(Amber)
“Your restless ways and your solitude, I see you leaning your lanky frame just inside the door, a figure behind the kitchen screen staring down at the floor, little angel, little brother.”
—LUCINDA WILLIAMS, “LITTLE ANGEL, LITTLE BROTHER”
“That’s beautiful, Amber. Now shoulders down and chest out. Smile.”
Oh, if only I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard those words.
I do as instructed while keeping a firm grip on the twelve-gauge shotgun that’s slung over my left shoulder, my arm smarting a little from holding this pose for the last ten minutes. The photographer—a silver fox with a reputation in Austin for often blurring the line between personal and professional—continues to cajole and compliment, making that reputation of his seem well earned. I give the camera another smile without suggesting anything with my eyes that might mean I’m smiling at the man behind the camera. Here’s hoping the silver fox can tell the difference. Even if he can’t, the Lucinda Williams mix I chose is blaring from speakers behind me, which boosts my bravado. Nothing like a little “Changed the Locks” to erect an emotional barricade when needed.
He stops shooting, concentrating on the camera’s viewfinder as he flicks through the images, absently tracing the tip of his tongue to the center of his upper lip as he does.
Blech.
“OK, I think that’s good for this setup. Let’s take a quick break, and then we’ll move on to the Sunday supper scene.”
He wanders off and a timid, waiflike assistant appears in an instant, extending a bottled water with a straw in it my way. Then she awkwardly mimes with her hands as if to take the shotgun from me. With a smooth twist of the barrel in my palm, I shift the gun from my shoulder into the crook of my opposite arm, and accept the water bottle with my free hand.
“My gun. I’ll put it away.”
Her big brown eyes widen as she blinks rapidly, trying to process what I just said. Perhaps no one clued her in as to the premise of this photo shoot, or the backstory on the woman posing for it, because she looks entirely baffled by the idea that this shotgun belongs to me, and is also not a prop. She continues to look bewildered until I gently shoo her off with a patient smile.
My outfit surely isn’t helping matters, seeing as I look like I just stepped out of a men’s magazine from the 1950s. I’m wearing a vintage shirtwaist dress in mint-green gingham and a pair of nude heels, with a full face of cosmetics to complete the look: dark cat-eye makeup, pink blush, and candy-apple lips. The dress has been altered with a higher hemline, ensuring that in those shots where I have one foot perched atop a wooden crate, the retro-style garter belt and stockings underneath are on display.
And, unlike most photo shoots I’ve been a part of, there’s not one stitch of camo pattern to be found anywhere. In fact, nothing about this piece for an Austin lifestyle magazine is what I’m used to.
To begin with, it doesn’t really have anything to do with me—it has to do with my brother and his furniture company. When the magazine’s creative team approached Trey and his business partner, Ryan, about featuring AustinMade in their annual fall design issue, good ol’ Kukla and Ollie immediately offered my house—and me—as perfect fits for the vintage-industrial-meets-rough-tough-Texas concept they had in mind. But since my house is essentially a living showroom for Trey’s work and I have experience hamming it up in front of a camera, I couldn’t very well act as if the idea came out of left field.
Now, speaking of my publicity-and-camera-shy brother, it seems he’s managed to make himself scarce yet again. I glance about the backyard where we’ve been shooting, looking for the messy blond hair covered by a backward Rangers ball cap that I know so well. Nothing but lighting equipment, assorted piles of gear, and a bunch of strangers scurrying about, so I head inside through the opened slider doors, striding past the setup for our next shot.
The Sunday supper scene, as the silver fox calls it, features the dining room table Trey gave me as a housewarming gift. The table is unforgivingly industrial and unapologetically big, large enough to seat twelve comfortably. The top is made out of reclaimed Greenheart boxcar planks, which sit atop a pair of antique French iron lathe bases. The centerpiece of today’s tablescape is a very fake roasted suckling pig, with a very cliché red apple stuffed in its mouth. Another assistant busily works to polish a set of comically oversized carving tools, setting them near a vintage bumblebee-patterned apron that’s draped over the back of a chair. I’m pretty sure that when I don that apron, grab those carving tools, and pretend to get after that fake pig, I’m going to look like a deranged trophy wife.
I give up a sigh and round the corner into my kitchen, where I finally find my brother. Mostly because I nearly stumble right over him. Trey’s plopped himself on the floor like a little kid hiding out from the big, bad world, his long legs outstretched to span the width of my galley kitchen.
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble. “Use a chair, you ruffian.”
Trey glances up from his sketch pad, bends his knees to tuck them up toward his chest, and offers up his impossible-to-stay-mad-at grin. Lucinda’s “Little Angel, Little Brother” kicks on over the speakers, just another reason for me to do nothing but jab him playfully in the shin with the pointy toe of my high heel.
He tosses a withering look at my shoes. “Those look dangerous.”
“They’re Jimmy Choos.”
“Gesundheit,” he deadpans, his eyes already back on the sketch pad.
My phone vibrates on the countertop. When I spy the preview window, a smile immediately breaks across my face.
A new text from Braden. With a picture. Even better.
I hop up on the countertop and try to keep my giddiness at bay, or at the very least, any sign of it off my face. I’m in Trey’s sightline, and his disturbing ability to read people means he picks up even the faintest hint of shifting energies around him. So if I’m over here bubbling away like a shook-up can of RC, the kid will notice.
Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to keep my cool. Not when Braden and I are officially in a texting relationship. Up until our phone call last week, I couldn’t have claimed our communication was much more than one-sided, but since then he’s become positively chatty. From scouting reports in the area I plan to hunt, to pictures of his dog, the man is certainly holding up his side of the conversation. The only thing I haven’t received is a picture of him, which I’d love to have—if only to confirm that my memory of his rugged form is as first-rate as what I picture in my mind on occasion. Like, for example, late at night, when my bed feels too big. Or early in the morning, when my bed feels too empty. Or in the middle of the day, when I’m bored and it’s suddenly too damn hot in Texas, and I’m convinced Braden could inspire the same sort of heat, but for far more worthwhile reasons.
I swipe open the text, slightly disappointed to discover that the beasty creature in the pic isn’t Braden, but a bull elk.
Not heavy, but he’s even. 5x5. Mouthy, too. He’s been busting around in the trees like he owns the place. Figured you might appreciate his style.
The bull elk pictured has five tines on each of his antlers. The tines are a little thin, but they’re evenly spaced and symmetrical, just as Braden’s described. The last of this season’s velvet on the elk’s antlers hangs from the tips, and he’s tangled himself around some low-hanging branches on a tree, likely trying to rub those remaining bits of velvet off. His coat is a burnished copper color that’s typical in late summer, smooth and glossy across his big body.
He’s a good-looking bull, for sure. But I’m not sure if he’s enough. I squint at the image to see if I can spot anything extraordinary, studying it for a few minutes until another text comes through.
You’re being too quiet. I know he’s not huge, but he’s respectable. And a damn good bull for the unit you’re hunting. So if your ego is sniping, remind her that not everything is about points.
I snort. From a few states away, he’s managed to see right through me. Whether that’s a good thing or not, I’m not sure.
I chose to hunt one of Braden’s units for a few different reasons—and I’m not ashamed to admit that he was one of them. But even more so, I chose this unit because it would be a place where I would have to hunt hard, put all my skills to the test, and do so with little guarantee of success. Hunting in general offers no guarantees, but there, I knew I would be faced with long odds, which is exactly what I want. Because if I lose my show after taking this rugged path, then at least I’ll know I have done my best to get back to my roots, to all of what my uncle Cal had taught me. I tap out a reply.
SHE doesn’t need any reminders. And agrees that he’s a damn good bull. Can’t wait to see him on the hoof.
“Is that the yeti?” Trey asks, without lifting his gaze from where his pencil works over the page with quick strokes.
My head jerks up and I narrow my eyes on him.
“Were you snooping on my phone?”
He smirks at the page. “No. You’ve been floaty since you got back from Colorado. You’ve also mentioned the name Braden, casually, at least once a day since then, so he obviously left an impression. And you’re currently smiling at your phone like a dope. Doesn’t take a Sherlock to solve this mystery.”
I look around for something safe to lob at him, hoping to redirect the conversation. All I find is a bag of store-brand sandwich bread, hefty enough to get my point across, but squishy enough to avoid injuring my only kin. The sack of bread careens off his sketch pad and lands on the floor.
“I have not been floaty,” I mutter, then cock a brow. “What about you? Care to talk about the woman whose name you work so hard to avoid mentioning? How is Dayton, anyway?”
Dayton works for Trey. She is sweet and beautiful, far more dedicated to AustinMade than any typical employee, and I’ve occasionally caught her watching Trey when he’s all wrapped up in his head, contemplating him like he’s her favorite riddle. Trey, for his part, does his own fair share of staring longingly in Dayton’s direction but refuses to admit to anything other than a strictly professional appreciation. Essentially, his approach has been to play stupid or play dead when questioned on the topic.
Trey scowls at his pad. “You mean Dayton, my employee? My employee and nothing but? That Dayton?”
Ah. Seems he’s gone with “play stupid” for today’s round.
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“She’s a competent and skilled accounting professional, as always,” he replies flatly.
“Good to hear.” I hop down off the counter and swipe the bag of bread off the tile floor. “You want a sandwich?”
Trey fights a small grin but loses. “Of course I do.”
I shake my head. Make the kid a sandwich and you have a surefire peace offering. I slap together an almond butter and honey sandwich, taking a bite for myself before handing it his way. Trey reaches for it, sending me a quietly curious look.
“Does the yeti know about your soft-hearted, sandwich-making side?”
I reply with a self-conscious laugh, a warbling sound that reveals too much.
“There’s my answer,” Trey mutters, and then takes a sizable bite of the sandwich.
I sweep a few bread crumbs into the sink. Braden has seen my softer side, just a little, especially when I have enough cider rum punch on board. But nothing inside me believes that’s a bad thing, or a risk not worth taking. He’d offered me his home, for God’s sake. Trusted me to be there when he wasn’t, and from every text he’s sent recently, it seems he’s thoroughly invested in the success of my hunt. Bickering aside, we genuinely like each other, I believe that. And we have chemistry, in fucking spades.
In the background, “I Just Wanted to See You So Bad” starts to play, Lucinda owning up to a craving she decides to see through, even if it takes her traveling. Even if it doesn’t make a bit of sense, even if she can’t explain why.