“Ah! Who’s your old man?”
“You probably don’t know him—Gus Mason?”
His face molds into an expression I’ve seen too many times: a funeral face. I’m confused when he offers up a bleak, “Give him my best.”
Uncomfortably done with me, the man shifts his attention to a customer asking about Old Faithful up in Yellowstone an hour or so from here. She’s wondering about the chances of it going haywire and killing everyone in the vicinity. Can’t even count on Old Faithful anymore, I guess. You better go home then.
In the bathroom stall, I rip off my wet black T-shirt and shove it into the sticky metal feminine products dispenser. I want to rip off my white city jeans—my bra and panties, too, for that matter—but I don’t have replacements for those yet. I remember the man’s strange expression when I mentioned my dad. What’s his deal? Old enemies? Or is Dad not doing well? Mom would’ve told me, right?
When I wash my hands, my face in the mirror isn’t me anymore than this Cowgirl shirt is me. My once-bright eyes are one-percent milk, and once-silky hair is old straw. I squeeze my cheeks to bring up blood and bite my lips to paint them red.
A half hour later, I’m still waiting at the curb, my arms getting burned in the high altitude sunshine. I don’t miss the fog, but the dry heat will take some getting used to. Sweating, I’m about to give up and call the ranch for a ride when I spot a Jeep with Eight Hands Ranch written on the side in bold Western-style black letters sitting in the middle of the small parking lot.
Dad’s is called Six Hands Ranch. I wondered if somebody copied it? Might as well go check it out; I have nothing else to do. My nerves shake like a bottle of soda in the hands of a toddler as I get closer. Six has clearly been painted over and replaced by Eight. A bolt of anxiety shoots through my veins, an instinctive cue of something minor meaning something much bigger—the same feeling I got when the gift shop clerk shot me that funeral stare. Something’s up.
It’s so still and quiet that I don’t think anyone is in the driver’s seat until I’m almost at the Jeep. The driver’s seat is leaned way back, and I’m startled to find a lanky cowboy snoozing away in a pair of country-boy jeans—dirt-stained and well-worn. Above an unbuttoned collar of an equally dirty plaid shirt, a brown riding hat tips over the guy’s eyes, exposing the smooth, square jaw of a young cowboy maybe a little older than me. Again I check out the door. EIGHT HANDS RANCH and sure enough it’s our family’s icon—a silhouette of a mustang rearing up in front of the Grand Tetons.
“Excuse me?” I ask, carefully. My request cracks through my desert of a throat, reminding me I haven’t spoken louder than a mumble since I got on the plane.
Instead of jumping up startled, like I would, the cowboy’s hand moves slowly toward his hat, which he proceeds to slowly tip up off his chin to his forehead to reveal, like I guessed, maybe a nineteen or twenty-year-old cowboy. His face isn’t perfect, but his curious eyes as blue as the wide Wyoming sky and expressive eyebrows immediately draw me in, even in my bitter-numb state. No small task. I blink.
“Well, there you are,” he says, in a typical cowboy accent—which sounds more like “there ya’ are”—staring at me like I finally turned up in the lost and found bin.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a flesh and blood cowboy and the innate mix of casual confidence that seems to come with the title.
“Here I am,” I say in a flat voice. I avoid inviting male attention like the plague. “I take it you’re my ride?”
Rubbing at his eye with a dirt-stained knuckle, he blinks away his nap. “Sorry about the sleeping, Miss Paige. Long night, even longer day,” he says with a little chuckle as if recalling something. He sticks out his hand like I should recognize him. “It’s Jake.”
Jake.
Doesn’t ring a bell, but he looks at me expectantly, like he hears the chimes.
I don’t. Doesn’t seem to matter, because this Jake is now wide awake and all smiles, even though I don’t accept his hand. He’s cheerful. Healthy. Sane. I can tell these three things from a one-minute greeting. What could he tell about me? Hopefully nothing more than I want to reveal. I glance down at my cheesy new tank top, my too-loose pressed two-hundred-dollar jeans, and remember my hollow eyes. What story do I tell? His interested gaze doesn’t indicate anything more than Gus’s daughter coming home for the summer. If Mom told my dad anything, he either hasn’t shared it with this guy or he’s a very good actor. I feel a little bit of relief.
