Jack has shown his face once all morning, and it was so he could come down to make another pot of coffee. When I heard him walking down the stairs, I made sure to look extra busy. I was already vacuuming, but I vacuumed harder, heaving the thing back and forth as fast as I could. I looked like I was racing against an imaginary clock. He completely ignored me.

When he walked back by with his new cup of coffee, I’d moved on to the hallway. He had to walk right by me to get to the stairs and I held my breath, quietly praying he would trip on the vacuum cord. His spilled coffee would be my mess to clean, but I’d do it with a half-hidden grin.

Sadly, he stepped purposefully over the cord without acknowledging me then trotted right back up the stairs.

His quiet indifference is a silent weapon I can’t fend off. I’m jumpy and on edge, listening for every little sound and jerking my attention to the stairs each time I think I hear him walking down them.

He hasn’t made another appearance, but that hasn’t stopped him from hanging around in my thoughts. I can’t get the image of him from this morning out of my head. When I walked into his office, he was sitting behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, gaze straight on me. His hatred plumed off him like smoke. He had a sharp stare and cool confidence, and I took one good look at him then nearly spilled his coffee all over the floor.

It’s bad enough that I don’t like his personality, but his appearance isn’t exactly helping matters. I really want to find him unattractive, but I don’t. He might be rougher around the edges than the men back in California, but with his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze, it’s impossible to call him anything less than handsome. I try to tell myself his hair needs a trim and he’s too sun-kissed. He could use a shave—his face would feel all scratchy. Wait, what? Pull it together Meredith. There will be no feeling his face.

I’m not a fool. If his personality weren’t so unyielding, I have no doubt there’d be a different woman warming his sheets every night. Even so, I bet he isn’t lacking for female attention. I shiver at the thought of having to wash sweaty sheets or empty condoms from his trashcan.

Ugh! Okay, enough, brain. You’ve had your fun.

I snip that line of thinking and decide it’s time for me to get out of this house. I think Jack’s proximity is tainting my thoughts. Some fresh air will do me some good.

It’s time for a grocery store run.

I jot down a list of everything I want to make for meals then survey the pantry and fridge. Edith and Jack have enough barbecue sauce and baked beans to last them well into an apocalypse. Veggies and fruits are nowhere to be found, unless you count the dusty jars of pickled okra labeled Edith - July 2002. Yum. That will change once I make it back with the groceries. I grab the envelope with the grocery money from the counter then find Edith out on the porch throwing the ball for Alfred. Fortunately, the activity seems to be holding his attention so well that he doesn’t care to acknowledge me. Still, I aim to make my time near him as brief as possible.

“Hey Edith, is there a car I can borrow to drive to the grocery store?”

She turns and holds up her hand to shield the sun from her eyes. “Yeah, go ask one of the hands, they’ll set you up with a truck.”

I turn toward the barn and spot a half-dozen ranch hands at work. There are varying shades of cowboy hats and an ample amount of denim. I can smell the testosterone from way over here.

“Umm…is there one in particular I should aim for?” Perhaps the weakest one in the herd?

“Don’t think it’ll matter really. I’m sure they’ll all be dying to help you as soon as you make your way over there.”

She’s right, of course. After I skirt around the house as stealthily as possible to avoid Alfred’s interest, I don’t even make it halfway to the barn before the first cowboy catches up with me. He falls in line right beside me and holds out his hand. “Hey there, name’s Chris.”

He doesn’t look a day over eighteen, especially with the sunshine glinting off his blond hair. With a goofy lopsided grin and sunburned cheeks, he seems relatively harmless.

“Nice to meet you, Chris. I’m Meredith.”

“I saw you at the meeting the other day. I’ve gotta say, I’m surprised to see you around after that. You workin’ up in the house now?”

“Started on Monday.”

We continue heading toward the row of vehicles beside the barn.

“What do you think so far?”

I squint one eye to study him. I don’t know how loyal Chris is to Jack, but something about his gentle manner makes me want to give him an honest answer.

