Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BITTERN
I’m on cloud nine Monday morning. I wake up, rolling over with my face in the pillow, and realize it still smells like her.
That has me feeling so damn good, it gets me right out of bed and into the bathroom like I’m floating on air.
I swear, I look better than I ever have in the mirror.
Younger, more energetic. My eyes aren’t so dull, I think.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I buzz right through my shower without leaning on the wall and thinking about how tired I am.
I barely taste my breakfast and coffee. It’s not until I’m down at the barn and turning the corner only to run right into Andy, and I come down to Earth with a jolt.
Everything I did Saturday comes rolling through my head, and it clicks—if I get what I want, I’ll be a whole hell of a lot closer than I ever imagined with Andy.
Our eyes lock, and I know he knows. Of course he does. Janie didn’t come home Saturday night.
I clear my throat. “Morning.”
His jaw works. “Morning.”
Silence, less awkward than I’d have thought but still not comfortable, reigns. He clears his throat, stepping around me.
“Alright, let’s get to getting,” he says, heading toward the stalls.
I smile, thinking I doubt anybody was using that phrase until Freya showed up.
Neither of us say much for the rest of the work day.
It’s cooler now, with the heat wave rolling out and making way for more reasonable temperatures.
The fences are in alright condition; we ride them at a brisk pace.
I’m not sure if it’s because Andy’s trying not to hold still long enough to talk or if he’s trying to be efficient.
It’s Tuesday before I get to see my girl again. I keep calling her that in my head—my girl—and it’s sticking.
We both have long days. I’m in the field, she’s in the house. I eat in the mess hall and I’m disappointed I don’t see her. I go by her parents’ house, but she’s not on the porch. As I get ready for bed, I think about texting her, but no, she’d let me know if she had free time.
I’m turning off the light when I hear a knock. My feet bring me to the front door so fast, I barely touch the floor. It’s her, wrapped in a blanket, standing at the bottom of the steps.
“I snuck out,” she says, eyes glittering, cheeks flushed.
“It’s a little cold in my bed,” I say. “Care to warm me up?”
“I think I could arrange that,” she whispers.
She comes up the steps, and I scoop her up, blanket and all, and carry her inside to the bedroom.
We don’t have sex. I don’t know why. I’m just so in awe of looking at her, of kissing her mouth, listening to her tell me about her day.
I hold her with one arm underneath, her cheek on my bicep.
I touch her face, tracing her few freckles, tucking her hair behind her ear.
We talk about the ranch until our eyes get tired.
Then, we finally have sex. It’s sleepy and slow, like we know each other.
The next day, I’m supposed to go into town to pick up some things at the general store.
I take the work truck to Knifely and get there by the time the sun is up, casting long shadows through the buildings.
I park in city parking, even though there’s space along the curb.
It gives me a chance to walk down the street and feel like a normal person just doing normal shit.
Someone waves at me, I think it’s the owner of the hair salon by the diner. I wave back and keep on going.
The cafe is open. I duck in, and Freya is there. I’m surprised. I thought she was still on maternity leave. But she’s in her plaid skirt, tights, and green sweater, her curly hair piled on her head. I walk in, and she looks up with a bright smile.
“I thought you weren’t working yet,” I say.
“I needed a break,” she says. “Ginny has Slate this morning and Tracy had some meetings in the city, so I offered to open.”
My throat catches as I look around. This is a nice place, far better than anything she ever had back home.
It’s clean, it’s warm, it’s cozy. For Freya, that’s important.
She’s what my mother used to call a nester, somebody who thrives in comfort, surrounded by the things they love.
Freya likes her books, her bugs, her butterflies, but now, she’s got a bigger nest; this place with its fragrant coffee, piles of pastries, and pleasant clientele.
“Want a coffee?” she asks, leaning on the counter.
“Sure,” I say, pushing my hands in my pockets. “I’m picking up some chicken wire for Deacon, just stopping by.”
She starts doing something that involves a lot of bubbling and steaming behind the counter. “That’s on me. I’m getting some quail.”
