* * *
My father is fifty-four, his hair more the color of ash now than the chestnut brown it used to be. There’s less of it now. His hairline has receded so far that only a round patch remains above his forehead.
His thin beard hangs from his chin, forming a silver and brown curtain over his neck and stops above the base of his throat. His black eyes look paler, grayer now, lines beneath them stemming from the corners.
When did he get so old?
Indeed, staring at him beside me at the small, round table for four, it’s like he’s aged overnight. I knew he looked different when I arrived home yesterday and now, I realize what that difference is.
He looks older, more tired.
I wrap my fingers around the handle of the pitcher. “More water?”
“Sure.” Dad pushes his empty glass toward me and I stand up and pour. “It’s a hot day.”
“You don’t say. I took another shower.” That’s why I feel better.
My hair is still moist, cascading down my back, my shirt, now a white one with two buttons above my cleavage is fresh and smelling of soap instead of sweat.
“Maybe I’ll take another one later after my nap,” my father says and grabs the front of his own white shirt which is permanently stained with mud. He tugs it back and forth, fans his chest.
“You should.”
The chair creaks under my weight as I sit down, and Smoke rests his head on my lap as soon as I do. I pat him on the sweet spot, right in the center of his forehead. He shuts his eyes and lets out a doggy sigh.
“How has Smoke been?” I stroke his soft fur.
“Good.” Dad takes a sip of cold water. “His appetite is bigger than ever.”
I grin. “Does he still hate the sound of wood being chopped?”
“You bet. He whines like an old lady.”
I chuckle. “Some things never change.”
The room here hasn’t changed either. The same black lamp hangs from the wooden ceiling above the center of the table, swaying slightly whenever a strong breeze makes it past the pale green curtains.
The same wood-carved figures that my father and I whittled when I was a child are lined up in a row on the table by the window. The same white porcelain plates and frosted glasses, given to my parents on their wedding day, stare out from the wooden dish cabinet behind me.
A few feet away, a blackened kettle sits on the silver stove beside the refrigerator that’s more than a decade old, the cupboard above it still with its broken lock.
Rusty pots and pans hang above the long, rectangular table across from it – my mother’s favorite table where she used to spend most of the day chopping and mincing vegetables or mixing and kneading dough.
I smile, imagining her there in her pink and yellow apron that still hangs on the wall, an untouched relic.
Yes, most things haven’t changed inside this house. But some have changed outside.
“You hired someone.”
“You met Chase?” Dad reaches for the small bottle of toothpicks in the middle of the table.
“Yes,” I answer, placing my hands on the table. “I saw him while I was picking vegetables.”
Naked and bathing in the creek before I went to Perv town, then attacked him with a spray bottle and a trowel to make up for it. Dad would have an aneurysm if he’s darling daughter told him any of that, though.
I’m his little girl. It doesn’t matter I’m twenty, only that I stay sweet and innocent until I meet the man I want to marry one day. Hell, even then dad will probably take issue with letting go.
He sticks the toothpick between his teeth like a cigarette and reserves comment. Dad’s not much of a talker.
“Why, dad?”
“Why did I hire someone? Because I’m not as young as I used to be and my foot hurts sometimes.”
I’m well aware of that. “What happened to John and Huey?”
“John got married. I fired Huey after he got one of my sheep killed.”
I tap my fingers on the checkered tablecloth. “Where did you find him?”
He pulls the toothpick out from between his lips and starts picking his teeth. “He came here, said he needed a job.”
I raise an eyebrow. “He appeared out of nowhere?”
He tosses the used toothpick on his plate. “No, darling, people don’t form out of the soil. He walked down the front road and knocked right on the screen door. He said he’s lost his wife.”
Chase was married?
That doesn’t explain his injuries, though – that patchwork of bruises, some green-tinged or yellowing.
I stand up and pick up my father’s empty dish, then put it on top of mine. “He doesn’t seem like he’s in mourning.”
“Why? What did he say to you?” Dad asks, and his tone whips through the kitchen.
“Nothing,” I answer, bring the dishes and utensils to the sink.
“He said he felt like he lost everything after losing his wife and needed a fresh start. So I gave him one. Nothing wrong with that. We all need some help at one point or another. Plus, he’s cheap.”
“Cheap?”
“I only pay him the minimum hourly wage for seventy hours a week and he doesn’t mind cash. He insisted on it, in fact.”
“Well, I don’t trust him.”
“Why not? Did he do something to you?” The protective tone of my father’s voice is too familiar.
The memory of Chase holding me against him, how his wet body felt against my sweaty one rushes back.
I blush, bow my head and focus on the dishes in the sink. As much as I don’t trust Chase, I don’t want him to lose his job, especially if what my father said about his past is true.
“Nothing,” I answer, picking up a fork to wash. “I …Well, I don’t know him.”
“I’ve told him to stay away from you, so you won’t be seeing much of him.”
Really? I’ve already seen plenty. And I’m not shocked by dad’s reaction.
Out of nowhere, the image of his cock comes back to haunt me and the fork I’m washing slips from my fingers and clatters on the sink.
“Shit.”
“You all right?” Dad asks.
“Yes,” I pick up the fork and wash it again. “I’m surprised, that’s all. You didn’t tell me about him.”
“I forgot. Like I said, I’m getting old. Anyway, don’t worry about Chase. He’s a good man to have around.”
He sure showed up in the barn quick, and boy, did he know how to fight. How to handle a woman. Ugh, stop.
“And if he causes the least bit of trouble, I’ll get rid of him without thinking twice.”
“I know you will, dad.”
Count on Dad to get rid of anything that’s a threat to me, be it a buzzing mosquito or a sexy farmhand.
Sexy.
The sexiest man I’ve ever met, not that I’ve met many men. In fact, he’s probably the most exciting thing to happen on this farm.