“Let’s just say I’ve had an interesting start.”

“That bad, huh?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “He gets better, I promise. When I first started working here, I couldn’t even look him in the eye.”

“Really?”

“He sure can be a mean son of a gun.”

I’m still deciding if I actually heard him correctly—what exactly is a son of a gun?—when another ranch hand joins us.

“Chris! Why are you bothering this nice lady?”

“David, Meredith,” Chris says. “Meredith, David.”

We shake hands and David flanks me on the other side as we keep walking. Suddenly I’m surrounded by boots and twangs on all sides. David looks a little older than Chris, tall and lanky with a beard so long and thick my chin gets itchy just looking at it. I notice then that they’re both wearing matching work shirts with BLUE STONE RANCH monogrammed just beneath the left lapel. I wonder if Jack would have offered me the same uniform if I hadn’t already stolen his t-shirts.

“Meredith was just saying how Jack’s been a real asshole to her,” Chris informs David matter-of-factly.

Jesus! Keep your voice down. The guy probably has the place mic’d up or something. Just to be sure, I loudly and clearly enunciate, “I have not!”

David bumps his shoulder with mine. “It’s okay. You’ll get used to it—everyone does. He’s a good boss, just can be a real mean sonuvab—”

“Gun?” I finish for him.

He winks. “Sure.”

“Where you stayin’?” David asks. “Downtown? Not much to rent around here unless you can afford the motel down off 173.”

“No, I’m staying on the ranch.”

They exchange a confused glance, and then Chris asks, “Here? You mean he has you up in the house with him and Edith?”

“No no no. He’s letting me stay there.” I turn and point toward my shack-sweet-shack nestled in the tree line behind the farmhouse. The distance has not softened its appearance. The last of the ancient window shutters—barely hanging on by one rusty hinge—finally breaks and falls to the ground as if on cue.

“Lettin’ you?” echoes David, laughing as he keels over. “You’re kidding! Where ya really staying?”

It takes a bit more convincing on my part before they actually believe me. Apparently even they wouldn’t deign to sleep there, and it makes me hate Jack even more than before. He made it sound like I should have been grateful for the provided accommodations.

“That ain’t right,” David says, shaking his head. “Does it even have a kitchen?”

“It’s really not so bad. I’ve been making do.”

Yesterday, for dinner, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while hovering over the sink. I would have sat on the bed, but the mice and spiders were embroiled in a vicious turf war.

“Last time I went in there, I saw holes in the floorboards.”

I nod. “Yeah, those are still there.”

One of them is so big my foot nearly fell through.

“Miss Meredith,” Chris says solemnly, taking his hat off and holding it over his heart. A look of deep concern is etched across his baby face. “As good Christian men, we can’t let you keep livin’ like that.”

My brows arch. “Do either of you have a better solution?”

He thinks hard about it. “Well, David here’s getting married soon, so he can’t have you movin’ in with him, and well, I still live with my parents or I’d invite you to stay with us. My mom got pretty mad the last time I brought a stray woman home.”

He says it like I’m a flea-infested mutt he found on the side of the road. Please Mom, can we keep her? She’s housetrained and everything! I don’t take any offense. Other than Edith, Chris and David are the two nicest people I’ve met so far in Texas.

“Well guys, I appreciate your concern, but I won’t be staying in that shack long. I’m saving up so I can move somewhere else.” We finally make it to the row of mud-splattered farm vehicles ranging from ATVs to trucks. “Now, can either of you get me the keys for one of these? I need to run down to the grocery store.”

David tips his cowboy hat. “You stay right here.”

While he’s gone, Chris gives me detailed directions for how to get to the grocery store. “Take the third left after the Lutheran church, and then the next right after First Baptist, and, now, if you see St. Mary’s, you’ve gone too far.” By the time I hop up behind the wheel of an old Ford truck, I think I’ll just let Jesus take the wheel.

Chris shuts the door for me and puts his hat back on his shaking head. “Godspeed Miss Meredith. We’ll figure something out for ya.”

