Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

“She left this. Told me to give it to you.”

  I don’t have time for female drama. I’ve got a trailer loaded with two hundred bales of feed hay that’s got to get in the barn before dark. After that, there are about sixty other things to do on this ranch before I can even think about putting my feet up.

  I tear open the envelope, revealing more pink paper and purple, cursive lines.

  “Dear Camden,

  I tried to make this work but it’s too hard. I don’t think you have a heart. If you do, it’s as cold as ice. I’m the fool for letting myself fall for you. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry about leaving Emma. Try not to screw her up as bad as you are.

  ~ Beth”

  What the hell?

  I hand the letter to Tyler. He reads it, smiles, and nods his head.

  “What?” I ask him, I’m uncertain of what to make of any of this.

  He shrugs, handing the note back. “She was pretty head over heels for you. Everybody—except you—saw it. Guess she just got sick of the cold shoulder.”

  I had no clue that Beth was interested in me, but I sure as shit am not interested in her. She’s the nanny for Christ’s sake, not girlfriend material. I don’t want a girlfriend. Or a wife. I want a reasonable, sane person to help take care of Emma—that’s all. It shouldn’t be this hard.

  I’ve been through four nannies in two years—three of them ran off for the same reason, and I fired the other for smoking pot in my house.

  Why is it so difficult to get someone to do this job?

  “Where’s Emma?” I ask.

  “She’s inside playing with Amanda and Jacob,” he says. “When Beth left, I called Amanda to come over and watch Emma.”

  Tyler’s lucky. He’s got a happy marriage, a wonderful wife who adores him, and a happy, healthy son. He’s got almost everything. If he weren’t my best friend and my foreman, I’d probably be jealous of him. As it is, I’m just grateful for him and Amanda. They’re always here for me in a crisis. Over the last few years, I’ve had more than a few of those. I don’t think I would have survived any of this without them.

  “As soon as we get this hay in the barn, I’ll go thank Amanda,” I say. “Maybe she’ll know someone who can replace Beth. Quick.”

  Tyler shakes his head, moving toward the passenger’s side of the truck. “Nope. Already asked. You’ll have a hell-of-a time finding anybody local. The word is out. You’re hard to work for.”

  Great.

  This is just too damn much to deal with. Where am I going to find someone willing to come all the way out here, just to be a nanny to a four-year-old with health issues? Who in their right mind would even do that?

  “Hell,” I mutter. “I’ll have to put out an ad.”

  I think of the people who might apply for a job like that—down on their luck, ready to escape some kind of baggage.

  As long as she doesn’t fall for me, it’s all right as rain.

  Like I said, I’m not looking for a woman—and I’m sure as hell not looking for love.

  Read on for more from Lexi!

  Rancher Daddy

  Chapter 1

  Grace

  Mark beams, his smile stretching from ear-to-ear. He’s so happy he’s almost hopping up and down on his toes.

  “I got it!” he giggles gleefully, holding out his phone for me to see the email. “I got the job in Mountain View! I got it! They want me to start in a month!”

  I’m happy for him. I really am. This is his dream come true. Mark Edmunds sole ambition is to become a well-compensated cog in the grinding machine of corporate America. He wants his name and title on a crisp new business card, a desk—and if he’s lucky—a door, and a window with a view. He’ll probably have to work up to the view, but with the starting salary of over a hundred thousand at a publicly traded, brand-name software company in Silicon Valley, it’s a step in the right direction—for him.

  For me? Not so much.

  I let Mark enjoy his accomplishment. I’m not going to rain on his parade. Not yet, anyway. He’s always assumed that no matter what, I’d follow him. I’ve been following him since high school, so I suppose I can’t blame him for his assumptions. That said, he knows how I feel about big cities. He knows that working for the man isn’t in my plan, no matter how much he cajoles me into sending out resumes to big companies. I’m not built for working in the corporate world; I’ve reminded Mark about this over and again since we graduated from college.

  I think I’ve been preparing myself for this day since my freshman year when I first began to realize that maybe, just maybe, I could organize a life for myself that didn’t require Mark’s participation or approval. It’s been a gradual but constant process ever since—the process growing up, growing apart from him, and realizing that I really don’t love Mark. I’m just frightened of not having him. We’ve been together since we were kids. It’s impossible to know what it will be like to be on my own, but now it’s happening. I know that somehow, I will manage it. I must, because I don’t have any other options. I’m sure not going to Silicon Valley. My journey lies elsewhere.

  I’m just not sure where, yet.

  * * *

  Rejection letters are hard enough to stomach, but what’s even worse is the dead air of silence following most of my job inquiries. I think I’ve been to the web site of every small-town newspaper in America, looking for job postings, or sending unsolicited resumes to the editors. So far, no one is interested in giving me a chance at being an entry-level reporter. I can’t blame them since my only experience (beside earning a useless journalism degree) is working on the student paper in college, and running the development beat for an independent, non-profit city blog here in Raleigh. None of those roles are terribly compelling. There is no Pulitzer Prize sitting on my shelves.