“How was your flight?” he asks, dropping his hand without question. I’m grateful for that.
“Fine,” I say. I rub my sunburned arms that hang out the sides of my tank top like wet noodles. Why did I buy this revealing tank top? I should’ve gone for the extra-large cartoon moose shirt. I frown and look down. I hate being so skinny. I used to love food. I once had a ravenous appetite.
Don’t look at me, Cowboy Jake.
“Little bumpy coming in?” His friendliness doesn’t ease up. Maybe that’s part of the job. Being friendly even to rude tourists.
“A little bit.”
“Summer storm clouds. Happens every afternoon, as predictable as Old Faithful.” He nods with squinty eyes, trying to entertain me.
I smile. I can’t help it. “That’s funny.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Some lady in the gift shop was asking about Old Faithful and said she heard it might go off one day and kill everyone.”
Leaning back, he laughs heartily. “Tourists. They even worry on sunny days. These days it’s the bison. They seem to be goring tourists more than usual. A foreign kid the other day. Exhange student got too close. They don’t understand these are wild animals, and they need to leave them be. Anyhow, glad to see this one is more creative.” He’s still smiling, shaking his head like those gorging stories are comedy gold. “Old Faithful blowing her top. That’ll be the day.”
I smile, too. The more normal I appear the greater chance I’ll be left alone. Plus, being cold to this warm boy is proving difficult. It’s like ignoring a puppy. “So you work for my dad?”
“Happy to report I do. Was me driving his Jeep the giveaway?” He smiles again, teasing.
I shrug, embarrassed, my ears getting hot. You’re adorable, but I can’t do adorable cowboy this summer, so let’s not banter, Cowboy.
I need to get on the road, unpack, and shower—and then get on with the hiding away part of the summer.
As if he can read my mind—or is astute enough to read my expression—he nods once. “Well, let’s get you on your way, before Gus sends the calvary after me.”
Confident, too. And his easy kindness feels like a gift.
Two long legs swing out of the Jeep, and suddenly my suitcase is behind me, the tailgate slams shut, and I’m tucked into the passenger seat next to Jake.
I’d forgotten how a cowboy’s energy level flips on a dime. One minute sound asleep, the next a whirl of palpable capability. He reminds me of my dad. My mom, the original energy bunny, seems a sloth by comparison. As if he can read my mind again, he says, “By the way, your mama’s called the ranch five times since noon. Suspect you might want to call her upon arrival.” His ridiculously blue eyes hang onto mine a moment too long, but then they crinkle around the edges like an inside joke.
“Yeah, she’s like that.”
He surveys me, narrowing his eyes again, as though he’s trying to figure it all out. “Surprised she’s willing to part with you for a whole summer,” he says, again in a meaningful way, almost like a question, as he revs up the engine.
“You know. I’m an annoying teenager. What mother doesn’t want to get rid of her annoying teenager?”
He shrugs and turns down his bottom lip in this funny-cute way.
“You don’t seem annoying to me,” Jake says, and I flush again.
I’m not used to boys this nice. Or boys that act like confident men instead of needy a-holes.
“A little ticked off maybe, but
not annoying,” he finishes.
Ticked off? Who says that? My guts constrict again. I don’t want to talk about my mother or home. My answer is a noncommittal shrug, which he seems to accept. I was ticked off. I appreciated his transparency.
I remember this refreshing way of cowboy communicating. A comment out there on the breeze—up for the grabbing if you want a bite or not. If not, no one will press you. Maybe this will work out after all. Maybe Wyoming is the perfect place to dodge everything and hole up until I can escape to Wesleyan in August.
“You thirsty?” Before I can answer, Jake reaches a long arm over the seat and digs a Dr. Pepper out of a red-topped cooler. He pops open the top and hands the cold can to me. I haven’t had a soda in years, but I appreciate his chivalry. When was the last time a boy opened a drink for me? It seemed like second nature to him, so it wasn’t like he thought I couldn’t open it myself. He was just being nice. Once again, he reminds me of Dad, and suddenly I’m excited to see my father again. To be back on the ranch. To breathe the clean air that smells like pine and horses and childhood.
