inclined to think any one thing is the end of the world. I get knocked down. I get back up again.
But this seems different…”
I’m startled by a light knocking at my door.
“Grace, it’s me. I brought you some ice.”
I really don’t want to do this now.
Camden slowly pushes the door open, tentatively stepping into my room.
“I… I won’t stay. I just wanted to bring this, and apologize. I was way out of line, and I’m sorry.”
He can barely meet my eyes. He’s embarrassed. I almost feel sorry for him.
“We should probably talk,” I say, offering an olive branch. What I really want to do is tell him there’s no need to apologize because I think I might want to try that kissing thing again.
His jaw clenches. He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says. “But not now. I’m gonna go pick up Emma. After dinner tonight, after she’s in bed, then we’ll talk.”
“I can get Emma. My ankle’s not that bad. I can drive fine.”
Camden shakes his head, looking down. “I think I’d rather do it today,” he says. “I’ll tell her why.”
He’ll tell her why? What is he going to tell her? Jesus. Is he going to tell her he’s firing me? Is he firing me? Is that why he wants to wait to talk? Is he going to send me packing tonight? With a sprained ankle, barely able to walk?
Camden turns to go, then he stops. He only half turns back toward me, lingering in the doorway.
“I found your web site—Montana Nanny Diaries…” he says. “I read a little… Bossman, huh?” He shakes his head, then without another word, pulls my door closed behind him.
Holy shit.
My heart races. Adrenalines flows. I take a breath, counting, trying to calm myself. It’s going to be okay, no matter what. If getting fired is the worst thing that happens, then that’s not so bad. I’ve been through much harder things than losing a job. I can just pretend like none of this ever happened.
After Camden leaves to fetch Emma, I’m alone in the big house, feeling untethered. Despite the aching in my ankle, I’m restless. I need to get out of my room, away from my gloom, and clear my head.
I wander downstairs and into the kitchen. I’m chilled, so I make myself a cup of tea. Dinner is already prepared. A hearty beef stew simmers in the crock pot, filling the entire house with the promise of a savory meal. All I need to do before we eat is brown some dinner rolls, but that’s still a few hours off.
In the library, I peruse the shelves, looking for something unfamiliar; something to distract me. Most of the volumes are equine related along with a few well-read novels of the western variety.
Not my thing.
A collection of matching, untitled spines catch my attention. I pull one from the shelf. Opening its pages, I’m pleasantly surprised to find a handwritten journal. Every page is filled with barely legible cursive scrawl of long paragraphs. I thumb to a random page, attempting to decipher what’s written.
“Saturday, August 28, 1920. Low 59, High 83. Partly cloudy. Praying for rain.
Went to town this morning to sell melons. Bought a coat for Dara and one for Nash. Mr. Fox says that the fires at Turtle Lake killed three people, twenty horses, and at least a fifty head of cattle. Every house and barn a total loss. The Methodist Church is collecting for them. I gave three dollars, two crates of melons, and pledged a foal and two calves this spring when they come. Could be us next time.
“I saw Miss Steadman. She was pleased to see me. I will bring the children to church tomorrow and see if she remains as pleased. She is young and lively, but appears sensible. Her mother is alive, as is her grandmother, both still quite spry, which recommends her for ranch life. If the children don’t object, I may speak to her father after church.
“I miss my Mae a great deal. Her loss is still keenly felt every day. I know I cannot replace her, but this house needs a woman’s hand. The children need a mother’s touch.
“If we don’t get rain soon, I fear the lake will dry up. The pump is making a hollow sound we have not heard before, and the flow is slow.”
This is amazing. How many are there? I count at least ten volumes like the one in my hand. These should be transcribed, researched, and published. They’re priceless.
The diary of a Montana homesteader. I wonder what year they begin? I search the volumes at hand. The earliest date I find is 1905.
He writes about traveling from Sioux City on a steamboat up the Missouri River, and how the unsettled aspect of the country made his wife, Mae, cry. He seems quite excited by the adventure. What a wonderful tale.
And I’ll probably never get the chance to read it, because more likely than not, Camden Davis is going to fire me tonight.
The man who wrote these diaries had a clear sense of direction and purpose. He knew what he wanted to do and how to go about it. I’m just ambling. Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I should go back to the city, get a real job or at least go to grad school. At least the city has bookstores, good restaurants, and movies. The only thing in Ronan, Montana is a family style buffet and a steakhouse. There’s no bookshop, and there sure isn’t a theater, or an art gallery, or anything else to distinguish the place as a member of modern civilization.
Although, the Java Junction on Hwy 93, does have Wi-Fi, so I guess they’re at least trying.
I hear car doors slam outside. Through the window, I see Camden and Emma. She bounds toward the stables, kicking up snow. He follows at a leisurely pace. He’s going to take her riding. I’ll have the house to myself for at least another hour. I’d rather have Emma here with me, telling me how her day went. I love hearing her stories of pre-school drama; paste-eating boys and pulled hair. Right now, she’s the only child her age who knows all her ABC’s. She likes to show the other kids how to do it, although I worry she may be teaching them wrong.
