“Already planned on it,” Rhett says. “I’m heading to the vet to check on one of the broodmares, then I’ll swing by the house and give her the originals. Get it over with.”
“I’ve got that meeting with Gary this afternoon,” Knox says, changing the subject. “Want to see if he’s heard anything more about Dalton.”
“I’m waiting for Jasper to come by,” I add. “Happy Feet. Need him to check all the horses’ feet before we start any serious training.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clinking of our forks against plates and the distant, persistent hammering. It’s a strange, uneasy truce we’ve reached. A temporary ceasefire in a war we didn’t know was coming.
They finish up and leave, their trucks kicking up dust as they head down the driveway. I’m alone again. I clean up our breakfast, wiping down the table and rinsing the plates, my movements automatic. Then I pull a cigarette from my pocket, the crinkle of the cellophane loud in the sudden quiet. I light it and take a long drag, the smoke filling my lungs a familiar, bitter comfort.
I lean against the post of my cabin, watching the house. The hammering has stopped. A few minutes later, the front door opens and Saramaria emerges, struggling with a large black trash bag. It’s clearly heavy, and she’s having trouble getting it down the porch steps without it tearing. She’s wearing those ridiculous boots again, paired with jeans and a T-shirt instead of her usual suit. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face.
We haven’t said a full sentence to each other since she got back. Not really. We’ve exchanged demands and accusations, but we haven’t talked. The girl I remember used to talk for hours, a constant stream of questions and stories and laughter. Even when I wished she would shut up, she never did.
This woman is a stranger, her silence as heavy and imposing as the mountains.
I watch as she finally gets the bag to the bottom of the steps, dropping it with a grunt. She wipes a hand across her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt. She’s cleaning out the main bedroom. I know it. She’s getting ready to move in, to officially claim the space as her own. It makes no sense. Why would she do all that, buy a bed, clean the room, if she’s just planning to sell it all?
The contradiction is a knot in my gut. She’s a puzzle I can’t solve, a problem I can’t get a handle on.
She bends to pick up the bag again, grunting with the effort. I push off the post, my cigarette dangling from my lips.
“Need a hand?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She straightens up, turning to face me. Her eyes, the same vibrant green as her father’s, flash with a mixture of surprise and defiance. “I’ve got it,” she says.
I just shrug, taking another drag from my cigarette. “Suit yourself.”
I turn and walk away, heading toward the barn. I can feel her eyes on my back, but I don’t look back. I can water the horses and check the cattle. I can do my work. I can focus on the things I can control. The land, the animals. The simple, tangible things that have always been my anchor in a world that’s never made much sense.
Saramaria
The hammering in my own head is nothing compared to the hammering coming from outside. Or the low, rumbling voices that carry on the wind, a constant reminder of their presence. Knox, Boone, Rhett.
I can’t concentrate.
The scent of them clings to the air, a musky, intrusive cocktail of whiskey and tea, rosemary and mint, cinnamon and espresso. It seeps through the walls of this house, a place that’s supposed to be mine, and claims it. This house smells like strangers.
So I clean.
I rebuild.
My OCD, a thing I’ve learned to manage in the sterile, predictable environment of my Denver life, comes roaring back with a vengeance. It’s the only way I know how to fight back, to re-establish order in a world that’s spinning wildly out of my control.
I scrub floors until my knuckles are raw. I wash windows until they gleam, wiping away the grime and the ghosts. I tear down the old, musty curtains in the living room, letting in the unfiltered Wyoming light.
I’m hauling another bag of trash down the hallway, huffing with the effort, when I mutter to Doggy, who’s trotting faithfully at my heels.
“I thought cowboys were supposed to be gentlemen,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “Aren’t they supposed to offer to help a lady with a heavy bag? Or is that just in the movies?”
Doggy just looks up at me, his head cocked, his brown eyes full of a canine wisdom that seems to say, “Lady, you have no idea what you’ve walked into.”
I groan, dropping the bag by the front door. Boone offered to help earlier. I saw it in his eyes, the slight shift in his posture. And I turned him down. Because I don’t need an Alpha, do I? I am strong and capable. I’ve built a life from nothing. I can figure this out on my own. I don’t need his help, his pity, or the complicated, painful history that hangs between us like a shroud.
I turn back to the task at hand, which is dismantling an old, wobbly bookshelf in the corner of what will be my bedroom. The wood is old, dry, and splintery. I try to pry a stubborn nail with the back of a hammer, but it won’t budge.
I drop the hammer and run my hand along the underside of the shelf to feel for a hidden bracket, but the wood is more brittle than I realized. A jagged splinter catches my skin, slicing deep into the meat of my palm.
“Fuck!” I yelp, dropping the hammer. A thick, ugly sliver of wood is buried deep in the fleshy part of my hand, just below my thumb. It throbs in time with my heartbeat.