  I commit three hours every day to applying for jobs. Sometimes I get distracted, reading the articles in the local papers. Today, I’m diverted by the want ads in the Missoulian, the only paper covering news, sports, and politics for a large swath of western Montana. The main page of the paper is occupied with articles about the Scouts holding a benefit for a local Veterans group, high school football scores and game wraps, and a scandal at the Department of the Interior regarding policies on Sage Grouse management. That’s all well and good, but the classifieds are where the real heart of the community reveals itself.

  For instance, who even knew you could buy a ton of feed hay for a hundred and forty dollars?

  A girl named Reba lost her adult male cat, Toby, near Lewis & Clark Lane.

  Central Montana Bail Bonds is hiring. Wonder what that says about the neighborhood?

  And someone at the Kicking Horse Ranch needs a nanny. A nanny? Really?

  I click on the ad.

  Part-time, live-in Nanny for 4-year-old girl recovering from congenital heart condition, near Ronan.

  Must be good with kids, love the outdoors, like horses, have a clear background check/drug test, and references. The schedule is flexible, half-days, with two weekends per month off. Salary is $2000 per month, with room, board, meals included. Please send inquiry with detailed experience, along with reference contact info to Camden@KickingHorseRanch.com. Serious inquiries only.

  “Good with kids… love the outdoors…” I read the ad again and repeat it to myself. My heart rate quickens when I do—but I’m not entirely sure why.

  Seriously?

  Congenital heart condition…?

  My baby brother, Jon, was born with a heart condition called complete atrioventricular canal defect, or CAVC. He was a Down Syndrome baby; the defect is common among them. Jon’s case was severe. He had open heart surgery at just nine weeks old to patch the hole in his heart, but that didn’t fix the problem permanently. Before he was seven, he endured four additional surgeries, but by then the damage done to his lungs and other organs was so debilitating that the doctors refused any more procedures.

  Jon died at nine years old. He spent at least half of his life in
the hospital, in pain. I spent most of those nine years with him, then another four years volunteering at the same hospital in the pediatric ward, working with sick kids like my brother. For a long time, I thought I might try to become a doctor. After spending so many years watching sick children die, and watching their shattered parents disintegrate into guilt and agony, I was too full of grief to have much hope that I could ever improve things.

  I watched what Jon’s death did to my mother and father, and that was enough tragedy for a lifetime.

  This little girl at the Kicking Horse Ranch doesn’t have CAVC. She lives at home. She plays outside and rides horses. She needs a nanny, not a cardiovascular crash team.

  Tears come to my eyes when I think of it, the weight of loss crashing down on me.

  Despite all the time that has passed, I still keep in touch with the nursing staff at the University Medical Center’s pediatric cardio ward. I know they’d give me great references.

  I could do this.

  Plus, it’s only part-time, so I can still do my own thing on the side—maybe start a photo blog or an online diary. Why not apply for it? I have nothing to lose.

  If anything, I’ll do it for my brother. I read the ad again.

  Maybe that’s reason enough.

  Sometimes, I wake up in the morning, and I still miss him.

  I know how lonely it is to be sick, even if you have everything else in the world. I wonder if maybe I could make a difference for this little girl.

  * * *

  The subject line reads: Face-to-Face Interview?

  It’s the first reply I’ve gotten all week from any of the countless job applications I’ve sent out. I click on the note to open it. It’s for the nanny job in Montana. I’d almost forgotten about that one, it’s been so long since I sent my inquiry.

  Miss Bradly,

  Thanks for your application. I contacted your references at the University Medical Center in Raleigh, North Carolina, and they all spoke highly of you. NC is a long way from Montana, but if you are up for it, I would like to extend an invitation to come out and meet Emma, see the place, and let us see if this might work out. Like I said, I will want a criminal background check and drug test, but I have friends here who can do that.

  I will book you a plane ticket. Let me know if you are willing, and the earliest possible date you can travel.

  Thanks,

  -- Cam Davis

  I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  I got this!

  * * *

  I now understand why everyone bitches so much about air travel. I always wanted to travel. I want to see the world, but maybe doing it overland or via a cruise ship is a better plan than flying the not-so-friendly skies. I left home at two in the afternoon, got through security, boarded and found my seat pressed between a kid wearing headphones blaring the worst rap music I’ve ever heard, and a fat man who thought he could claim my armrest. My elbows are sharper than his; I made that fact known double-quick.

  After a two-hour layover in Denver watching people talk on their cellphones, I’m back in the air now, this time with a whole different batch of characters than the ones I flew with from Raleigh to Denver. When the plane began to board, I noted that the passengers were mostly men, dressed in boots and heavy coats, some sporting cowboy hats. There are a few tourists among them—people who look somewhat more like me—but generally, I’d wager this airplane is full of Montana natives. They’re a striking bunch of singular appeal. Big, strapping, corn-fed, and confident looking. There’s no one on this flight who resembles my ex-boyfriend Mark, with his skinny jeans, earrings, Viking tattoo, and soul patch. These guys don’t need Viking Tattoos to look tough. They have the market cornered on more than just looking the part. It’s clear to me that I’m not in North Carolina anymore. I think I might be headed to Oz.