I turn to the dashboard to see what I’m working with and try not to show my concern. The truck is from an era when designers figured getting impaled by a steel steering column was as good a safety feature as any. The seatbelt, which is draped loosely over my lap, has a few knots tying the pieces together.

“Are there any other trucks available? Maybe an automatic? It’s been a while since I’ve driven a manual.”

David frowns. “That’s all we’ve got. I’d give you a quick refresher, but Chris and I really gotta get back to work.”

Right, of course. I’ll have to make do. I will not march back into the house and announce to Jack that I’ve had yet another failure. He probably keeps a list of them stowed in his top desk drawer. It’s laminated, and he pulls it out from time to time just to make himself smile. Sometime soon, he’ll splurge and have it framed.

To my credit, I manage to peel out onto the main road before I stall for the first time. The truck is old—it belongs beside a horse and buggy—and its lower gears are proving ornery. With every grind of the transmission, it’s like the vehicle is saying, Please just kill me.

I restart the truck and continue down the winding country road, trying to glance down at the directions from Chris while also remaining in my designated lane. I’m chugging along at 15 mph, because third gear seems to be the most cooperative. It’s slow going, but I try to enjoy the ride. I roll the window down, and the summer breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine. Every now and then a car comes up behind me and I wave them past. They offer fun little greetings as they swerve around me: “Lady! The speed limit’s 40!” and “GET OFF THE ROAD!” I smile and wave, because I’m taking a summer cruise, and summer cruises are meant to be slow. Unfortunately, there’s a hill up ahead and I’ll need to speed up or move to a lower gear if I have any hope of actually cresting it.

I take a deep breath, let off the gas, push in the clutch, and try shifting into second gear. Wait, is second gear up or down? Before I know it, the hill has slowed me to a complete stop in the middle of the road. I plop my head down on the steering wheel before I register the feeling of backward motion.

“No, no, no!” I shout, stomping on the brake pedal.

A truck blasts its horn behind me so loudly I jump out of my skin.

“Go around!” I shout out the window and they listen, whipping past me at a million miles per hour.

After that, I’m left alone again, just me and the hill. I restart the truck yet again, make several attempts at forward progress, but the backward rolling freaks me out every time, causing me to stall out. Finally, I reach the bottom of the hill—actual rock bottom.

I’m no longer just grumbling under my breath; I’m shouting curse words at the top of my lungs (for every nearby church to hear) as I stare at the insurmountable hill. I’m smack-dab in the middle of a children’s fable, The Little Meredith That Could, except I’m pretty sure I can’t.

I catch another truck coming up the road in my rearview mirror and prep myself for another blaring horn, but it never comes. The driver pulls up behind me, flips on the hazards, and then opens the door. I’m prepared to see a farmer or another ranch hand, not a handsome golden-haired man dressed in a suit. I think he’s a figment of my overactive imagination, but I’m so desperate, I’ll take any help I can get, even in the form of a hallucination. I blink. He’s still there. His tie is a dark blue, and I focus on it in my rearview mirror as he rounds the back of the truck and comes up to the driver’s side window.

“Are you having car trouble, ma’am?”

He leans on the windowsill. I should warn him that the rust will probably rub off on his suit, but I’m too focused on ma’am. If that’s not the cutest thing in the world, I don’t know what is.

I smile gently. “Not exactly. More like driver trouble. It’s, uhh…well, it’s been a while since I’ve driven stick.”

I nod toward the hill and he finally gets it. “Keep stallin’?”

“Unfortunately.”

Here is where he could either say, Well, good luck, and head back to his truck or offer to help me out of my bind. Instead, he takes a minute to survey me. I imagine what he’s seeing: wild ponytail, oversized t-shirt, ripped jeans. If he sniffs, he’ll catch the scent of my perfume of choice lately: eau de Lemon Pledge.

“You’re not from around here.”

No question, all statement.

I quirk a brow. “How could you tell?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Question is, what are you doing driving one of Blue Stone’s trucks?”

