The front door swings open. “Autumn, glad you’re here. Take a seat, will ya?” Dad nods toward the spot next to Bold and Blond.
Apparently not.
I smile politely at her as I pull out the sketchbook from my jeans, taking the seat. A gentle breeze blows, and I’m surprised that she doesn’t smell as over perfumed as she looks like she would be. Whatever she’s wearing is minimal. It’s a clean aroma, like laundry detergent mixed with daisies.
“Darlin’, I’m Grace.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I say, shaking her hand like a proper southern girl would do.
“You draw?” She nods down to the sketchpad in my lap.
“A bit.”
“May I see?”
“There’s not much to look at, but sure.” I hand the pad over, forcing myself to sit on my hands as she thumbs through the drawings I’ve made since leaving New York City—wings of the airplane cutting through clouds, the sunflowers in Mom’s old garden, my palm, and Howdy’s ears.
She mmhmm’s with a grin, hovering her finger over the pencil strokes of his mane blowing in the wind. “Chris, you mentioned your daughter was an artist, but I didn’t know you meant a real artist. Autumn, these are fantastic.”
“I’m working on it,” I say as she hands the pad back. “Thanks.”
“Your father’s told me all about you.” I raise an eyebrow. “All good, don’t you worry.”
“Cool.” The bench creaks as I shift. It’s weird to think about him talking about me. What would he say? He barely knows me.
“I hear you’re a natural rider. Ever thought of entering some competitions?”
“No,” I try not to laugh, “I’m not really into barrel racing anymore.”
“But you won the Junior Division,” Dad boasts from his position leaning against the post.
“I know, but…” How do I explain how ridiculous racing around barrels with a bedazzled bandana looks on my flat screen at home? “I think I’ve grown out of it.” I wait for Grace to encourage me more, but she doesn’t. She a-hums and smiles instead. She’s actually kind of cool. I can see why Dad could be into her.
“So what have you guys been up to?” I say, studying her reaction for an eyelid flick or something to give away if they’re together. There’s always a tell sign. Her gaze is rock steady though. Dad doesn’t flinch either.
“Talking about the drought,” she says, her smile fading. She turns to Dad. “Chris, how long can you last?”
“A few months, if that.”
“So it’ll come down to selling the steer or draining the account?”
He looks out toward the horizon, rolling in his lips. When glanced back, he shrugs like a teenager. “There’s no account to drain, Grace.”
Wait. Of course there is. Dad always has an account. He and Grandpa used to obsess over the statements when I was little. After Grandpa passed away, I became Dad's bank buddy. I’d help him separate his profit, putting ten percent away for emergencies like this. A cattle rancher is Mother Nature’s bitch—he knows that. What happened to the account?
Dad’s eyes meet mine. Oh no. The truck, the kitchen, the lawyers… I happened to the account. My throat closes. I reach up, touching it, trying to gulp the lump down. Everyone’s silent for a second, and I pray Grace has the gift of telepathy. Please don’t ask him why.
And she doesn’t. She simply nods and says, “Okay. Then the steer?”
“I hope that’ll be enough.”
“You won’t go under, Chris. Not this place. Too many families rely on it. By God’s grace, it’ll pull through and rain will come.” She manages the statement beautifully, relaxed yet confident so even I believe her. I decide right then and there to like her. She can sit on this porch any day. “So Autumn, do you have any friends around these parts?”
“My friend Gina lives half an hour away in town. It’s been nice being near her again.”
“Well, a half an hour isn’t exactly nearby. You’ll have to meet my son. He can’t be more than a few years older than you.”
Dad wrinkles up his nose, lifting a brow at Grace.
“Ah, have you already met him? Colt?”
I nearly choke on my own spit while my pulse jumps like the subway’s doors are about to close on my hand. Dad chortles and I swear Grace is totally biting the inside of her cheek. There's no way they were talking about the drought.
“I may have.” I rise, my exit is now long overdue. “I’m hungry. If you don’t mind, I’m going to make some lunch. It was great to meet you, Grace.”
