Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
JANIE
My conversation with Mom makes me feel better, but it doesn’t clarify anything for me in regards to my work.
I do call my boss and ask for another few days working remotely.
It makes me feel even more guilty that they’re suddenly so accommodating.
Just make sure you’re at the next company-wide meeting, my boss Richard says before hanging up.
I don’t see how I wouldn’t be there by then. I’m just asking for a little bit of time to recover from Shane, that’s all.
I’m not staying.
Thursday rolls around, and we have the mother of all heat waves starting at the crack of dawn.
The ranch is buzzing from a new head of cattle being delivered the night before.
All the men are out in the fields. I spend most of the morning and afternoon at the main house with Mom.
She’s canning pickles and tomatoes. I’m doing a lot of holding Slate on my hip while Freya fetches stacks of glass jars and lids.
Everything feels cozy, so familiar.
“I think I’ll make some iced coffee,” Freya says, appearing at the doorway.
She’s in cut-off jean shorts and a checkered tube top, her curly hair braided down her back.
Her feet are bare; they always are. I hope I look as free and vibrant as Freya just a few months after giving birth.
But then again, I think that’s on account of Deacon being so hands-on.
“I’ll take some,” I say, bouncing Slate gently in my lap. He smirks, waving both fists.
“Me too,” Mom says, wiping her hands on a rag. “I wish canning day wasn’t the worst heat we’ve had all year.”
“Always comes out that way,” I say.
Freya skirts past me, taking down the iced coffee jug. “At least we’re not baking out there in the upper pasture. Deacon’s gonna be cooked when he gets in.”
She leans up, her shirt hitching to reveal a thin chain over her hip, like body jewelry. That’s interesting but also not my business. I swing my focus back to Slate, who’s trying to grab my hair. I block his fist, squeezing it gently. In a rage, he screws up his face and starts howling.
“Uh oh,” I say, standing to shift him to my shoulder. “Sorry, little guy. You can’t swing on my hair.”
“God, he’s all about yanking everybody’s hair out lately.” Freya puts a hand on her hip, filling the jug in the sink with the other. “I told Deacon he’s lucky he doesn’t have any left to rip out. All he wants to do is get a big fistful of mine. He near about got Bittern the other day too.”
For some reason, the name makes my face hot. Giving my head an annoyed shake, I swing my focus back to Slate. Freya leaves to run down to the basement to get more cans. Balancing Slate on my hip, I follow her, helping to drag several dozen jars up into the hall.
I sink back down at the table. The front door swings open, and boots sound on the floor.
Deacon’s not likely to be in at this time of day.
I don’t have to wonder long, because the footfalls get close, and Bittern Hatfield appears, stopping short.
My mind goes back to the conversation I had about him with Mom.
I hope she hasn’t said anything to Freya behind my back.
It would be just like Mom to pull strings.
Before I can make eye contact with him, I look away, pretending I don’t see him. Or don’t care.
“You need something?” Freya wipes her hands on her apron.
“Sorry, just came to let you know Deacon and I are headed into the hardware store,” he says. “You want anything from town?”
“No, I’m good,” Freya says. “Tell him to be back by dinner.”
“Will do. Y’all be careful now.”
He leaves, and my ears are burning. God, I could have handled that better, but I panicked. Freya gives me a curious look, forehead creased.
“Sorry, I don’t know him,” I manage.
“That’s my brother…Bittern,” she says. “He’s been around the ranch for a while now.”
“Right, sorry,” I say casually. “I’ve been kind of distracted. I’m sure Mom told you I went through a breakup, and I’ve just been…all over the place. I don’t even know what I’m doing at home. I should be at the office.”
“It’s probably better you’re here,” Freya says, tone softening. “I’ve never had a breakup, but I imagine it’s rough. You need space.”
“Really?” I’m grateful to change the subject. “Never been broken up with? Or broke up with anyone?”
She shakes her head. “Deacon’s my first serious relationship.”
“Wow,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, he’s an intense first relationship to have, but I don’t have any complaints. He does whatever I want, treats me well.”
“He does. Deacon’s always been good, just rough around the edges.”
“You could say that again.”
