8
(Cara)
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’m feeling appropriately optimistic. I’ve put the Earl Kidd debacle behind me, my travel mug contains moka pot–brewed espresso topped off with boiling water to create the best Americano there is, and I have my new Sorel boots on—and, more important than good coffee and dry boots, I have a source. An “in” with the locals, a guy who, as he put it, is the guy who knows everyone. If he isn’t full of shit, then getting in good with Garrett is bound to pay dividends. I just haven’t figured out if those dividends could, or should, include the kind where we’re naked together.
I spot the headlights on Garrett’s truck from where I sit on the front steps, under the glow of a bright halogen porch lamp, plumes of exhaust visible against first light dawning in the east. When he pulls to a stop, I catch his grin through the windowpane of the truck just before he jumps out, leaving the motor running to chug away in the quiet morning air.
“Morning, City.”
Oy. Garrett’s morning voice. Gruff and rough, a touch hoarse, and addling to my sanity. Maybe I need to find another tour guide. One with a dad bod and an unkempt beard, old enough to be my grandfather, and who calls me “darlin’.” Because if Garrett being my “in” involves too many early call times like this, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. He’s merely standing there holding the edge of the open truck door and leaning forward casually, yet after one gas station hug session with him, I’d swear I can envision every muscle in his lean body flexing underneath his clothes. One hug was all it took. I memorized the ridges my hands traced, then filled in the blanks on the rest with my imagination. My vivid imagination.
Sigh. I’m simply far too undercaffeinated to make good decisions at this ungodly hour.
“You ready?”
I stand up and haul my messenger bag over one shoulder. “I’m ready.”
When I step off the porch, Garrett gives in to a slow inspection of my form, and the sleepy pace he employs is even harder to manage than his morning voice. His gaze is a slow trickle, starting with the gray scotch cap on my head, complete with little flaps to keep my ears warm—a cute, themed purchase I made before I came out here, with a morning just like this in mind. Then a pass over my zipped-up shell jacket, past my jeans-clad legs, and ending at my boots. When he’s finally done, Garrett steps to the side of the opened door, leaving barely enough room for me to crawl inside without touching, bumping, or jumping him.
Barely.
Garrett drives through town then continues north on Highway 133. The radio hums quietly, tuned to an oldies country station broadcasting what sounds like a never-ending playlist of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers.
Just as those two start to croon the doozy that is “Islands in the Stream,” Garrett switches on the dome light and the entire cab goes bright. After my eyes adjust to the change, I take in the interior, and for an old truck owned by a young guy, it’s not exactly what’s expected. Yes, plenty of dust covers the dashboard, and there are clods of dirt on the floor mats, but there aren’t empty fast-food wrappers or soda cans littered about. The bench seat’s upholstery is worn without being shabby, and in the center, there’s a length of duct tape on the seat back where he’s repaired it.
“I brought you a pair of work gloves and some hand warmers.” Garrett hooks a thumb toward the crew cab’s large backseat. “They’re behind my seat, on the floor there, if you want to grab them.”
With my travel mug in one hand, I scan the cab for a cup holder. Garrett sticks his hand out.
“Cup holder broke off a couple of years ago. Hand it over. Fair warning that I might not give it back. My Mr. Coffee and I had a disagreement this morning, mostly about the fact I forgot to buy more coffee, so I’m running without my usual high-test.”
I pass the mug his way. “Go for it.”
He takes a sip and groans. “Is this from your fancy pot thing?”
“You mean my moka pot? Yes.” Shimmying toward the center of the bench seat, I rise up on my knees to reach over the backseat.
“It’s damn good. A stupid name, but it definitely does the job right.” He takes another drink before moving the mug to his other hand. He manages to steer with only two fingers, still grasping the mug, then uses his free hand to adjust the heater dial. “Makes sense why you would drag it across a couple of states with you.”
A set of work gloves and some Day-Glo orange plastic packets with HotHands printed in large black letters are piled in an open shoe box that’s sitting on the floorboard behind Garrett, shoved into the corner there. With my belly resting on the seat back, I work my upper half toward the shoe box, but the big ol’ truck’s size means I have to stretch out and lean down, and even that doesn’t quite get me there. I edge my way closer, near enough that my hip nudges Garrett’s shoulder . . . which puts my ass in the same vicinity.
Great. If only my mother could see me now.
I latch on to the box edge and drag it a few inches forward, intent on scooping up the contents as quickly as possible so my butt returns to where it belongs, firmly planted on the upholstery. Just as I do, the truck hits a rumble strip.
The combination of Garrett overcorrecting, the jostling, and my not expecting any of it means I end up swaying off balance, driving my nether regions into direct contact with Garrett’s face. I swear I can feel the imprint of his nose on my . . . just all sorts of places I shouldn’t. Garrett’s right arm shoots out to brace the backs of my thighs, mumbling an apology as he does.
