__________

Maria

MY TEMPLES ARE POUNDING. This heat, this country air, the thought that I may be stuck in this nowhere town for the foreseeable future. It’s given me a headache more days than I care to remember since we landed in Cooper’s Mill.

I have to hold my skirt down as I step out of Dad’s pickup, the wind catching the hem and making it fly up high on my thighs. I want to do is go back home to Bozeman and our former life. But that’s not likely. Not for a while, at least. Dad is happier than a pig in shit—as one of my regulars at the diner likes to say—with his new gentleman’s farm. We’ve been here a month now, and still, nothing feels like home to me.

There’s a constant twitch in my eye.  A hitch in each step.  Like I’m off balance or coming down with something.

The entire drive over here to this massive far to pick up a load of hay, all I could think about was how uncomfortable I am with this life. I’m a city girl. I’m not supposed to be picking up hay.

Hay, for God’s sake.

I get it.  Bozeman’s not exactly a big city. It’s not Manhattan or LA. But it’s more city than here. Where we are is the definition of country, and everything out here feels like it’s either going to bite me or give me a rash.

I’m not resentful. I get why Dad wants to be here. After mom died just over a year ago in the accident, he spent six months looking like he was about to follow her into an early grave. Then one night we watched The Horse Whisperer on the flippin’ Hallmark Channel for God’s sake. 

Things weren’t the same after that. He started thinking of moving out of the city. He wanted to find an open space and buy a horse farm. He knew nothing about horses, of course, but that didn’t make any difference. As the months wore on, he became more and more serious. Started watching horse-training videos and buying plaid shirts with white shell snaps. Taking weekend trips to visit different properties and cities.

Not cities. Towns. Tiny little towns with fifteen people who are all related to one another.

I sound like a brat, I know. But it’s been a tough year for me too. I finished my master’s a few months before the accident. It left Dad and me little more than zombies, and I put my doctorate on hold. Not forever, but I couldn’t even begin to think about going back to school with the state I was in. Then there was this move. I couldn’t possibly leave Dad all alone. My parents and I were always close. Family meant everything to us, always has. As for my two sisters, they are both married and popping out babies, so it was down to me to pull up my boots and come out here with him, trying to make the best of this new life.

I take a deep breath and stand taller, stretching my back and trying to snap out of my melancholy, squinting into the sun hanging high above the biggest red barn I think I’ve ever seen.

There’s a thud, and something moves in front of the sun, blocking it out, and I shield my eyes as they adjust.

The outline of a black hat is the first thing I register. The sheer size of the body below that stuns my mind into silence. He’s hidden in shadow, but the silhouette has me in awe.

“Mr. McGowan?” A voice that stirs thoughts of Sam Shepard and blazing sunsets grabs me around the waist and tightens its grip.

“Yes, hello there!” Dad steps forward, and I turn to look at him, glad to pull my eyes away from the newcomer.

There’s another man next to him, looking at me with a wry grin, and it gives me a chill. I drop my hand from my face and clutch around my midsection, trying to avoid looking away while also avoiding meeting his eyes. Not an easy trick to pull off.

I hate being noticed. I was always the girl who took the seat in the back of every class at college. I like being in the background, and I especially don’t like when men stare at me. One of a few reasons I’m probably still a virgin at twenty-three, something I’m simultaneously ashamed and proud of.

As if reading my mind, the monster shadow with the black cowboy hat moves forward, drawing my attention. He cuts across my path so quickly it startles me, and I take a step back.

“Reggie.” That gravel voice again, only this time, I hear a hint of anger around the edges. “Go get your lunch.”

It’s an order, not a request, and for a moment I wonder what is happening. The tall cowboy with the denim shirt and faded jeans has moved between me and the other man, blocking him out completely.

“I thought you wanted me to load them up and—”

The cowboy cuts him off with a jerk of his head and stern words. “Lunch. Now. You. Go.”

“Yes, boss.” I don’t see the man go, but I hear his boots on the dirt as he moves.

A moment later, there’s the roar of an engine, and a rust-colored pickup eases out from the side of the barn, tossing up gravel as it heads down the worn track, swinging around a field of grass toward a beautiful white farmhouse.

“Well,” my dad pipes up with his newfound country cheerfulness, seemingly oblivious to the exchange that just took place. “How do we get it all on the trailer?”

When the cowboy turns, I nearly fall on my behind. I clutch tighter around my waist, trying like mad to keep the flipping of my insides to a minimum. But God help me, I’m losing that battle.

“We stack ’em.” That voice hits me again, and my mouth is dry but my headache is long gone.

Wind throws my hair into my face, and I puff and blow, trying to get it out of my mouth, refusing to release my arms as they’re all that’s holding me together. Even through the strands of hair, I realize I’ve never seen a more beautiful man, whether in person or on the pages of a magazine.

He’s huge. Enormous. I’m not sure the words have been invented to describe just how big he really is. Massive, yes. But oh, his face, cut from summer dreams and old Westerns. A dark shadow of a beard just accenting his square jaw. His brow is strong, with dark eyebrows that top eyes as blue as any Montana sky, but they are rimmed in black and laser focused on me. His shirt hangs open, top to bottom, showing off angles and lines that scream for me to reach out and touch, if only to make sure they are real. He feels older than he looks. I’d place him late twenties, but his eyes hint at a wisdom a few decades more.

“Great!” Dad exclaims, and his enthusiasm seems out of place as he moves toward the stack of hay bales, apparently ready to get his cowboy on.

I watch as he reaches into his back pocket and grabs his brand-new work gloves, but even as he’s pulling them on, I feel the cowboy’s eyes on me. He hasn’t shifted or moved. He’s just staring at me, and as much as I fight the urge, my eyes betray me, looking up right into his gaze.