  The pilot’s voice crackles over a loudspeaker.

  “The flight crew will begin preparing for landing. We’ll be on the ground in about twenty minutes. We appreciate you flying with us today and we hope you enjoy you’re your stay in Missoula. The temperature on the ground is twenty-four degrees, with overcast skies.”

  Glad I brought my winter coat. I rarely need it in Raleigh.

  I’ve been in transit for more than ten hours. I’m sure I smell like stale airplane upholstery and packed-too-tight humanity. My skin feels icky. More than anything I want to wash, but Mr. Davis—Camden—warned me that the drive to Ronan is more than an hour from the airport. I still have a way to go before I can crash and sleep.

  The local time say’s eleven fifteen, but my body says it’s the middle of the night. I’m foggy in the head, stiff from being cramped in a too tight space for so long, and just flat tired. The airport is nearly deserted as my fellow passengers and I make our way to baggage claim. I’m no seasoned traveler, so I just follow along. Though I do make sure I’m checking the signs to make sure I’m moving in the right direction. We pass a security check, entering the public part of the airport. A few happy faces rush forward, arms wide, greeting weary passengers from my flight.

  And that’s when I see him.

  Oh. Good. Lord.

  This incredibly striking man stands back from the group of greeters, leaning against a concrete column, looking bored. He’s six-feet tall and then some, wearing faded, tight Levi’s hugging narrow hips, and an open, sheepskin coat. It’s well-worn and weathered from years of exposure to harsh weather. He’s got a square, chiseled jaw, and an athletic build, with broad shoulders. He’s long and tall, and before I even know what’s come over me, I think to myself I’d like to climb up on him and hang on, like playing on the monkey bars.

  As if he isn’t perfect enough, he’s also got honey blond hair, buzzed short in the back, and deep blue eyes that catch my gaze and hold it.

  He nods at me. Oh shit. It’s him. It’s Camden Davis.

  This is awkward.

  He closes the space between us in a few long strides, greeting me with his big, strong hand outstretched.

  “You must be Grace,” he says. His voice is deep and smoky, his accent more clipped than I’d expected from a guy in cowboy boots, wearing a Stetson.

  I try to catch my breath, but my jaw is slack. I think my tongue is paralyzed from the shock of seeing this specimen of male perfection, and knowing that he’s got my hand in his.

  “Umm… Yeah…” I mumble while he grips my hand, his calloused fingers and palm wrapping my own, squeezing.

  “I’m Cam,” he replies, ignoring my stuttering ineptitude while pulling my backpack off my shoulder, swinging it onto his own. “You have any bags to pick up?”

  I shake my head, still incapable of forming cogent speech.

  “Truck’s this way.” He turns toward the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room, and leads me towards them.

  The bracing dry cold of my first blast of a Montana winter wakes me, shaking my brain free of the fog of travel and the bewildering beauty of my host. I hastily pull my coat on, zipping it up snug to my neck, then dip into my pockets for a scarf, my hat, and knit gloves. Before we make it thirty feet towards the parking lot, I realize that my thin pretense at winter wear is going to be no match for this climate. By the time I climb up into the elevated cab of Camden Davis’ four-wheel-drive pick-up truck, I’m shivering, teeth chattering.

  I’m speechless again, but this time for altogether different reasons.

  It’s only the second week in October, but it’s snowing—hard. And it’s dark. As soon as we pull away from the airport, we head off into the countryside, speedily bypassing any fleeting indication of civilization. Camden has little to say, except that the snow is just a flurry and won’t amount to much.

  “Tomorrow the weather’s supposed to clear.” He glances sideways at me. “Do you know how to ride?”

  Ride? I give him a puzzled look before understanding his question. “Horses,” I say—stupidly.

  “Yeah. Horses,” he repeats. I notice him trying to suppress a smile. />
  “Ahm, not really,” I say, trying to think of a recovery. “They’re beautiful creatures, but no, I’ve never had the opportunity. I was raised in the city, mostly lived in apartments. I love to hike and camp. It’s my favorite thing, but I didn’t get to do any of that ‘til I got out on my own.”

  He has no response. We drive on another forty minutes through a snowstorm with little traffic on the road around us. He must think I’m an incredible bore.

  Miles down the road, Camden finally breaks the silence.

  “Home sweet home.”

  He slows, then turns right down a wide, unpaved lane that tips gently upward as we proceed along it. I have a sense of something massive and foreboding ahead of us, way out in the distance. In the dark, with limited visibility from the snow, I can’t fathom anything except the rough dirt drive stretching ahead into infinity.