“Likewise. I try to be around to balance out the cowboys on the ranch. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Enjoy your meal.” She says with a steady grin.
“I’m sure it’ll be everything you’re looking for,” Dad adds.
“Uh, okay? Will do.” They watch me leave and I swear Dad laughs after I close the door. Weirdos.
Walking into the kitchen is like being kicked in the gut. The stainless steel appliances, cherry hardwood floors, a fashionable old farm table, my truck out the back window—all the reasons the ranch is broke—and, my heart does a back hand spring, a blond-haired cowboy watching the news.
Well, at least that explains their stupid grins.
His face brightens, and he slides off the couch, almost bounding toward me. I flick my eyebrow up before sliding my sketchbook onto the counter. He doesn’t need to know how I’m thrilled he’s standing here in my kitchen, especially after his cold exit yesterday.
“Happy riding? How’s the leg?"
I shrug as butterflies use my main arteries for interstates. “A bit sore,” I say as I dive into the fridge and grab a crisp apple.
He steps in close, right next to me. The twinkle in his eye is obvious even through a sideways glance.
“Do you want me to take a look at your leg again?” he asks.
Hell yes, but I can’t go through the hormonal torture again, not with Dad and Grace on the front porch.
“No, that’s okay. A hot bath will do the trick.” I catch his eyes flicker. “Alone,” I clarify. He may be sizzling hot, but this is my father’s house. None of that will be happening here.
He snickers as I reach back into the fridge to grab pickles and ham. When I lean out, my back bumps his chest. His left hand rests on my shoulder as he reaches over me, grabbing an orange while his breath tickles the back of my neck. Tingles of warmth shoot along my spine, and out to my fingertips and toes. Every muscle eases with that lingering, golden heat.
Holy. I’ve never felt that before.
My legs threaten to melt into the floor, but Dad and Grace are just outside so I stand firm.
“Want to go riding with me tomorrow?” He whispers and his lips grace the back of my ear.
Okay. Maybe I do need to play this game. His warm breath teases my neck. Screw my rules, it’ll be so much easier to take the leap, and go for it. “Sure.” Turning, I touch my nose to his. I let my eyes linger in the depth of his perfect blues for one second before pulling away. I don’t kiss him, though his lips beg for exploring.
“Not cool.” He says. He reaches out and for a moment touches my hand. His gaze is soft and steady, but not in a forced must-get-in-your-pants way. There’s something more stable about it, almost invasive. A guy’s never looked at me like that before. It’s scary as shit. I flip my hair, playing off the exchange as nothing, but appearing more like an airhead.
“How about you get to know me, first?” I force out the tease, trying to recover, forging a shield with fake confidence.
He laughs and lifts the intensity of the mood. “Like the party? Because I’m all for that.”
I grin. “We’ll see.”
His right hand wraps around my waist while his left stays warm on my mid-back. “You’re going to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”
“I may.”
“After I found you star-gazing, I can’t stop thinking about
you. You won’t leave my mind.”
Star gazing. Ha. He makes it hard to forget he’s a cowboy.
“Are you sure it wasn’t me kissing you?”
He grins with a wink. “That may have contributed, yes.”
“Right.” I laugh. His eyes challenge mine. That’s it, screw playing hard to get. Teasing isn't my style. I go for—and get—what I want. Pushing up on my toes, I brush my lips against his, but then the front door creaks. “Seriously?” I say. He sighs, letting his hands fall away from me and taking a casual position against the counter to watch the news. I know I’m not a good actress so I dive into the fridge. Where’s the mayo again? The door swings open and I let Colt greet them while the cool temperature steals the heat off my cheeks. I only emerge once the trace of our kiss has faded. I bring the mayo and cheese with me.
“Sandwiches are a great idea, Autumn. You all in?” Dad asks.
“Absolutely,” Grace slides onto a barstool. “Like anyone would miss the chance to eat your cookin’.”
Dad moves past me, giving me a brief pat on my back. I try to be inconspicuous as I side step out of his touch. I may not ever get over him cheating on Mom. It’s immature to move, but I can’t handle any affection from him right now. It disgusts me.