I grab the gloves and return to my side of the seat, my back straight as any etiquette teacher would demand, and set the very undainty work gloves in my lap as daintily as possible. Garrett hands my travel mug back, which adds another element to the things I need to oversee gracefully. Two hands for this one.
Garrett flicks the dome light off and I catch a glimpse of him before the cab goes dark. A quirked grin is fighting with the rest of his sheepish expression, and I almost wish he would spit out the obvious, killing the adolescent awkwardness of what just happened. That I had my ass in the air, he was looking at it—and he nearly wrecked the truck.
Ten minutes later, we arrive at the Eulands’ ranch without further incident. I’m sure gluing myself to the opposite side of the bench seat aided to that end.
About halfway down a long driveway, we cross paths with a red Ford truck that’s headed out. Garrett slows the truck and rolls down his window.
The young guy driving the red Ford does the same. He’s a big kid—that’s noticeable even from here, given the way the top of his head nearly rubs the headliner. His dark hair is too long and too floppy, yet his adorable attempt at a beard is unfortunately patchy, in the way guys that age always seem to have their facial hair grown in—like their hormones can’t decide from day to day if they’re old enough yet. What this kid is apparently old enough for, though, is exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes belong on someone at least a few decades older.
Garrett gives him a chin nudge in greeting, but the pleasantries end there. “Give it to me straight, Tanner. What am I walking into?”
The kid blows out a weary breath while rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“Ten came last night, right after the snow started. Lost two before we could get them warmed up, and another two needed the hot box. We’ve also got one that we’ll have to graft up. The other five are good.”
Garrett curses under his breath and looks toward the ranch. The kid finally drops his hands from his face, but allows his head to fall heavily to the headrest before dropping it our way. He spots me and a quizzical look settles across his already world-weary expression.
“Shit. Sorry.” Garrett leans back in his seat, floats his hand my way. “This is Cara. Cara, meet Tanner. This is his family’s place.”
I offer a small wave and greeting to match, which Tanner returns before rolling up his window a few inches.
“I gotta get to school. Good luck with my old man. I told him I could handle last night’s watch on my own, but he didn’t listen. I think he’s coming up on twenty hours since he last slept, so he’s in rare form.”
Then he’s off, roaring down the dirt road at a speed I certainly wouldn’t encourage my kid to drive at.
“Is that kid in high school?” I ask.
Garrett nods and the implications take a second to sink in. “And he was up all night with the cows? On a school night?”
Garrett rolls his window up the rest of the way.
“Welcome to the life of a country kid.”
When we crest a low hill at the end of the driveway, the Euland ranch comes into view. Sunrise is in full swing behind the two large barns set in the distance and the large corrals that span between them. Opposite those is a newer but modest brick ranch house without a front lawn, only a concrete pad poured in front of a two-car garage and a few long-ignored shrubs in whiskey barrel planters near the front door. Garrett pulls to a stop in front of a smaller, vinyl-sided building and shuts off the truck. With the engine off, the sound of cows and all their assorted noises—mooing, snorting, and snuffling—is an impossible-to-ignore soundtrack.
I take a sip of my coffee, then hand it Garrett’s way. “This looks like quite an operation. How many head does he have?”
I give myself a silent high five inside because of my rather smooth use of the ranching-type jargon I’ve studied up on. Head instead of cows. Like I know things.
Garrett drains the rest of the coffee. “OK, lesson number one, City. Never ask a rancher how many cows he has.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s like asking him how much money he has in his checking account. Same thing around here because cows are money. So I’ve never asked him. My guess would be that he’s running close to a thousand these days.”
So much for knowing things.
“A thousand sounds like a lot for one guy to manage. So Tanner helps when he doesn’t have, you know, school—what about Kenny’s wife? Does he have employees? Is that OK to ask?”
He snorts. “That’s fine to ask. But I can tell you he does most of it himself, only uses a part-time guy when he has to.”
Garrett steps out of the truck and I follow, coming to a stop when he pauses a few paces away and then bends over at the waist to loosen the laces on his boots. He tucks his jeans into them and retightens the laces.
“His wife, Barb, works in town as a nurse, which is pretty much the norm. There’s an old saying about behind every great farmer or rancher is a wife with a job in town. Not many folks are big enough or rich enough to have this be their only income.”
And my viewpoint of his innocent clothing adjustment while he talks means I can better understand Garrett’s earlier steering blunder. I’m having some trouble listening and I’m forced to clamp my mouth shut when a bit of drool becomes almost inevitable.