Of course. I’m sure there’s a massive logo somewhere that I overlooked—or maybe this truck is so old, it’s legendary.

“I’m their newest employee.”

I’m all smiles, proud of my new job. Job. Jobjobjob. It stills sounds funny in my head.

His light brown eyes widen. “You’re kidding. Don’t tell me they have you working at the new vineyard.”

“No.” I didn’t even realize there was a vineyard.

“Are you at the restaurant then?”

“The ranch,” I answer simply.

“Ranch hand, huh?” he teases.

“Something like that.”

“Since when?”

“Three days ago.”

He nods. “What do you think of the guy who runs the place?”

“Jack? Is he a friend of yours?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not exactly. He and I went to high school together. Never could quite get along.”

An enemy of my enemy? This just got interesting.

“We’ve had a rocky start,” I admit sheepishly.

A gleam of interest sparks in his light brown gaze. “I can’t imagine why. You seem sweet enough to me.”

I KNOW, RIGHT! Finally someone gets it.

“I don’t think I’m the problem…”

His handsome smile stretches wider. “No, I doubt you are.”

We are definitely flirting and he is definitely good-looking, a welcome sight in the middle of an eligible-men desert. I know it seems crazy, thinking about men like this so soon after leaving my husband, but it’s been so long since I’ve flirted and not just appeased. It feels good, like scratching a leg that’s been buried under a plaster cast for months.

This guy’s clothes are nice. His face is nicer. He’s cleanly shaven. His hair is trimmed short and he has one of those classic, pearly smiles. I bet he gets along with most everyone, unlike a certain dark-haired, darker-eyed devil waiting for me back at the ranch. I know he didn’t give me the keys to this clunker, but he’s still to blame for my current predicament. I don’t have any proof, but I have a gut feeling he’s somehow the reason I got the flu before my seventh grade trip to Disney and couldn’t go.

“I’ll make you a deal: you scoot over on this seat, and I’ll get you over this hill. Where are you headed?”

I start to slide across the bench seat, and he pulls open the door to take my place behind the wheel. “The grocery store.” I hold up my piece of paper. “According to my incredibly detailed directions, I’m nearly there.”

“Yeah.” He nods before he starts the truck and maneuvers it like a pro. “You should be good. The store’s just around the bend up ahead, and don’t worry, there aren’t any more hills after this one. I’d drive you the rest of the way myself, but I have to be in court in fifteen minutes.”

“Court, huh? Are you the law breaker or the law upholder?”

He laughs. “You’ll be happy to know I have a clean record, ma’am. Good thing considering you just let me hop into this truck with you.”

My eyes widen. How stupid could I be?

“Oh god. I did, didn’t I?!” I drop my face in my palm. “You could’ve been a—a highwayman or something!”

“Aren’t too many of those still around this century.” He smiles. “I just wouldn’t recommend doing it again in the future. Cedar Creek is pretty safe, but you never know when a few bad apples might be passing through.”

It’s kind of fun that small towns have a rosy euphemism for everything. In big cities they’re hardened criminals. Here, they’re just spoiled fruit.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” I promise.

“Maybe I could give you my number and you can call me if you ever find yourself in a bind again, roadside or otherwise.”

I swear he’s blushing a little bit.

If I were in the market for love, he’d be the perfect candidate: handsome but sweet, gentle and kind. He’s a golden retriever, anxious to please in hopes of a treat.

I think it’s best that I don’t lead him on though, so I offer the truth: “I don’t keep a cell phone on me.”

“You’re kidding.”

I pat my jean pockets for proof. “Nope. I’m not Amish or anything, it’s just—well, it’s complicated.”

I keep it back at the ranch on my bedside table. I hardly check it, and I would get rid of it completely but I’m scared Helen or my parents will need to reach me. Most of the time I just keep it turned off.

He puts the truck in park. “So I guess that means I’ll have to settle for the ol’ fashioned way: maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

I smile and shrug. “I’m sure I’ll stall out again soon, or maybe I’ll commit a crime and need a lawyer to defend me?”

