Grace clears her throat. “Everything okay with you?”
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t falter in his stoniness. “Fine,” he replies curtly. His chin drops to his chest, and he kicks the toe of his boot against the loose dirt. “Everyone seems to have forgotten this is aranch, not an entertainment venue.”
She doesn’t get much out of him after that, though in fairness, she doesn’t really try. Crew is wound too tightly to unspool today, and the last thing she wants is to accidentally push a button that sends him spiraling into raging oblivion. He storms off a few minutes later toward some of the guys who are up on horses herding wandering cows. Grace watches, amused, as she sees his hands start to gesture wildly. Pierce and Alec immediately snap to attention, whatever joke they’d been bent over laughing at suddenly not very funny. They sit up straighter, and Grace watches the smiles melt off their faces like butter on a hot pan. They’ve seen this before, probably too many times to count. Crew Caldwell is on the warpath, and he doesn’t give a singlefuckabout the destruction he leaves in his wake.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The bunkhouse reeks of cheapcologne. Forty stands behind an ironing board, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles on someone’s button-up shirt. They’re all in various stages of dress, andeveryone looks remarkably presentable, considering the state of them not even an hour ago. Grace is sitting on her bunk, freshly showered hair tied back in a loose low ponytail, and her face scrubbed clean of all dirt and sweat. She is patiently—anxiously—waiting for June to beckon her into the bathroom, where she will proceed to cover her in makeup, douse her in hair spray, and then dress her up like a perfect Southern bumpkin.
There are two reasons Grace agreed to this. One, because June offered it, and it seemed like something Grace shouldn’t deny if she had any hopes of further strengthening their tentative bond. And two, because in her twenty-five years of life, she’s never once had someone offer to do her makeup and hair. Or lend her clothes. Growing up, she dressed herself in the mornings, brushed her own hair, and always opted for convenience over vanity. A low bun with a plastic claw clip, secondhand jeans, and two-year-old tennis shoes from Payless. Function over fashion, even then.
Grace can see June through the slight crack of the bathroom door, leaning over the sink with a tube of lipstick in hand. Already dressed with her hair looking lovely and effortless, she skillfully swipes the pigment over her lips, taking care to not color outside of the lines. She claps her hands together once she’s satisfied, and then hollers, “All right, Grace. Your turn.”
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
It feels like she’s growna new layer of skin. An odd, nice-smelling, slightly tacky layer of skin that has concealed every one of her freckles. June is hard at work, a small makeup brush between her teeth as she stands over Grace, brushing—blending?—furiously at the shadow on her right eyelid. Gracehad been commanded to sit on the covered toilet and not move a single muscle unless told to, like when June made her smile with only her cheeks so she could apply an orangey-pink blush.
“You have good features,” June says, though it seems like it’s mostly to herself, more of an assessment than a compliment. “Shame you never show them off.”
Grace tries not to blink too rapidly as June closes in on the corner of her eye, the blending brush now pushing aggressively into her skin. She can only imagine what she must look like right now, and some dark, insecure part of her has wondered more than once if June is setting her up again—if she’ll look in the mirror at the end of this makeover and look like a rodeo clown.
“Well,” Grace says, her head instinctually starting to lean away from June’s ministrations—which June doesnotallow, and promptly pulls her chin back into place.
Grunting, Grace adds, “It’s not like I have many opportunities.”
“Honey, you’re young, fit, and pretty,” June replies. She sounds tired as she says it, like it’s a fact that Grace should know. Like it’s a personal affront to womankind that she doesn’t take advantage of these assets. “You gotta make the opportunities.”
Grace gives her an unenthusiastic thumbs-up. “I’ll get right on that.”
By the time June’s done with her, Grace’s eyebrows, eyelashes, eyelids, cheeks, lips—hell, even her neck is painted with foundation and then dusted with some sort of iridescent powder—are all done up. When June begins to pile everything into her carry-on-suitcase-size makeup bag, Grace thinks she’s done, she’s finally been released and can go look at herself in the mirror. But as she starts to stand, June pushes her shoulders back down, forcing her to plop back onto the toilet. “No,” shesays, then reaches behind Grace to gently release her ponytail. She fans her brown locks over her shoulder, the slightly frizzy almost-waves falling down her chest. June kinks an eyebrow, tapping her lip with her index finger. “Now we need to do something aboutthis.”