“What’re you doing with quail?”
“Pickled red beet eggs.”
I do love me some pickled red beet eggs.
We grew up eating those, a way for Freya to keep cheap protein in the house.
Trying to feed four men was an overwhelming task for her, and I’m glad she doesn’t have to do it anymore unless she wants to.
But I do love that she’s bringing all the dishes from back home to Ryder Ranch.
“Tiny pickled eggs,” she says, sliding a paper cup across to me. “I think it’ll be cute, and we can save back some eggs and make Easter decorations next year.”
I smile.
“What?” she presses.
“Nothing much,” I say, shaking my head. “I just sure am glad you found that crazy son of a gun you married. He’s real good to you.”
Her face softens. “He is good to me. I’m lucky.”
“He’s lucky too,” I say.
“Yeah, he is.” We both laugh, and she leans across the counter to hug me briefly. “Alright, you head on out so I can get ahead on all this baking. There’s an event down at city hall tomorrow, and we’re catering.”
“Well, you have fun with that,” I say, using my back to push the door open.
She waves, and I wave back through the glass.
Then, I’m heading back down the sidewalk with some kind of cinnamon-smelling latte in my hand.
I can see the general store up ahead, but I don’t make it there, because all of a sudden, I’m standing right in front of the dog shelter.
It’s a sterile building, a big sign hanging from two chains over the door.
Somebody used green chalk to draw pawprints leading up to it.
I follow them. The door chimes as I step into the empty lobby. It smells like lemon cleaner.
“I’ll be right there,” a man calls from the back.
“No hurry,” I say.
There are rows of photos of dogs pinned to the tackboard.
I lean in, studying them carefully. I’m about halfway down when a lanky, dark haired guy of about eighteen pops around the corner, a fluffy dog under his arm.
It’s hanging there with a smug expression on its smushed face, like it’s judging me real hard.
“Hey, can I help you?” he says brightly. “You got an appointment?”
“Nah, I just…I’d been thinking of coming in for a while,” I say. “I was just stopping by.”
“You want to check the dogs out?” he says. “I don’t have anything going on right now, and they’re all in their kennels.”
I hesitate then nod.
He leads me into a back room. On the far end are a row of metal kennels with dog doors that lead to an outdoor pen.
“We got a couple new dogs in this month,” he says. “You looking for a hunting dog? Big? Small?”
“Maybe a hunting dog, I don’t know,” I say, moving closer. A pair of Huskies roll around on the ground in the far kennel. They don’t look up.
“Huskies go fast,” he says. “So do the labs.”
I walk a few doors down then stop and back up.
Inside the middle kennel, sitting on a pink dog bed, is the littlest basset puppy I’ve ever seen.
It’s a girl, judging from her matching pink collar and flowery tag.
She’s sitting on her butt with her legs straight out, staring up at me through droopy eyes. Right away, I’m smitten.
“Hey, girl,” I say, sinking down.
“That’s Daisy,” he says. “She’s been a tough one.”
“How’s that?”
Daisy doesn’t move. She stays right where she’s at, even though I’m holding my hand out.
“Her owners moved unexpectedly and couldn’t take her,” he says. “She’s just real quiet and doesn’t interact with people during adoption hours. It’s made it tough to get her rehomed.”
“Can I take a look at her?”
“Sure,” the man says, unlocking the cage one handed. “Might take a minute to coax her out. I’m gonna drop this little guy off in the intake office, and I’ll be right back.”
I nod, staying right where I am. Most of the dogs are outside, so it’s pretty quiet.
I tick my tongue, but Daisy doesn’t move.
She’s pretty, two shades of brown, one pale and the other almost black down at the tips of her ears.
Those damn ears look like a tripping hazard.
I tick my tongue again and hold out my hand.
She gets up and waddles out, her stubby legs taking her slowly to me.
I let her sniff my palm for a while, check me out.
“You get left behind, sweetheart?” I say.