He brushes his hand across his chin, brows furrowed. “Won’t work. I’m a prosecutor.”

“Wow, so you really are a hero. Slaying dragons and rescuing damsels—all you need is a suit of armor.” He can’t meet my eyes, as if he’s embarrassed by the attention. I smile and reach over to extend my hand. “I’m Meredith, by the way.”

He smiles as his warm palm meets mine. “Tucker.”

After that, we part ways. Tucker dashes off to court, and I’m left chugging along the last mile or two to the grocery store with a dopey smile on my face. I take my time perusing the aisles, pleasantly surprised by the turn my day has taken. Jack might have started it off with a bang, but thanks to Chris, David, and Tucker, I’m starting to think people in Texas are just as friendly as rumor has it. I check off every item on my grocery list and manage to stay under budget. Food is so much cheaper here than in California, and I even find a section of the store full of organic, local produce from a few of the surrounding farms.

By the time I make it back to the ranch—after only stalling once on the way home, thank you very much—I carry all the groceries in and get to work making lunch. It’s already 12:45 PM and Jack and Edith are hungry. Edith won’t leave the kitchen. She’s taken up residence on one of the bar stools and is watching me work.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Garlic-infused olive oil.”

“And that?”

“Panko.”

“Pank-what?”

“PANK-OH. Breadcrumbs to you. I like it on salmon.”

“Jack isn’t a big fan of fish.”

I purse my lips. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah, we’re more a meat-and-potatoes kind of family.”

Just then, Jack’s booming voice carries down from the top floor. “Is Meredith back from the store yet? I just got a call from Marty, said he saw a brunette stalled out on the side of the road in one of our trucks.”

“Yes I’m back!” I shout back, annoyed with this Marty person for being such a narc. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about! I got to the store and back just fine, no thanks to that rust bucket your ranch hands lent me!”

“That truck runs just fine when I drive it!”

“Yeah, the engine’s probably running from you like everyone else around here!”

Edith throws her hands in the air. “That’s enough shouting! Jack either come down here and talk to Meredith like a normal human being or get back to work. Lunch won’t be ready for another thirty minutes!”

“Forty,” I whisper.

“Forty minutes!” she corrects.

Jack’s footsteps clomp back into his office, and Edith and I exchange a conspiratorial smile.

Forty minutes later on the dot, Jack and his grandmother sit down for a lunch of summer kale salad, cauliflower rice, and baked salmon.

I stand at the end of the table, twisting a towel in my hand and waiting for them to take their first bites. They both stare at the food like it’s some kind of alien sustenance.

“There’s not a potato on this plate,” Jack points out.

“I think you’ll like the cauliflower. It’s rich and garlicky.”

“Is this the first course?” he asks, peering up at me from beneath his dark brows.

“Jack, don’t be so rude,” Edith scolds. “Meredith, sit down and eat with us.”

“Oh, I’ve been eating this whole time—y’know, checking the seasoning levels.”

“Eat s’more then,” she demands. “You’re too skinny.”

I laugh. “Where I come from, that’s a compliment.”

Truthfully, I could eat. I’m starving, but I’m aware of the fact that Jack hasn’t asked me to join them. In fact, his body language sends the exact opposite message. If we were in elementary school, he’d drop his backpack on the empty seat beside him and proclaim loudly, Seat’s taken.

I take the hint and leave them to it. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish organizing the groceries.”

“Thank you for lunch,” Edith says. “It looks very…exotic.”

I shake my head as I walk back into the kitchen.

There’s silence for a few minutes as forks and knives meet plates. I start to organize the groceries in the pantry, but my ears are trained on the dining room, listening for feedback.

“The salmon’s really good,” Edith says.

Jack grunts.

“I notice you’ve nearly cleared your plate there,” she points out.

“A man’s gotta eat.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve about licked it clean—I’m sure Meredith would give you seconds if you asked.”

