On the tall chest of drawers across the room is a small framed family picture that, judging by the age of the little girl, is old. Gray is holding the little girl, who’s also in the pictureby his bed, on his hip, but she looks like a toddler, and he's standing with his arm around a pretty woman with long brown, wavy hair. The little girl’s mother? She's beautiful. She’s cuddled into his side and her hand is on his stomach and her smile is bright. He looks much more friendly and carefree in the picture than he did yesterday in the barn.
So different from the severe look I saw yesterday.
I wonder what took that happiness away.
Closing my eyes again, I reach into my memory to recall what happened when I got here. The big guy warmed me up and held me in front of the fireplace, there was a woman with black hair and green eyes who gave me cocoa, and another woman with blond hair and blue eyes who covered me with a blanket. I don’t remember much after that.
There are flicks of pictures in my head, like the blond taking my wet clothes off and helping me put on dry ones, and the other one standing over me with a washcloth on my face. I open my eyes and look to the other side of the bed; my phone is on the bedside table, and I grab it to check for calls or messages.
Thank God! No calls from work.
But it’s almost dead, and my charger is in my hotel room.
If someone calls and I don’t answer, my dad will send Harris to check up on me, I just know it. Maybe I can get one of them to give me a ride back to my hotel; if not, maybe I’ll call a cab or something.
A bottle of water and a bottle of ibuprofen are sitting next to where my phone was with a note that says ‘take me’ and a smiley face drawn on it. The handwriting is a pretty script, and I don’t think a guy would draw a smiley face. My hand stops midair half-way to the bottle of water as I wonder if I need to worry about anything being in it, my dad’s voice plays in my mind:you’re not going there for a cordial visit, Elly, you’re going there to take their land.
Feeling stupid for even having the thought, I pick up the water bottle, leaving the ibuprofen, and shake it - no leaks. The lid is still intact, and I feel like some kind of paranoid lunatic, I’m the one who is here to ruin their lives, but I’m questioning them.
Guilty conscious much?
The thought moves across my mind like a bowling ball wrapped in razor wire.
I never wanted to be this person.
Fuck Harris for putting me in this position.
Get up, Elly, do the job and go home.
I shake my head and scan the room to find my bag on a comfortable-looking chair in the corner by the window, water stains from the sleet and freezing rain marring the pink leather. Throwing the covers back, I take in the clothes I’m wearing that are not mine; they are a little big for me, but all clothes are big for me since I was unlucky enough to inherit my mother’s slight frame.
The same small frame that gets me comments like: You’re like a doll, or, do you carry a step stool with you everywhere you go or, my personal favorite, I could just put you in my pocket.
Not to mention literally getting looked down at. By everyone. All the time.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I slowly stand up and see a sweater laying over the foot of the bed. The t-shirt I'm wearing hangs to mid-thigh and big, fluffy socks are pulled up to my calves over a pair of thick leggings. I've seen these types if socks online and I've wondered how comfortable they are. They're pretty damn comfy.
Picking up the sweater from the bed to put it on, I wrap it around my body. It's soft, thick and immediately takes the chill off, even though it hangs to my knees. If only I didn’t look like someone dressed me in too-big clothes.
Regardless, I need to change into my clothes so I can see about getting back to my hotel in Tulsa.
Each step I take around the bed to the chair sends a throb of pain across my head, I wince as I bend over to open my bag and it feels like my head is filling with blood. The file folder that had my copy of the letter I left in the barn yesterday is on the wrong side of the center divider and the letter is gone.
Good, they’re looking at it.
Surely those figures will get their attention.
But my clothes aren’t on the chair anywhere. I slowly look around the chair, careful not to move my head too fast, but only find my ruined suede boots on the floor next to it.
A soft tap on the door just before it opens has me turning around too fast and my head swims, making me reach for the arm of the chair as I press my palm on my forehead. The woman with dark hair pokes her head in and looks around the room for me.
When she sees me, her eyes widen, and she pushes the door open all the way to hurry to me. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I half expected you to still be sleeping.” She softly takes my hand in one of hers and grasps my arm with her other hand as she says, “Here, come sit on the bed.”
She’s tall for a girl, maybe five foot seven, oh what I would give to be tall like that, and she moves gracefully, like a dancer. I let her lead me to the bed, and she stands in front of me when I sit down, her eyes looking at me in question, like she’s afraid I might pass out or something.
Her porcelain skin is clear, and her green eyes are the lightest shade of green, her coal-black hair is piled up on top of her head in a messy bun that some tendrils have escaped from and are trailing down her slim neck to her chest.
She’s beautiful.