She sniffs, sneezing. I touch her ears, rubbing the top of her head. She lets me for a few minutes, and then she crawls up beneath my feet and rolls onto her back, paws in the air.
What the hell. I think I might be getting a dog today.
I scratch her belly, and her eyes squeeze shut. The man comes back in, sans his judgmental dog, and puts his hands on his hips.
“Well, damn,” he says. “She’s asleep.”
She’s out, snoring lightly, one eye twitching. Gently, I scoop her up and get to my feet, rolling her so she can drape over my shoulder. She wakes but doesn’t fight to get down. Her body hangs as relaxed as a wet rag, letting me scratch her back.
“Can I get this one?” I say.
His brows rise. “You sure?”
I turn my head, and Daisy looks at me sideways, nose twitching.
There’s a look in her eyes that kind of reminds me a bit of myself.
She’s calm. I reckon she’d be a good porch-sitting dog.
I also reckon she’s quiet and wouldn’t scare up the birds when I sit by the lake.
And Janie would like her—that’s the most important thing.
“Yeah, I live out on Ryder Ranch, and I have space for her,” I say. “No other dogs, and I live alone.”
He looks between us both then nods. I follow him out, and less than twenty minutes and a hell of a lot of paperwork later, I’m carrying a leash and collar in one hand and a puppy in the other.
The sun hits me hard, taking me back to reality, where I have to get those supplies for Deacon.
Pushing the leash into one hand, I drape Daisy around my shoulders and head for the store.
She’s real quiet while I get my things. I get her a bed and some bowls before heading out to bring around the truck.
She sits in the driver’s side and tries to see over the edge as I load everything into the bed.
I get in, and she scrambles into my lap, laying down while I pull onto the road.
I drive one handed, other hand on her back to keep her from flying around when I take the corners, and she sleeps through the whole thing.
It’s kind of nice, not being alone.
Back at the ranch, I put her in the bedroom and shut the door.
Then, I unload everything in the barn. By the time it’s all settled and blacksmith shed, it’s pretty late.
I’ve got a little food at my house, so I think I’ll skip the mess hall and eat with Daisy.
I haven’t seen Janie around, but I’m learning she’s pretty busy. She’ll turn up when she chooses.
Turn up, she does. I never lock my door, and it hangs open when I climb the steps.
From inside comes the sound of rattling pans.
I push open the interior screen and move down the hall.
The clack of toenails sounds, and then Daisy comes dashing around the corner and jumps on my ankles. I scoop her up.
Janie steps into view. My stomach flips. She looks so good, all tan and sun-kissed and pretty in jean shorts that show a little bit of her ass and a cropped Ryder Ranch t-shirt.
“You got a dog?” she says. “Unless you were being robbed by the sweetest little criminal and she got trapped in your room.”
“Nah,” I say, coming into the kitchen. “I adopted her from the shelter today.”
Her brows curve. “You went to the shelter?”
“Yeah, I’d been thinking about getting a dog for a bit.”
She smiles, coming up to me and taking my jaw in her fingers to pull me down. My head goes blank as she kisses me.
“You’re something else, Bittern Hatfield,” she says.
“Something good?”
“Better.”
Feeling a little feisty, I reach around and squeeze her ass.
She lets out a little yelp and ducks around me, going to the stove.
Setting Daisy down, I go to the sink to wash up.
Then, I get a glass of water and sink down at the table.
Janie’s humming, standing on her toes to peer into a bubbling pot.
A strange sensation, like I’m living somebody else’s life, steals over me.
I’ve met people with happy families, happy homes, but I never thought that would be me.
I wonder if Freya felt like this when she met Deacon.
I wish I could remember a lot of that time, but I swear, that was one of the worst times in my life, and I barely recall a thing.
Everything in Montana pre-rehab is a messy, traumatic blur.
I lift Daisy up into my arms. Janie’s filling a plate with breakfast for dinner, and when she catches my eye, she smiles.
And blushes.
Goddamn.
Things change pretty fast, don’t they?