I can’t hear any conversation after that, and then a few minutes later, Jack walks into the kitchen with both of their plates. There’s not a speck of food left on either.

I hold out my hands to take them from him, but he steps around me.

My brows jump to my hairline, but I keep my lips zipped.

He opens the dishwasher and bends down to load their plates and silverware. I don’t stare at his butt in his worn Wranglers, and I definitely don’t snap my gaze away before he stands and turns to face me. He drops his hands onto the counter and leans forward. I busy myself by folding a towel and hanging it over the side of the sink. I pick at a speck of dirt on the counter. I open a cabinet, look inside, and then close it again. It’s clear he wants me to stop what I’m doing and give him my attention, but I can’t do it. Everything inside of me wants to fight him tooth and nail, even for something as simple as this.

“So the truck gave you some trouble?”

His tone is the same one my parents used when they knew I’d done something wrong but they wanted me to fess up to it myself. Meredith, do you know what could’ve happened to the entire sleeve of Oreos?

No clue, I’d mumble through pursed lips, cheeks bursting at the seams, teeth looking like an active coal mine.

“Nope. No trouble at all.”

“That’s strange, because Marty—a trusted friend—asked me if I’d had any trucks stolen by a raven-haired woman.”

I suppose Marty, with his level of observational detail, must be the sketch artist at the local police department. I have no choice but to adjust my current strategy of denial.

“Ohhh, he must’ve seen me when I pulled over to admire the wildflowers.”

“What kind?”

“Sunflowers.”

“I haven’t seen any yet this year.”

“They were massive, big as your head.” I spot the obvious flaw in my plan and sidestep it masterfully. “Somebody was out mowing though, so they’re probably all gone now.”

“Y’know, it’s an old truck. It could have given anyone a hard time.”

He’s playing good cop, trying to bait me into an easy confession. I turn and give him a blank, innocent stare.

He tips his head to the side.

I mimic him.

He puts his hands on his hips, and so do I.

He narrows his eyes, and I mirror the gesture.

Finally, he cracks. When he’s gone, I’ll pump my fist in the air in victory.

“Next time come get the keys for my truck.”

His truck?

“Is it from the Stone Age or the Bronze Age?”

He heaves a heavy sigh like he’s lost all his patience with me—that, or he’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s brand new.”

“And you’d trust me with it?”

“Do I have a reason not to?”

His gaze is so warm, and yet so cold all at once. Meeting it makes me feel like a tiny fist is punching me repeatedly in the gut. I’m surprised I still sound normal as I ask, “What’d you think of lunch?”

He shrugs, glancing down at the shirt I have knotted off at my waist, yet another of his hand-me-downs. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly before his gaze finds mine again. “I don’t usually like salmon.”

There’s a compliment in there somewhere, but I’d have to use a pickaxe to find it.

“Right, well, I saved the skin. It’s good for dogs.”

His brows rise as if he’s impressed. “Going to give it to Alfred?”

“Give it, drop it out back through the cracked door—tomato-tomahto.”

He shakes his head and pushes off the counter. “We really gotta work on that fear of yours.”

“Total avoidance is working out pretty well,” I quip. “I’ll just continue that forever.”

“Forever, huh? Strong words for someone on their second day.”

I try not to smile. “That’s how long I plan to stay—either that or until we’re so sick of each other that you fire me.”

“That’s how you think this is gonna end?”

Now we’re both fighting smiles. “I won’t be quitting, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

He rubs the back of his neck as he turns for the back door. “We’ll see.”

It’s a cheeky little sendoff, and just like with everything else concerning Jack, it digs under my skin. We’ll see, I mouth snarkily to his back like a snotty grade-schooler, all the while watching him walk away. He reaches for his baseball cap on the hook by the door, slips it on over his chestnut brown hair, and then he’s gone.

Later that evening, after I’m done working for the day, I find an envelope tucked halfway underneath the door of the shack. Inside, there’s a small advance: $500 in cash.

Jack’s jagged handwriting adorns the front of the envelope: Stop wearing my clothes.