But never mind. If I’m leaving her… If Camden is sending me away… I can’t do anything to change it. It is what it is.
I replace the diaries, making certain I return them where I found them. I should go upstairs and see what my packing situation looks like. I wonder if it would be better to ship my books to Portland rather than trying to drive them. There are serious mountains between here and Portland, and I’m not sure my Civic is up to the heavy load in this weather.
The other lovely thing about Portland, I remind myself, is excellent public transportation.
There’s always a bright side to every sad story.
* * *
“I’m sorry you hurt your ankle, Gracie,” Emma says, a pouting lip protruding dramatically from her chin.
I ladle a pint-sized portion of stew into her bowl, then butter a steaming roll, placing it on her plate.
“It’s okay.” I offer her a crooked smile. “I’m the clutz. You didn’t do it. My fault.”
“That’s not quite true,” Camden interjects. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they came in. “It’s my fault. If I’d been paying attention it wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have left you to talk to Manuel.”
Emma and I chat while we eat. She tells me about the elk tracks they saw in the snow, and the fox tracks, and the frozen stream they crossed with fish swimming under the ice.
“They look right up at you, while you�
�re standing on them,” she says. “They’re so pretty and silvery, swimming under there. And daddy says they don’t even get cold.”
I bet they’re pretty. I wish I’d seen them.
Camden barely speaks during dinner. He won’t look at me. He replies to Emma when she asks him a question, but otherwise he’s silent and sullen.
After dinner I spend an hour with Emma giving a first lesson in spelling. We spell out DOG and CAT and HAT, and when she’s successfully mastered those combinations, I show her how to write ‘Emma’ in upper and lower-case letters. She loves it. Her smile could brighten the dark side of the moon. Tonight, it makes me sad. The idea of leaving her, of losing her, breaks my heart in pieces.
After our lesson, it’s time for a bath, and then story time before bed. We started reading Pippy Longstocking last night, so I continue the saga. I want to finish so she’s not left hanging, but after her day at pre-school and her ride into the hills, she nods before I’ve read five pages aloud.
I tuck her in snugly, kiss her forehead, tell her I love her, then turn off the light. I hope this isn’t goodbye. I hope Camden lets me tell her how much I’ve loved taking care of her.
I find him downstairs in his library, with a book in his lap and a roaring blaze in the hearth, warming the room.
That’s unexpected.
He looks up when I come in, then nods for me to take the big leather club chair across from him.
“She down?” he asks, rolling his head back against the back of his chair.
I nod, sitting straight, folding my hands in my lap, waiting for the worst.
Camden appraises me. A furrow plows his brow, then he too sits forward, folding his hands between his knees, his arms resting on his densely muscled thighs. He gazes into the fire for a moment, then he turns to me.
“I know I owe you an apology,” he begins haltingly, his cobalt blue eyes fixing mine. “But dammit Grace, I’m not really sorry.”
What?
“You’re smart, and funny, and you work hard. You’re beautiful…”
I am?
“And Emma loves you. Not just like she loves Amanda or Tyler or anybody else. She really, really loves you. Just for that, I’d be willing to do whatever you want me to do. I’ll back off. I’ll stay out of your way… But… I really don’t want to back off.”
This is Camden Davis not firing me. This is Camden Davis not apologizing. This is Camden Davis—Bossman—doubling down.
This isn’t going anywhere close to what I anticipated.
Oh. Good. Lord. Reconfiguring the data input.
He’s not sorry.
I need to get a handle on this.
I take a deep breath. In a second, my neurons begin firing in the proper direction.
“I need to know some things,” I say quietly, trying to get my bearings on the direction of this unanticipated conversation.
“Anything,” Camden replies, his palms turning up, eyes brightening.
Anything? Even if it pisses him off?
“Have you kissed your previous nannies?”
He huffs out a breath like one of his horses blowing, shaking his head. “Absolutely not,” he insists. “And Tyler will back me up, ‘cause he was here for all of it.”
“Why did they leave?”
It’s a simple question. I’ve wanted the answer since I first got here.
Camden rolls his eyes, then relaxing a bit, he sits back in his chair. “The first one got fired when I caught her smoking dope in the kitchen. The other three… they… had ideas. Aspirations. All three of them quit when they realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”
Aspirations? What a loaded euphemism.
“They wanted to be Mrs. Camden Davis?” I ask. “Or something close to it.”
He nods, his expression turning chagrinned. “I wasn’t interested.”
“So why me?” I ask. Another simple question.
This one stymies him. He casts his gaze to the fire again, then, slowly, he turns back to meet my inquiry.
“I don’t quite know,” he admits reluctantly. “Maybe because you’re different from anyone I’ve ever met. You’re super smart. A little mysterious. You… challenge me. You know things I don’t know. You’ve been places I’ve never been. All that… and you’ve got the finest ass this side of the Mission Mountains.”
He flexes his jaw anxiously as he states the next bit.
