by Lexi Whitlow
I do as I’m told, and to my astonishment, his advice settles me. My trembling hands still. My tears cease.
“Can you stand up?” he asks me.
I nod, but I’m uncertain. I try, but when I put weight on my right foot, the pain shoots straight up to my hip. My knee gives way. Camden catches me, keeping me from staggering sideways. He steadies me as I hobble on one foot.
“I’ll carry you,” he says. Before I can protest, he lifts me up as if I’m weightless, cradling my knees, his arm slipping under my shoulders. He moves toward the stables and the dressing rooms inside. He sets me down on a bench by the lockers, then kneeling in front of me, he proceeds to lift my right foot onto his lap.
The first tug at my boot sends a jolt of sharp pain to my ankle, causing me to gasp and curse. He stops, looking up at me.
“I need to get this boot off,” he says. “I need to look to see if you broke anything. It’s going to swell, and if we don’t take it off now, I’ll have to cut it off later.”
I nod, gritting my teeth.
He doesn’t do it gently. He pulls hard, making it go quick. The pain is explosive and intense.
“I’m sorry,” Camden says, looking up again, his blue eyes darkened with sympathy.
Laying the boot to the side, he slips his hands up my calves, gripping my sock, peeling it off. Even that small motion is agony.
Finally, with my bare foot in his hands, he runs his fingers along the lines of my ligaments and tendons. When he attempts to roll my foot, it sends a burning zing up to my knee and again I grimace and curse.
“You didn’t break anything,” he says with confidence. “And you didn’t snap any tendons. I think you just jammed it.”
He slips one hand around the back of my heel while wrapping the other tightly around my lower shin above my ankle. He pulls my foot down firmly with a pop, and that feels better instantly. Something slips deep inside my heel bones, causing the pain to diminish.
“What did you do?” I ask, amazed.
Camden smiles, his hands still on my bare foot. He begins rolling it gently around, his strong fingers firmly massaging the joint and its tendons. This time there’s almost no pain, just soreness.
“It’s going to hurt tomorrow,” he says. “But you’ll be good as new in a day or two.”
He continues massaging my foot, prolonging for what seems beyond entirely necessary. While I don’t exactly mind, it does strike me as odd that he’s this interested in my foot’s wellbeing.
“I’ll wrap it and get you an ice pack,” he says, managing to pull himself away from his work.
He crosses the room to a cabinet on the far wall. From inside the cabinet he retrieves a boxed Ace bandage and tape. Camden returns to his place, kneeling in front of me. He rolls up the leg of my jeans, then begins to wrap my ankle and foot tightly in the stretchy fabric.
He appears consumed with the effort, and if I didn’t know better, I’d let myself believe he’s enjoying it. He takes his time, not rushing, lingering over my small injury with a degree of attention that feels down right indulgent.
When he’s done, he doesn’t look up. Instead he keeps his gaze fixed on my foot in his hands.
There’s a tension in the air that feels almost electric. I’m uncertain what it is, but I sense it.
“Grace,” he says my name, as if it nearly hurts him to do so. “I’m probably going to regret this, but I just can’t help myself.”
Do what? I think to myself. What’s he talking about?
Camden sits up on his knees, eyes to eye with me. Then he reaches forward, pulling me toward him.
He kisses me.
It’s gentle at first, but in a second, as our lips meet and the spark lingering in the air between us fires, he presses his mouth onto mine more aggressively. Our teeth clash briefly until we find synchrony, our tongues exploring, tasting. His hand slips around the nape of my neck. He hauls in a hungry breath of me, firming his hands behind my head, cradling my jaw in his embrace.
Jesus Christ, I’m kissing Camden Davis. He tastes like sweet coffee and cinnamon. His scent is mild aftershave, blueberries, and hard cider. I touch outstretched fingertips to his chest, feeling the roll of hard muscle that defines it.
I’m kissing Camden Davis.
I must be out of my mind. He doesn’t even like me. He tolerates me at best and ignores me at worst.
Why is he kissing me?
I press my hand into him, pushing him back. I turn my face from his, breaking the kiss.
He’s hot. He’s delicious. He’s so fucking easy to look at. I would love nothing better than… but he’s Emma’s father.
He’s my boss.
“No,” I say firmly, hardly believing it myself.
His breath on my face is intoxicating. The feel of his so-strong hands wrapped around me is bliss.
“Oh God Grace, you’re killing me,” he huffs in a whisper into my neck, nuzzling my ear, making my belly clench and my nether parts tremble. He pauses, but he doesn’t pull back. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first laid eyes on you. You’re—”
“No!” I insist against my own will. I shove him backwards, hard.
Camden releases me, dropping his hands to his knees, settling down on his heels. He doesn’t look at me. Instead he keeps his eyes down, fixed on the floor between us.