What’s worse is that he isn’t even trying—he can’t be. He’s dressed as he has been every time I’ve seen him, in the uniform of choice around here. Nothing but the ever-practical jeans, ball cap, work coat, and T-shirt, although today he’s added a hoodie and swapped out his usual coat for a sherpa-lined duck vest, a combination that should, at best, cause a neutral reaction from me. I certainly shouldn’t want to stumble into him—or onto him.
Garrett stands upright again, tugs down on the bottom edge of his vest and up on the waist of his jeans. And catches me gawking.
Gentleman that he apparently is, there’s no winking, no smirking, no asking if I like the view. He just tips his head toward the vinyl-sided building and heads that direction.
Inside, we walk past a row of straw-lined stalls, metal shelves full of supplies, and a small room where a cot is set up with a limp pillow and a wool army blanket in a heap at the foot. Past there is a larger open space with a couple of long work tables and a metal washbasin where a stocky man is hunched over with his back to us, grumbling as he scrubs an enormous set of steel pliers. At the sound of us approaching, he gives up the grumbling and drops the pliers into the washbasin, where they clang noisily.
“You ever wonder what it’s like to live in the suburbs? Maybe down in Boca? You know, where someone mows the damn lawn, the one they watered the shit out of without thinking about how stupid it is to waste water that way? Where the worst part of your day is discovering that the newspaper kid didn’t hit the porch and now you have to walk your sorry ass all the way to the end of the driveway?”
“Fuck no. Sounds terrible.” Garrett chuckles before turning a thumb in my direction. “Cara might be able to enlighten us on the joys of suburbia, though. Hope it’s still OK that she came along.”
The man cranes a look over his shoulder and I can see Tanner in so much about him. The hair, the eyes, and most of all the exhaustion. He wipes his hands on his heavily stained bib overalls and turns to offer one my way.
“Of course. I’m Kenny, darlin’, good to meet you. Just ignore ninety percent of what I say today.”
I take his hand. “I can’t speak much to the lawn watering, even from my days in the suburbs. And I live in a condo now, so walking down the driveway for the newspaper is foreign, too. But thank you so much for letting me tag along. I appreciate it.”
Kenny cracks a tired grin and drops our handshake. Tucking his hands into the front bib on his overalls, he leans back against the washbasin. “Garrett said you might want to ask a few questions. Interview me or something?”
I start to answer, but Garrett inserts himself by simply stepping forward half a step.
“You just said she should ignore ninety percent of what you say, so I don’t think today’s the best day for an interview. We’re here to be useful; we can come back for the chat. Right, City?”
I’d have to be beyond thick to miss the cue. As much as I might be gung-ho to get going on an interview, Garrett wants Kenny to find his way to the nearest bed or recliner.
“Another day, absolutely. I’d just love to see how things work. Help, if I can.”
Kenny starts to protest, but Garrett lands a halfhearted punch to his upper shoulder.
“Go on in the house. See if you’re still able to identify what your bed looks like. Tanner brought us up to speed on last night, so we’ll take a drive and see where we stand this morning, then go from there.” He points toward the straw-filled stalls. “All these little ones need bottles?”
“Yeah.” Kenny seems to give up the fight with that one word. He points listlessly to the corner of the room where a beat-up folding table sits. “Barb made breakfast burritos before she headed into town for her shift. Coffee and monkey bread, too.” He looks my way. “You like monkey bread, Cara?”
On the table is a small, dirty-fingerprinted microwave with a stack of foil-wrapped burrito-shaped items sitting next to it. I have no idea what monkey bread is, but the mound of dough balls sitting on a plastic platter and glistening with caramel sauce seems to be a likely contender. The whole setup isn’t exactly sanitary or food-safety-oriented, so I attempt to cast off his offering as politely as possible.
“Oh, I’m not hungry. But thank you so much for offerin—”
Garrett’s arm lands over my shoulder, pulling me in with a rough tug that cuts off the rest of my babbling.
“Cara loves monkey bread. I might have to duke it out with her just to get a bite.”
Kenny nods and, after a few instructions, shuffles off, his boots sounding heavier with each step. Garrett waits for him to clear the room, keeping his arm over my shoulder, before pulling me close enough to put his lips to the shell of my ear.
“Lesson number two. Someone cooks for you? Offers you something to eat or drink? Short of being deathly allergic, you take it. You don’t politely decline or beg off—just say thank you and eat up.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. And I thought the social mores I grew up with were hard to handle—the litany of don’t do this and don’t do that ways of our world that I had a hard time keeping straight as a kid and found maddening to deal with once I was older. But here, no matter how different the rules are, no matter how much I wish I knew them better, it feels different when I botch them up. Less like failure, and more like learning a new language.
I have Garrett, after all.