“Go have a seat, Autumn. Let me make you lunch, okay?” he says as he pulls his hand back, aware of how I shut him down with my movement.
Colt winks at me from behind Dad and Grace. My mind is lost. “Sure,” I think I say.
The leather couch hugs me as I sink into it. Colt joins me, with my sketchbook on his lap. I’m not one to be secretive about my sketching-- I never sketch anything emotional-- but as he flips through the pages, nodding and occasionally rubbing the stubble along his jaw line, I sort of want to bolt.
“You’re a good artist,” he says when he finishes looking at my pencil marks.
“Naw, I’m not a real artist. This is more of a hobby. I appreciate art, try to figure it out and such.”
Colt hands me the sketchbook. “Well, hobby or not, you’re good. You could sell this stuff.” He doesn’t look away; his eyes reach in and touch on my secret dream of having a studio, studying graphic design, and making something unique. I know it’s foolish though, I’ve seen enough New Yorkers suffer from that exact dream. They slave at fifty-hour internships without pay, waiting tables at night, or becoming an escort to make ends meet. No. I’ll be smart, go to business school like Mom, and work on the marketing side of things.
Colt’s eyes furrow. “You're talented enough to become an artist if you want to.” My heart trips. Only Gina can read me that well. I blush, feeling raw and too open. He relaxes back into the leather with a grin, hands behind his head, and muscles popping out of his t-shirt. I glance away, focusing on the news anchors. I’m not used to having a hot guy at my side with a parent so near. When I liked a guy back home, we’d hang out away from Mom. I sneak a peek at Colt, surprised the air doesn't wobble with the energy passing between us.
Dad’s diligent about the sandwich, slathering the bread with enough mayo to fatten me up. Is this his game? To make me too big to fit in the airplane seat? Or, maybe, this is him simply being a father.
When I was alone with Colt in the kitchen, my parent issues didn’t bother me. Everything felt bright, like stepping into spring sunshine after a dreary winter. Now it’s all dull again, knowing those documents are hanging inside the laptop. It’s like the air’s become heavy.
Colt taps the back of my hand. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.
“I’m just tired.”
He frowns, moving his finger to trace circles on the back of my hand. The weight of Dad’s mistake lifts a bit.
“Thanks,” I say.
His hand rests over mine, the warmth intoxicating to my skin. The firm pressure is like sunshine on the darkest day. I glance over, and those ice blue eyes barrel deep into my soul. “Your welcome,” he says with a confident tone, stealing my breath away.
Thank goodness the couch is so big. If Dad knew… Well, maybe he already does? The kitchen is silent now. They must’ve figured it out. Well, at least now I know holding hands doesn’t spur Dad into a protective fit.
Two news reports and one sandwich later, and my head still spins. The TV goes black. “Ready for a driving lesson?” Dad asks with the remote in hand.
Colt nearly spits out his drink but I kick him in the calf. “Not funny,” I say under my breath.
Dad continues. “Autumn, I’d appreciate you learning how so you can help more on the ranch. Remember, farm kids can drive without a license if it’s on their own property.” He looks out the window, the stress from the ranch creasing his brow.
I guess driving will at least give me something to do, and I’m pretty sure my new truck has air conditioning, which would be a huge bonus in the sweltering Oklahoma heat. Plus, I feel guilty that it’s still sitting out there, completely unused. “Sure. Why not? But let’s not start where we left off, all right?”
“Absolutely. No need for you to steer on my lap.” He smiles lightly, still walking on egg shells but thankful that I can joke. I nod, sort of surprised I can joke too.
“I can help teach her…” Colt says, which receives a quick bop on the back of his head from Dad.
“Not happening.” Grace bends down and gives Colt a quick kiss. “In fact,” she says as she walks around the couch, “How about I teach her?”
“No, Grace.”
“You do want her to learn to drive, don’t you Chris?” Grace asks.
“Exactly, which is why I should teach her.”