A second or two passes, and then he breathes, letting out a heavy sigh choked with frustration and something more. Regret? Defeat? I can’t fathom it. I can’t fathom my own feeling in the moment. I’m confused. Terrified.
I’m also wet between my legs, aching.
“I’m sorry,” Camden whispers. “I shouldn’t have…”
“Just help me get to the house,” I say, my tone more abrupt than I want it to be.
He nods, standing, still not looking at me. “I will. I need to stall Mirabel. I’ll be right back.”
When he’s gone, I stand up, testing my ankle. It’s still painful, but thanks to Camden’s treatment and the tight wrap, much better. I can put a little weight on it. I grab my sock, stuffing it in my boot, and instead of waiting for him, I hobble out and to the house by myself.
I need to think. I need to process what just happened and what it means.
Am I a fool, falling for the handsome young rancher, just like all the other nannies before me?
Is he for real, or is this his modus operandi? Does he do this with any old sprained ankle in his ring?
What to do? How to know? Who to turn to?
I need wisdom and I need it post haste.
* * *
Kara Hammond and I met my freshman year. She was a Junior, sophisticated and already savvy to the worldly ways of North Carolina State University, where I was a wee minnow in a great big pond schooling with vicious piranhas. Kara and I became fast friends based on our mutual love of Jane Austen, a certain Irish film star with deep blue eyes and a torso to die for, and the poetry of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Despite the fact that she graduated two years before me, moved to New York to pursue her dream of becoming an author, we’ve remained the closest of friends.
We chat on Facebook regularly. We email and text. She’s up to speed on my new job in Montana and the uber-hot Rancher boss with his pedigree stallions. Right now, she’s about to get an earful.
I call her.
“Hey cowgirl, wassup? You caught me on break. Perfect timing.”
I pour out my heart without pausing for breath. I tell her everything. I tell her what Emma said, what Amanda said. I tell her about my sprained ankle and Camden’s attention, the kiss we shared.
Kara slows me down, forcing me to repeat myself. When I finally have the whole episode laid out, her first question reveals her wisdom and utter practicality on all matters of the heart.
“How much cash do you have in the bank?”
In the moment, this question hardly seems relevant.
“I dunno, a little more than six thousand.”
I hear her huff, pleased with my answer.
“Okay then. So, is Mr. Camden Davis, rancher extraordinaire, as hot as he looks in the pics on your blog. ‘Cause girlfriend, if he is, he’s radioactive.”
“He’s radioactive,” I admit. “He’s hot lead.”
“Yeah,” she croons. “Sistah’s gonna give you some advice. First is this; he’s probably full of shit, just trying to get laid. That’s the ninety-nine percent MO. But sometimes that ain’t all bad. Particularly if a girl—speaking hypothetically—needs to branch out, broaden her horizons, get adventurous.”
Kara never was a big fan of Mark, or the fact that he’d been my boyfriend since tenth grade and I’d never slept with anyone but him. She said I needed to explore, to find out what was out there, sample the buffet, as it were.
“Really?” I ask.
“Well, if he’s a dick, you’ll know it in about two and a half minutes. On the other hand, if he’s alright, he’ll give you a reason to hang around. Either way, you’re cool. You can walk away if you need to. I have a lovely couch here in Brooklyn you’re welcome to. That’s if he’s a dick. If he’s Mr. Darcy, you should give him a chance to show. Just sayin’.”
“You really think so?” I ask. What did I expect from her?
“If he tastes like cinnamon and cider, he’s probably a keeper. The blueberries cause me pause, but only because I don’t trust fruit out of season. Grace, you need to have a real conversation with this man. Ya’ll have been dancing around the edges. It’s time to step up and be real.”
I knew Kara would have wisdom on this. She’s never let me down before.
Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 8
Camden
I’ve screwed up bad. So bad. I’ll throw myself at her feet and beg for forgiveness. I’m such an ass. I’m her boss. She’s so young. She’s so beautiful. And smart. And I’ve blown everything up.
The bite on Mirabel’s back is superficial. Gunner—who’s a champion in every sense of the term—just wanted to cover her. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. You can’t blame him for wanting to hook-up with the prettiest, smartest mare in the stable.
After stalling Mirabel and feeding her, I return to the dressing room, but Grace isn’t there. I follow her tracks through the snow back to the house. Creeping upstairs, I hear her talking on the phone. About me.
So, she does have friends, people she talks to? I thought she was essentially a loner.
I have no idea who she’s speaking with, but standing in the hallway, paces from her door, I know she’s talking about what just passed between us. I discern that her friend isn’t entirely sour on the idea.
“He’s not a dick,” Grace says. “He’s quiet. He keeps to himself. But he’s sweet with Emma and he adores his mom. He’s a family man…. No. He’s nothing like Mark. He’s not judgey or superficial. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say a bad thing about anyone…”
Who is Mark?