“I’ll help,” I mutter, half dazed but aware of the enormity of the task. Even with my scrawny arms, I’m sure I can drag a bale to the trailer without too much embarrassment.

“Nope,” the cowboy snaps. “We got this.”

“Don’t think a woman can do the work?” I chirp back.

This backward country boy is going to find out quickly I’m not like the usual town girls. I have my master’s in accounting, and I’m going back as soon as I can to finish my PhD in statistics. But I can still do some heavy lifting when the need arises.

“I know women can do the work. But I also know that you’re paying me to load up the trailer, not to do it yourself. Now, as for your dad here, I’m going to show him how to stack the hay, ’cause he’ll need to know in future. But, most of all, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let you get all tangled up and sweaty in that beautiful dress of yours.”

I huff. I’m not sure if he’s being a condescending ass or just a straight up gentleman. I’m leaning toward the latter, and I’m certainly not keen to get up there lifting hay anytime soon, but for some reason, his smooth country talk and sex-dripping tone make me want to push back. I’ve come to understand some of the culture here. My new job at Rustler’s End Diner has taught me a lot in a short time.

“Fine. You men work. I’ll take a walk.” I don’t so much want to walk as much as I want to get away from him.

“It’s not about being men, but it is about being a gentleman and knowing you are not dressed for stacking hay.”

With an eye roll, I step away, knowing—and simultaneously hating—the fact that I deliberately wore this dress when I knew it wasn’t appropriate for picking up a load of hay.

The thoughts he’s provoking inside my head would frighten fish, and I’m half sure they are playing for all to see above my head in some sort of exposed cartoon bubble. But there’s a pull in my chest I’ve never felt before, and I can’t deny it or make it go away. It’s a kind of heaviness, and it actually hurts a bit inside when I spin on my white Keds and march away down a thin dirt path running through a patch of grass toward a little pond. It’s in the opposite direction of the house, but it seems like it’s kind of a forgotten chunk of greenery, and it makes me wonder just how much land they have here.

“Don’t be gone too long.” The cowboy’s voice hits me in my stomach, forcing my eyes shut for a moment.

“Bossy,” I mutter to my feet. The breeze hitting my face whips hair into my mouth, and I pull it away.

“Nope. Not bossy,” I hear him say, and my heart speeds up. He must have ears like a cat. Then he adds, “Protective.”

That single last word sends heat from my cheeks to my chest.

And lower.

“HEY!” I KICK OUT AT the enormous, fat, black bird that’s chasing me. “Stop!”

I’m not even sure what it is. A turkey I’m guessing, but I didn’t realize they were so mean!

My stroll took me down the sandy rut through the grass. Then I took a right turn where it curved off. I could go straight toward the pond or around the barn where I couldn’t be seen toward some other fenced pens and outbuildings.

When I got closer to a framed-out section of fence, I looked over to see the gate to the pen swinging wide.

The next thing I knew, a bright flash of pain hit me in the back of my right calf, and now here I am, fighting off these enormous black dinosaur-birds with angry red chins who seem hell-bent on having me for a meal.

It’s fair, I suppose, but who the heck knew turkeys were so aggressive?

I stumble backward as three of them charge me.

Yes, they charge me. Feathers raised like hackles. Wings flapping like some sort of warrior birds, making warrior turkey sounds.

I’m the enemy in their territory.

One is trying to take me down so the other two can pounce on my soft parts.

It reminds me of that scene from Jurassic Park with the three velociraptors.

“Get away!” I yell, tap-dancing backward as fast as I can without falling belly-up in the dirt. “Go! Shoo!”

The usual gobble you think of with a nice cartoon turkey is nothing like the real thing. These are livid, squawking, tyrannical squeals.

I spin my head around, looking for some means of escape. Behind me, there’s a small shed sort of thing, with chickens out around it and a small chicken-sized opening inside some fencing. But there’s a human-sized door as well and I have no other choice, so that’s my plan. Get inside that shed and hope that turkeys have short memories. I’ll wait them out then run like Forrest Gump back to the red barn, forsaking my pride.

I calculate the distance from where I am to the chicken coop door, then when I feel my feet solid under me, I spin and bolt.

I hit the door of the shed with a thud, jiggling the loose handle until it clicks and the door pulls open in my hand, thanking God it’s unlocked.

The next second, I’m behind the door, panting but safe. I jerk and twist the handle until I hear the familiar click as it slides home.

One more twist of the metal, just to be sure... No! No, no, no! This cannot be happening to me. I look down at the door handle, loose in my hand, just as there’s a thunk from the other side of the door as the outside handle hits the ground.

“Are you kidding me?”

I stare at the door for a second. Then at the ceiling for another ten. Then back to the door.

Crouching down, I peer through the quarter-inch hole left by the bolt between the mechanism, and I can see the three veloci-turkeys hovering, waiting for their chance to strike.

Settling on my knees with a deep breath, I press my face to the door, examining the mechanism. The gritty dirt presses painfully into the bare skin of my knees as I try to decipher how to open the door, then I realize the lock is set into a solid metal strike plate on the doorframe.

The thick, barn-wood door is solid too. I give it a pounding with the flats of my hands anyway, more out of frustration than any hope of escape. The scent in here is more rank aviary than summer breeze. And it’s hot. Hot, hot. Too hot. Immediately, sweat beads and courses down the indent of my spine. It breaks out on my forehead where my hair is stuck. It’s dripping into my eyes.

“How did I get here?” I drop back onto my behind, resting my forehead in my hands and wondering why I had to drink that third cup of coffee before we left the house.

Because if this were at least an outhouse, I’d be relieved.