We both laugh, and I’m glad she’s around. Her soft, strong presence balances out Deacon’s and turns this house into a home. Ranch life can be rough, isolating work, and it’s good to have friends out here.
The time etches on as we talk. It takes a while, but I manage to push my Bittern sighting out of sight, out of mind. It’s just hard when he’s…well, he’s got a strong presence, despite not saying much. After Shane, I find I’m preferring quieter men. The steadiness of him is magnetic.
“You take some of this back with you,” says Freya as the clock hits dinnertime.
“You know I won’t turn any fresh food down,” I say.
“What do you want?”
“Tomatoes, pickles.”
Freya packs them into a basket, wrapping the glass in hand towels. She puts some bread and butter in there too, pushing it across the table. I hand Slate over, giving him a goodbye kiss on his head, and she walks me to the door.
“Let me know if you need help again,” I say.
“Will do,” she says, bouncing Slate.
I give Slate a squeeze on his chubby foot, and he gurgles, drooling all down the front of his onesie. “See you later.”
Pickle jars wrapped in their basket, I head down the porch and up the hill towards the house.
The yard is full of wranglers putting their horses in, stopping to talk about how damn hot it is.
I skirt around them, catching sight of Dad standing in the driveway, talking.
Maybe I’ll take the long way around the barn and ask him if he wants me to make dinner tonight.
I walk along the fence, dry grass crunching beneath my feet.
The sun is setting over the fields. It’s vibrant red tonight, casting stark shadows.
I love evenings like this, when everybody is worn out from honest work and ready to crash on their porches with some iced tea.
It’s so familiar, I can predict what they’ll say.
Gotdamn, it’s hot as all fuck. Better hope it cools tonight, or we’ll be burnt to a crisp by the end of the week.
Animals will need to be in the lower pasture if it don’t break.
Circling around the back of the barn, I stop short.
There he is—Bittern Hatfield, standing by the running watering trough. He’s halfway in silhouette, halfway bathed in orange light. My breath hitches as he leans in, splashing water all over his face and head, soaking his shirt, sending a glittering spray into the air.
Oh God, I shouldn’t be watching.
He shakes his head, slicking back his short hair with his palm.
Then, he reaches down and peels off his shirt, tossing it over the edge of the trough.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not for him to be ripped underneath.
Maybe all he had to do in rehab was lift weights, because, Lord, he looks so damn good.
He’s got a scar on his visible ribs, a few random tattoos, but it’s the abs that steal the entire show.
I’m hot all over, in a way I’ve never been before.
I never was with Shane—my brain makes a note of that.
My feet are glued to the ground. He dips both hands in, splashing water all over his shoulders and stomach. He shakes his head, water spraying everywhere. Then, he grabs his shirt and uses it to towel off, wiping his hands and up his thick forearms.
God, they need to put him in a commercial or something.
“What’re you looking at?”
I jump out of my skin, whirling to find Dad standing with his hands on his hips, gazing out over the field to my right.
“Nothing,” I say, scrambling out onto the driveway. He follows close behind.
“Please,” he says. “I saw you looking at the Hatfield boy.”
“Dad,” I whisper.
He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What? I don’t have nothing against him. He’s a good guy.”
Distracted from my mortification, I look up.
“Really?” I whisper.
Dad has never liked my boyfriends, not a single one, and every time, he’s been dead right about them.
It feels significant that he likes Bittern, even if I’ve never spoken a single word to the man.
Maybe it’s a sign I should go introduce myself.
The thought is terrifying, which is strange.
I’ve never gotten scared of talking to men before.
Usually, they’re the ones who get nervous.
Bittern seems quiet, gentle, and I like that. But his story…that’s intense, and it makes me feel like he’s not in a place to date right now.
“Yeah, he doesn’t have much to say, but he’s a great worker,” Dad says.
We start walking up the hill, heading home.
“Mom told me his story,” I say after a while.
“Yeah, it’s pretty rough stuff.”
“Could say that again.”
We climb up on the porch and both sink down on the steps.
I’ve sat hours on this porch with Dad in the past, just shooting the shit while he unwinds from his day.
I could close my eyes and paint the line of the mountains from memory, and yet, I’m still soaking them in like I might never see this picture again.
They never get old to me.