“I’m not being disrespectful. I don’t want to be. But damn Grace, there’s not a woman in three counties that’s turned my head since before Emma was born. I got high standards. You exceed them.”
Good Lord. What do you do with that?
There’s sincerity in his tone. I don’t believe he’s playing me.
What would Kara say?
“Well, just for your information,” I say, feigning confidence. “I kissed you back this afternoon. You scared the shit out of me. But my first inclination was to kiss you back. That’s also my second inclination.”
He seems shocked. Perhaps this isn’t what he expected?
“So now what?” I ask.
He’s reconfiguring now, trying to get his bearings.
“Now?” he asks. “Now I’m following your lead. You tell me when to jump and how high.”
He says this with an element of delighted animation creasing his eyes. I like his reply. For once in my life, I’m riding high in the saddle, indicating the next move.
“We need to be discreet,” I say. “Emma can’t know. Tyler can’t know. No one.”
“Fine,” Camden agrees. “If that’s how you want to call it. But I’d be proud for anybody to see you on my arm.”
“That’s how I call it,” I insist. “We need to figure out what ‘it’ is, before we go broadcasting it to the world. For Emma’s sake.”
“Alright,” he admits. “But now I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can we kiss again? Like before, except this time without the regrets and apologies. I want to kiss you.”
Camden is seated in a leather upholstered, wing back chair. He looks comfortable in it. I’m still nursing a wounded ankle, but it’s remarkable how agile I am when presented with a challenge. In just a few seconds I’m crawling onto him, straddling his lap, my fingers running the line from his ear to the tiny dimple at his chin. I catch his scent and it makes me dizzy with anticipation.
Our lips meet, reprising the heated current of earlier in the day, except this time it’s not an unexpected, confusing union. Camden’s strong hands slip around my hips, pulling me closer to him. My tongue probes his depths, tasting him, breathing him in. He’s hot cider and coffee, warm and inviting. His curious fingertips graze the turns of my body as heat lifts between us, then they slide down to my ass, pulling me even closer; so close that right between my widely spread legs, pressed a bulge trapped in his jeans. My body responds reflexively, grinding down on him. My fingers drop instinctively, tracing the lines of his cock, stroking him, taking his measure, even as my lips caress his, and my teeth nibble his breathy kisses.
In just a few moments Camden breaks the kiss, puts his hand on mine, and moves it away from him. His breath is heavy, eyes hooded with heat.
“Girl… You feel too good. You taste too good… I don’t want to make out like a kid. I need to—”
“Shut up,” I whisper, biting his lip. He’s an adult who knows what he wants, and so am I. I’ve fantasized about this moment since I first laid eyes on him, but I never allowed myself to believe it could happen. It’s happening. I’m not going to second guess it. I’m not going to be afraid. I’m going to go with this, and see where it leads. “Let’s go upstairs.”
His breath on my neck makes me weak in the knees. My core aches for him. I want this.
“You sure?” he asks, not wanting to overstep.
“I’m sure.” I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. His scent in my head is intoxicating. His hands—everywhere—make me wet.
Once upstair
s it’s chaos. He’s kissing me, dragging me toward his bed while fumbling in a drawer for years-old condoms.
“Don’t,” I say, tugging at his shirt tail. “No need. I’m on the shot.” I fumble with his belt, anxious to free the swollen package imprisoned behind leather, denim, and a damned inconvenient brass zipper.
“The shot?” Camden asks, hot breath escaping, warming my neck and breasts as he shoves my shirt back, bathing me with urgent, wet kisses.
He doesn’t wait for a reply.
He muscles me onto the bed then crawls over me, covering me.
His eyes have gone liquid and dark. He plunges his face between my ample tits, his fingers finding soft nipples, tugging roughly until they peak, hardening. I feel his attentions deep in my belly, stirring my clit.
His hands aren’t soft like Mark’s. They’re calloused and strong, persistent rather than tentative.
He follows his fingers with lips and tongue, drawing the suppressed heat out of me in precise increments.
My fingers trace the supple lines and ripple of muscle on his chest and shoulders, rounding down along his torso to his hips. He’s still half dressed as he peels my jeans off me, casting them aside. The bulge behind his zipper is intimidating, but my fingers probe, reaching.
Camden moans in my ear. “Honey, have a little patience. We’ll get there.”
With his broad chest pressed against mine, he slips his thumbs around the band of my panties, tugging them down, roughly pulling them off.
“I want to taste you,” he growls. “Every drop.”
Mark never did this. Mark was too timid to do this. Too squeamish.
Camden begins sampling the flesh behind my knees with his tongue and lips, then works up from there. My fingers find the tightly trimmed locks atop his head, threading into them, feeling the razor edge of the barber’s clippers while his tongue and sucking lips discover places in my anatomy that I hadn’t known existed.
“Oh, God…” I moan, losing myself in his grip.
“Shush,” he whispers, his tongue circumnavigating my clit. “We need to be quiet.”
We do. We need to be quiet. Emma.
Fingers. Fingers slipping in, going deep. Spreading me. Sliding back.