“Oh lord, Kara. What if he fires me? What if he… I know. I know. But it matters to me… I don’t want to come to Brooklyn. I’d rather go to Silicon Valley than New York. I love you, but at least California has mountains. If I have to bolt, I’ll go to Portland. Tracey’s there. I have an open invitation.”
She laughs. “No, I haven’t heard from him. He’s pissed. He’ll get over it. I’m not fretting over him… So, you think I should just tell him?... Okay…”
She has a boyfriend. Named Mark. In California. How did that never come up?
She has friends in New York. She’s got friends in Portland.
She’s got options and she’s considering them.
I’ve screwed up so bad.
Emma will be devastated if she leaves. Emma adores her. Everyone adores her. Hell, I adore her.
“No Kara. This is definitely not going on the Nanny Diaries blog,” Grace says. “As much as it would build followers, I think it’s a little TMI. Not the kind of followers I want…. Yeah... Screwing the baby’s daddy would be my top post of all time. Great way to build a reputation… Good Lord…. Yeah… Okay… I’ll keep you posted…”
She has a blog? Really?
I need to move on, or she’s going to discover me eavesdropping, and that’ll only make this bad situation even worse.
Screwing the baby’s daddy? Would she really write something like that? I need to find this blog.
* * *
I may only be a cowboy, but I know how to use a search engine.
She began this web site before she ever left North Carolina. It’s loaded with photos of the bookshop she worked at. There’s a photo of Grace at the counter, a beaming smile animating her beautiful face, surrounded by her co-workers—all men—their arms draped over her shoulders. The caption beneath the photo reads, ‘Last Day. Eight years with this crew. I’ll miss them. Leaving here is like losing a limb.’
In the post she says,
“Eight years ago I was a broke, homeless, high school senior with no clue and no prospects. My refuge was the public library and the Reader’s Circle bookshop. Irv, the shop owner, took me under his wing and took me in. He gave me a job, a place to live, and he gave me the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real family. Leaving this job is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I hope I’m doing the right thing…”
There are posts from the road, documenting her trip across country. They’re filled with humor and trepidation. The photos accompanying her posts are beautiful, often in stark black and white, with stunning composition.
Later posts include photographs of the ranch, the mountains, and my horses. There are photographs of Emma—unrecognizable, as they’re shot from a distance or from the back—as well as of me, Tyler, and other ranch hands. Her eye is remarkable. The images are as good as any a professional photographer ever produced. They’re like something out of a fancy magazine. I realize I’ve never even seen her with a camera. She’s a skilled photographer, as well as gifted at keeping secrets.
“Growing up, my idea of Thanksgiving was that it was a good day to stay home and read, since everything was closed and there was nothing on T.V. We never had a big turkey dinner. We never had family or friends over. If mom was seeing someone, or married again, sometimes they went out for Chinese food. I stayed in, or I went to Mark’s house to play video games.
Today, I shared the best meal I believe I’ve ever eaten, with twenty-some people, all related to one another by blood or marriage (or maybe both, from a couple different directions.) They do this every year. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, more cousins than I can count. They’ve all known one another their entire lives. They laugh at one another and hug like they mean it. It’s not just a performance. It’s real.
And it’s strange.
There’s something beautiful about realizing there is such a thing as ‘family,’ with all the positive implications implicit in the word. And yet, there’s something tragic in admitting that I’ve never experienced the concept myself.
Today I was like the kid standing outside the toy store window, looking in at all the children happily playing with their parents and siblings. I can look, but I’ll never be able to take a toy home and play…”
Jesus. Is that what Thanksgiving was like for her? That strange?
The next post is accompanied by a photograph of me in the ring, leading Mirabel. I’m not sure how she managed to capture this one without me knowing, but she snapped a shot that I want a copy of to frame and hang on the wall. Mirabel’s lines are perfect, and my candid pose is a cowboy classic slouch with my thumb hooked around a belt look and one boot clad foot pointed out.
The post reads,
“Horse people speak a language all their own. It’s a dialect I do not grok. The animals themselves are magnificent, but their keepers are demented. Today I tried—and failed again—to make a perfectly well-trained, sweetheart of a mare, walk in a straight line. If I say go forward, she backs up. If I want to go left she goes right. And all the while ‘Bossman’ is barking orders at me, using a vocabulary that may as well
be from Middle Earth for all the sense it makes.
I would do just about anything in the world to please ‘Bossman,’ but I’m doomed to failure. When he speaks to me at all, he’s incomprehensible. Maybe we should try sign language?
Or perhaps I should just give up trying to please him and tell him that I’m never going to be anywhere near as a good a rider as his four-year-old daughter. Let’s just face it. I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time. I’m hopeless…”
She’s not that bad. She’s only been at it a few weeks. No one knows what they’re doing when they first start. Bossman? She calls me Bossman? Tyler was right. I’m hard to work for.