Two minutes in his company, and already, Jake is bringing me back to life.
I take a sip, careful to keep it even as Jake revs up the engine and backs out of the parking spot. “Careful there,” he says. “Road gets bumpy.”
The bubbles spring into my mouth, tumbling down my throat like fire water as we move out of the parking lot and onto the lone highway that snakes away from the town of Jackson up toward Yellowstone.
“So, who are the new hands?” I ask my escort after a few quiet minutes, the sugar and caffeine making me brave.
“Pardon?”
Pardon. I hide my amused smile. It may only be a few states away from California, but Wyoming has always felt like a different planet.
“Eight Hands Ranch? On the side of the Jeep? It’s been Six Hands as long as I can remember.”
He shoots me a sideways glance, wrinkling his nicely shaped, sunburned nose a bit when he does. “How long has it been since you’ve talked to him, Miss Paige?”
“It’s been a while.”
“And I know you haven’t been here.”
“That’s true,” I admit, guiltily. I was fourteen the last time I came. I think. Too old for the little-girl-getting-dirty-is-fun ranch hand stuff. I preferred California, or my mom taking me to Europe and Australia and Hawaii in the summers. Even though I hated leaving Dad at first, after a while I got used to it. He and the ranch became the unknown, the strange, the oddity.
“Mm.” Jake’s jaw tightens.
“What does that mean?”
He glances at me pointedly. “Lot changes in a half dozen years, that’s all.”
He says it like it’s the end of a short story, not the beginning of a new one.
I frown. I don’t like his tone or his comment. I don’t want any changes. I’ve come here to hide from life. Period. Even though he’s sweet and making me feel more comfortable than I have in a long time, I don’t need any wise-for-his-age cowboy prophesizing about change like he’s some sage. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe he won’t mind his business. I examine his profile—His nose is a little crooked, like he’s broken it once or twice. How old is he anyway?
It’s hard to tell with cowboys. Boys become men here much earlier than they do in the city. One look at those weathered hands, at the way he carries himself—so mature and poised—tells me he’s been working for money since the age of twelve, maybe longer.
I can tell he’s sizing me up as well by the way he keeps glancing at me with his peripheral vision. He thumbs the steering wheel, intermittently, like he’s hearing a drum beat in his head. I want to ask how he knows me, but I don’t want to be rude, or frankly give him any more of my thoughts than I already have. I don’t want to wonder about this strangely remarkable cowboy.
My hair whips all around my face in the hot wind, so I tie it back with the rubber band around my wrist. I hope my body language gives him the hint that I don’t want his attention. I don’t want his questions. I don’t even want this Dr. Pepper. It’s making me feel sick and hyper and frankly, now I have to pee. I hold it in, because asking him to stop would be far too embarrassing and intimate so I watch the miles of pine trees lining the silver creek rush by. One minute passes. Then five. He flips on some music—country, naturally—as we rumble along.
The drive up to Dad’s place is about an hour once we hit this dirt road.
The effects of the soda plus the vast sky and endless bright sun wilderness leave me feeling antsy and sticking to the seat, so I fiddle with my sunglasses, my SPF 30 lip-gloss—The high altitude sunburns, Paige, Mom’s warning—and tiny pieces of paper in my purse.
Finally I can’t hold it anymore.
“Can you pull over?”
“Sure thing.” He doesn’t ask why—he likely knows why. He hands me a package of Kleenex from his glovebox, and I can’t help but laugh a little.
Without looking at him, I dash into the scrabble-brush, and after scanning the dirt for snakes or large bugs, I find a decent tree to squat behind. I wipe and then bury the spoiled tissue under a rock.
Jake doesn’t say anything when I return.
He just starts the engine and we’re off.
Maybe it’s the relief, maybe it’s the soda, but I suddenly want to talk. “A ranch that’s been called one name forever suddenly being called something else? I think it’s weird that’s all,” I say, with a shrug as if our conversation about this hadn’t ended many miles back.
