“Hey Dix.” I make some kissing noises, and she jumps at me in excitement. I give her some extra attention since I assume Sawyer hasn’t been out since this morning.
I’ll go in and check on her right after I get the chores done. There’s not much sunlight left to work with. The horses’ tails twitch out in the pasture as they swat away the flies that are trying to use their body heat to stay warm in the dying light. I shake a bucket of oats and watch their ears perk up. Soon they’re all at the gate waiting for their treat.
Once I get each horse in their stall, I check them over and fill up their water buckets before giving them each a bit of hay for the night.
Luci chuffs at me as I walk past. “Hey, Luce. How’s it goin’ tonight, buddy?” I offer him my fist and he steps closer so I can give him some pats.
He has dust and pieces of dry prairie grass stuck to his coat from rolling around in his pasture today. I decide to come out tomorrow night to groom him if Sawyer still isn’t feeling well. For now, I still have the goats to tend to before I head inside to see how she's faring.
The goats are bleating from their pen, and when I bring a bucket of their feed in, they nearly knock me down in their excitement.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, surprised by their intensity.
I somehow manage to stay upright despite being accosted by what feels like a thousand small hooves and horns.
“Hey, knock it off! I’m trying to feed you, if you just back off a second,” I chastise when one is bold enough to bite at my T-shirt when I don’t get the food poured fast enough.
I finally shove my way through the hoard of goats to their trough and dump in the feed. Most are still clamoring for a spot around the first trough as I pour the rest of the feed into the second. I move a few of the smaller goats to it so they can get some food before the big ones push them out of the way again.
Goats are greedy sons of bitches.
I spot a part of thewelded wire fencing that looks like one or more of the goats have been trying to escape and pinch the wire back together, so hopefully they won’t make a bigger hole they can squeeze through. It’s a short-term fix. These goats are stronger than they look, and the entire enclosure could use an overhaul. I make a mental note to figure out a better fence to keep the escape artists contained since Tripp made it sound like this was a common occurrence.
It’s fully dark by the time I make my way up Sawyer’s front porch. As soon as my fist is on the door, I’m second-guessing if I should even be here checking up on her. Surely, she’d call Allie or Tripp if she needed anything. It’s highly likely she wouldn’t want me to see her at all, despite us being on better footing over the past week.
Still, I can’t quite shake the urge to see her again. Maybe it’s because I want to make sure she’s okay. Maybe it's because I can't stop picturing her stretched out on her bed in that towel, my thoughts bordering on indecent. Or maybe it’ssimply because she’d shown me a softer, more vulnerable side of herself and now, I'm simply greedy for more of it—eager to see under that hard-bitten mask she always wears.
I pound on the door before I can untangle which reason has driven me up her porch steps. Maybe it’s a combination of all of them. My knock is answered with silence.
I knock again. Still nothing.
The sound of claws tapping on the wood of the porch has me turning to find Dixie looking at me with what I swear is a raised eyebrow, as if she’s asking,“Are you gonna go in and check on her or what?”
“Alright. Alright,” I mumble to the dog like she actually talked to me.
I turn the knob and am relieved when it’s unlocked. “Sawyer,” I call into the house. “It’s Wes. I’m coming in to check on you.”
There’s no sound of dissent, so I kick off my boots at the door and walk into the little kitchen, outdated and quaint. Medicine is strewn over the counter: pain relievers, a thermometer, and some prescription meds that I decide I have no business looking at. I snatch the thermometer and pain relievers off the counter before calling out again. “You in here, Red?”
I hear a soft moan from the couch and turn toward the living room. The TV is on, but the screen is blank. I walk around and peer under the blankets piled on the couch. My heart squeezes in my chest at the sight of her.Her hair is a mess of tangles and she looks exhausted, her usual fire and liveliness absent.
“You look like hell.”
I’m met with a blue-eyed look that is too weak and sad to be a glare, but I’m sure that’s what she’s aiming for, and it makes me smile despite my better judgment.
“Ugh, get out of here, Wes. Let me die in peace. I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not food poisoning, is it?” I ask, seriously concerned that I might have done this to her somehow despite overcooking the pork chops.
She starts to laugh, but it cuts off with a wince, and she groans again. “No.”
I kneel in front of her. “Open up, Red.”
Her eyes narrow and her lips curl. She looks like a mad kitten. It’s cute as hell. And also, a little pathetic.
I show her the thermometer, and her face relaxes into resignation. She opens her mouth, and I place it under her tongue. “Atta girl,” I encourage as I turn it on.
"Stop patronizing me," she mumbles around the thermometer.