“Oh, come off it. You know I’m a great driver and I have something you don’t.” Her voice is gentle. “Patience.”
Colt whistles, “That’s true, Chris.”
“You,” Dad eyes narrow, “need to be careful, son.” He nods down to my hand. Colt’s hand is no longer near it but the message is clear. There’s a whole new level to being his cattle-hand now. Colt wisely doesn’t speak, but I have a good laugh. Somehow, laughing is easy with him next to me.
“Okay, let’s do this, Grace,” I say and Dad looks a little disappointed. Truth be told, I remember Dad’s red face when he taught me to ride a bike. I’d rather learn to drive with a stranger. Grace smiles softly, holding out her hand for the keys.
“Fine, you can teach her Grace. But, please, stay near.”
I bounce off the couch. This could mean independence. If I can pass the test and land a license, this summer won’t be useless. There’s something nice about having a real ID. I’d love one for France—something saying the United States is my home, other than my passport. I don’t like carrying that thing around. The white truck still smells new as I climb into the truck with Grace, while Dad and Colt watch from the back deck. Dad hands him a broom. Ha. It looks like he’s literally going to have to work to hang out around me.
Grace waves out the window, shooing them away. “No observation needed.”
I study the console and pedals while Grace straps herself in. There’s an extra pedal for my left foot. “It’s a manual transmission,” she says. She explains the console and the gearshift, cautioning me to stay away from the accelerator, and showing me where the brake is and how the clutch works. Finally, I’m allowed to let the engine purr to life. And then she lets me play.
Clutch to first. We jerk and stop. She laughs it off, encouraging me to try again. I do, and again we stall. Again and again. It takes forever for to find the flow. It takes seven tries before we’re finally moving.
“There you have it. Now shift to second.” I do. “Very good.” Graces says as she settles back in her seat. “So, tell me about New York.”
I concentrate on winding down our gravel drive. “Umm.” We jerk again. “It’s great. Lots of buzz, you know?”
“Nope, I’ve never been.” She nods to my signal as I take a left turn toward the barn. “But that’s okay, I like the air here.”
“Even with the smell?” I sniff and it’s not as strong as it
was yesterday.
“I don’t even notice it. I’m sure I’d smell some pretty funky things in your city too if it was my first time there.”
“Yeah, the subways in the summer.” I feign a gag, “So gross. I try to taxi rather than cope with the smell of hot urine.” Grace scrunches up her face. Oops, a little too much detail. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She taps lightly on the armrest as I drive around the barn to go back the way we came. “Now shift to third. So, do you have a boyfriend back in New York City?”
My foot misses the clutch. The truck stalls and we jerk forward, our seat belts tossing us back against our seat.
And there’s the reason she wanted to teach me.
“No.” I’m thrilled I don’t have to lie. There were guys I’d occasionally date or meet up with at the clubs, but not a boyfriend. I had a few drunk friends with benefits situation, but that’s it. I only had one serious relationship, but that was last summer and, looking back, more of a joke.
“Good. Now, ease back into first.”
I clutch and shift smoothly, trying to keep composure after her brief interrogation.
“Now second.”
I transition the gears effortlessly.
“How about you pull onto the main road, take a right, and then shift into third?”
I’m a little less graceful when I try to turn, but once I’m straight and steady in third gear I feel like I’m actually driving. My head throbs though. “Are automatics this cumbersome?”
“No, but they aren’t as fun. Clutch to fourth. You’ll get used to it though.”
I do and we fly.
“Whoo-eee!” she yells out the window, her personality as warm as Colt’s. She reaches over and taps my shoulder. “Doing great, honey.”
I smile back, an ear to ear idiot grin, but I don’t care. She’s right. This feels amazing.
We work on turns, shifts, signaling, and using our mirrors until the sun touches the earth, only returning so she can pick up Colt’s younger brother, Chase, from soccer practice. Grace is really solid—easy going and, other than that direct boyfriend question, not intimidating. Perhaps she’s too nice to be the mother of the guy I want to mess around with. It seems too perfect… almost wrong.
Bring the Rain Page 6