He keeps his gaze on the road but adjusts his hat over his eyes, bending the intense sun off the rim. He looks slightly uncomfortable with my question. I sit quietly and wait, knowing he will consider it ruder to ignore me than to answer—even if that answer is something that’s not his place to discuss.
“Gus added a couple hands. Sure he’ll explain. Changing a ranch’s name outright,” he glances over at me, before tightening his grip on the steering wheel, “is a different thing all together.”
Thing sounds like thang out of Cowboy Jake’s lips.
I accidentally forget to stop watching him after he’s finished his statement. The tanned square of his jaw moves when he swallows. He has a nice profile—strong—his right arm wrangling the steering wheel as the left one rests on the unrolled window, exposing his veiny forearm to even more sun below his rolled up red plaid sleeve.
Stop it, Paige.
I snap back around and face forward. I think about pulling out my phone, but my battery is drained, and I’d have no reception out here anyway. It’s so quiet. I’m used to fiddling with electronics, and suddenly there’s nothing to do with my hands: no Twitter or Instagram to update. No Facebook to check. No incoming ping of texts and emojis from my friends.
It’s just this cute cowboy and me.
I tap my feet on the floor of the cab and watch the dust spiral up from the road and into the topless Jeep. All the while, we ramble toward where my father—the man who used to mean everything to me—is waiting.
That’s the main reason I agreed to come to my father’s ranch instead of a health spa for emotionally wayward teens or wherever else Mom and Phil were planning on sending me. I was being sent away for sure, but because he was sick…and because he wouldn’t pry, the ranch was the best option. After the dozens of appointments with psychiatrists and psychologists and peer counselors and even a visit to some random priest (we haven’t gone to church since I was a little girl living in Jackson), I’m done talking it through.
I never told them the whole truth anyway. I skirted over the stuff I wasn’t comfortable with. I strained to be vague. Maybe it’s because I grew up here in a place where people respected privacy, encouraged burying secrets under dusty rugs. Or maybe I’m just afraid to face the truth, to accept my role in all of the chaos and pain back home. Afraid the dark secrets will consume me—swallow me whole. Or he’ll follow me here, somehow. In my nightmares. In the darkness.
Even in the middle of nowhere, my stepbrother sti
ll could find me.
I push back that eerie thought and hug my arms tighter across my chest.
I focus on the feel of hot wind in my hair and on my skin. Welcome the sun.
I listen to Jake ramble on and on about specific tundra we’re driving through. He gets more detailed about the bison problem as well as the dying wolf population. I nod, listening. It’s all interesting and his voice is oddly soothing, the slow cadence and earnestness—clearly he loves this place—like my dad’s was.
“You don’t have any trains here, do you?”
“Working railways? Nah. The only train we have goes through Cody. Unless you’re talking about a wagon train, and that we have. But usually it’s just for tourists trying to reenact the Wild West.”
“Good.”
“Got something against trains, Cowgirl?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care for them much myself. Prefer my old Jeep.”
“Why?”
He shrugs good-naturedly. “Perfer to be in the captain’s seat.”
I chuckle. “Control freak?”
“Just prefer it is all.”
“Well, you’re a good driver,” I say.
“Oh I am, huh?” Grinning, he cranks the wheel to the left, and we swerve. I roll into his shoulder. He laughs as I squeal and then steady myself with a tight grip to the rollbar.
“I take it back!” I yell, and he laughs again, hitting a ditch that sends my head back against the musky cloth seat that smells like a dusty rider crossing a mustard flower meadow. I used to pluck those flowers out of the summer dirt and suck their lemon-flavored juice until my friend told me they were sweet and sour from all the animal pee. I never touched them again.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Cowgirl,” Jake says, mischieviously. “Never can predict the bumps.”
“Very funny. Point made. You’re a terrible driver,” I say, and he chuckles. Then I ask: “Cowgirl, huh? World’s worst cowgirl, maybe. I don’t even remember how to get on a horse.”
“Oh, we’ll remedy that right quick.”
Paint My Body Red Page 2