An immeasurable amount of time passes before June finally takes a step back from where Grace stands in front of the bathroom sink, looks her up and down, and smiles brightly. “I knew I was good,” she muses, shaking her head in wonder. “But I didn’t realize I wasthisgood.”
Grace lets out a little sigh, her patience already far past its limit. When June had started clamping swaths of hair into a curling iron, Grace had realized thatthisis why she never cared to learn how to primp herself. The task itself outweighs the reward by a long shot. She’s going to wear this makeup and hairstyle for a couple of hours, and then she’s going to come back here and scrub it all away. Three hours of work, gone with one swipe of a washcloth.
But then June gently twirls her around to look at herself in the mirror, and all her internal mutterings—ridiculous waste of time, can’t believe I’m letting her do this, how the hell am I going to keep this dress from riding up—cease entirely. Because—for perhaps the first time in her adult life—Grace looks like a woman. A real, red-blooded, rosy-cheeked woman with shiny, bronzed skin, unblemished and unfreckled beneath the dewy foundation. Her brown eyes sparkle under the harsh fluorescent lights, and there’s a perfectly placed touch of color on the apples of her cheeks. When she turns her head, she finds a glow that crawls up her cheekbone toward her temple—a gold-and-silver-flecked streak that reminds her of a river glistening in the sun.
The chestnut-brown curls she keeps tucked in constant ponytails cascade loosely, freely over her shoulders and past her breasts—they’re what June referred to as “beachy,” because they’re supposed to mimic the effortless waves that form after a day drenched in salt water.
She doesn’t realize tears are welling in her eyes until June’s face morphs from ecstatic pride to concern in the flash of a second. “What the—” She steps forward, coming shoulder to shoulder with Grace and looking at her in the mirror. “Don’t cry. If you ruin that eyeliner, I’ll kill you.”
A wet little laugh bursts from Grace’s throat, accompanied by a sniffle.
“Honey,” June says, reaching for one of Grace’s hands. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Grace replies quickly, sucking in a deep breath and looking up at the ceiling. “I’m fine. You did a really great job.”
“Well, obviously,” June touts. Then she squeezes Grace’s hand, beckoning her to look at her. When Grace does, she says, “So, why the tears?”
Grace manages a shaky smile. “I, um—” She peeks at herself in the mirror, and the person staring back at her stuns her all over again. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” She looks at June, swallows down the emotion as it floods back in, this time with a vengeance. “I’ve never seen myself like this.”
Something changes in June’s face at Grace’s words. It looks like an altering, a glimpse of the woman she is underneath it all. A softness she doesn’t let others see. Nurturing. Protective. Warm. “Grace,” she says, rubbing her thumb over the back of Grace’s hand. “You’re beautiful.” The statement brooks no argument. She has a way of making statements sound irrefutable.Like if she were to declare the sky is green, then it simplywouldbe. June swings her around by the arm to look at herself again, all the softness turning into supportive resolve. “And it’s about damn time you knew it.”
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The sun is still highin the azure evening sky when music begins to resonate throughout Halcyon. The ranch hands walk over to the lawn in a jumble of pearl snaps and shiny leather boots, some nearly hopping on their heels with excitement. Grace feels decidedly less agile in June’s white ostrich boots, which are a size too small for her but—according to June—looked too good with the sundress to leave behind.
Emerging from the bathroom once June finally deemed herreadyhad been quite the experience. The reactions to her new look ranged from silent, slack-jawed awe to loud whoops and whistles. Only Forty had managed to actually form words in response, walking up to Grace once the frenzy had quieted down and telling her, with that gentle sincerity he always carries, “You look gorgeous, darlin’. Don’t let any of these idiots get too close—they might drool on your pretty dress.”
