I sit a little taller in my saddle, a warmth filling my chest that has nothing to do with the weather. I call out to the rest of the crew and we begin to move the cattle. The rest of the ride, Rosalie stays on my mind, but I don’t let it distract me from the task at hand. Instead, I wonder at the influence she’s made after only a few days. I don’t know what it is about her, but she makes me want to be a better man.
11
ROSALIE
I wantto do something nice for Jackson. Nothing over the top, but a simple gesture to show my appreciation for his hospitality should help me feel like less of a freeloader. In the few days I’ve been here, he’s gone above and beyond, making me comfortable and providing an escape from my worries.
I’ll admit, I was suspicious at first. In my experience, men like Jackson only do something nice when they expect something in return. But I was wrong about him. He might be a flirt, but his motivations aren’t self-serving. At least, they don’t appear to be. Hell, as of today, I’m convinced Jackson is no longer attracted to me. If he were, he would have kissed me last night.
I try not to be disappointed by that fact.
I’m the one who set specific boundaries. He’s respecting the terms I set. If I want to change things, I need to be brave enough to say so. And I won’t. It’s better this way. Establishing a friendship with Jackson when all our mutuals think I’m “on vacation” is complicated enough. Our arrangement is already messy. I don’t need to complicate it.
I focus my energy on making dinner . . . which poses its own risks.
I’m not much of a cook, and I’m limited to whatever supplies I can find here in the cabin. I picture myself overcooking a meal or accidentally setting his kitchen on fire, and inwardly cringe. Yeah, I need to pour all my attention into the task at hand and pray for the best. I can’t let him prepare another meal after working a long day when I have all this idle time.
There’s only so much reading one can do—and yes, that’s something I never thought I would say. But it’s true. Besides, after everything he did this weekend, I can’t let him continue to pamper me. I don’t want to feel in debt to him for his generosity. Especially after getting a notification from my bank this morning that he refunded my full vacation rental.
I refuse to be a burden, or some charity project. I can pull my weight around here, especially on days he’s working. The only problem is, I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back. From conversations with Val over the years, I know they start at the crack of dawn. It’s just after three in the afternoon now, and my best guess is Jackson won’t be too much longer. We should have exchanged numbers.
After checking the contents of his fridge and freezer along with the help of the internet, I decide on a simple chicken casserole. The prep takes longer than I anticipate. I have to look up a few terms on the blogger’s recipe, and every time I come back to the page, it reloads with new ads and the page-long essay before the actual instructions. It’s annoying but I eventually make it through.
The room gets dark when I pop the dish into the oven. In forty-five minutes, I will remove the foil and the layer of cheese will melt to a golden brown within minutes after that. I set the timer so I don’t lose track of time, and look out the window to see there’s a storm rolling in. Afternoon summer storms are an almost everyday occurrence, but we’ve had an unseasonably dry month. I hope this one brings the rain we so desperately need—and doesn’t start any wildfires in the process.
Flicking the lights on, I set to cleaning the mess I made in the kitchen. I put my earbuds in and resume my audiobook to keep meentertained. My current listen is a romantic suspense and I’m quickly wrapped up in the story. My hands move through the hot, soapy water, scrubbing at the dirty dishes as a single mom races through a bus station, barely evading the enemy.
My heart is pounding in my chest as I drain the sink of dirty water. In my book, a man jumps out from behind a bus—identified as our heroine’s abusive ex—just as the chapter ends. I shout, “No!” and yank the faucet handle to turn on the hot water again.
I must use a little too much force, because the handle dislocates completely.
“Shit!” I stare in shock. My shock quickly turns to panic as I realize the predicament I’m in. “Shit!” I say again. Quickly, I rinse the now clean dishes and set them on the drying rack, then run the disposal while I attempt to reattach the handle to the nub poking out of the faucet. But my efforts are in vain. No matter what I do, I can’t get the hardware to connect. I turn off the disposal and ditch the handle, using my entire body in an attempt to shift the tiny nob. It barely moves, slowing the flow of water only a little.Fuck!
I don’t know what to do. I can’t let it just run like this. I’d like to think Jackson will return within the hour, but he could be gone much longer. This flow is more than a steady leak. It kills me to think of wasting so much water, especially when our state is in a drought. I wince when I think of his potential water bill.
I can’t leave this running.
I’ll just have to find the main shut-off.
Outside, the wind moves in powerful gusts and lightning flashes in the distance. The temperature has dropped too. I inhale, looking for a scent that is unique to this region whenever it rains. I smell nothing other than the ponderosa pines. That’s good. I have some time. Though, I need to move fast if I don’t want to be caught in the storm.
Walking the perimeter of Jackson’s cabin, I look for hardware or a small opening that leads beneath the house. His cabin is like most of the homes in this area, built several feet off the ground. I pray hiswater main is easily recognizable and in a similar location as mine. I also pray there are no critters living under his house.
My heart drops when I find the opening. It’s covered by a lock. Of course it is.
“Damn it!” My expletive is carried away as the wind picks up. The roll of thunder is no longer so distant. Maybe I can find the key before the storm hits?
I hustle back into the house and flip on more lights. I go from room to room, searching every drawer and cabinet. If Jackson walks in, he might confuse me for a crazed burglar. But hurried perusal is in vain; I don’t come across any spare keys downstairs. Maybe he keeps them in his bedroom?
I race up the stairs and burst into the bedroom. Lightning flashes. The entire house rattles with a boom of thunder. Then, I’m blanketed in darkness.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Maybe this is a sign from the universe. This is what I get for spending time in the kitchen.Shit! The food!
Carefully making my way back downstairs while my eyes adjust to the dim light, I go to the kitchen and groan in frustration as I take in the oven’s display screen. The digital timer has gone blank. I don’t know the exact time left, but if the power doesn’t come back on soon, the contents of my casserole are ruined. Half-cooked chicken is unsalvageable.
The storm outside has turned the sky a dark menacing blue, and rain pelts the roof so hard, I wouldn’t doubt if it’s hailing. I move around carefully, this time in search for candles. I’m thankful for each strike of lightning as it illuminates my path, even if I jump at the crack of thunder afterward.
