Chapter 7
FLURRIES, STAY AWAY
As soon as I saw that flyer, as much as I didn’t want to toss my hat into the not-so-proverbial ring, it wasn’t even a choice.
It’s hard to believe in the beauty and magic of fate when your young wife dies of breast cancer shortly after giving birth to your first child.
Then again, nowhere in the universe is it written that I’m owed a good fate.
Maybe struggle and pain is my fate, maybe what I’m meant to go through is hardship because it’s supposed to teach Sadie something about life, to build her up and make her strong and invincible. Hell, I don’t know.
What I do know is that training now, only five years older than when I last competed, is a lot like what I think hell is like.
Everything hurts. My muscles are on fire, and I’m callin’ to God to save me.
My wrists, my lower back, my palms, and fingers can hardly hold a mug of coffee, for Christ’s sake. Getting my body conditioned for one of the most dangerous, toughest sports is every bit the agony I expected it to be.
All for eight seconds, too.
Reaching, I wrap my hands around the grip and continue my pull-ups, a treacherous burn tearing through my palms. Sore, cracked palms, perpetually hurting, an ache numbing my wrists and making my forearms vibrate—that’s what I’m training for, and that’s what I need to get used to.
The day I submitted my application, I uncovered all the equipment in the barn and started training. Despite working on a ranch day in and day out, using my hands under the harsh sun, my body wasn’t ready for this.
A bolt of fire tears down my spine as I tap my chin to the bar at the top, and it’s so potent I drop to my feet and bend at the waist, gripping my knees. Sweat clouds my vision, and my chest burns from fatigue.
“Good morning,” a sweet, soft, almost melodic voice floods my senses, and I right myself and turn, my eyes landing on Quinn Farley, the woman who is unknowingly going to help me save my life.
In a cutoff jean skirt and those damn pink, glittery cowboy boots, she tucks her hands into her back pockets, the loose curls in her hair partially covering the faded Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt she’s wearing.
“Actually, you know what?” she asks, though I know it’s rhetorical because she’s smirking as she taps her pink bottom lip.
That bottom lip that is coated in something shimmery, something girly, and…
her shining eyes cut to mine, and I lose track of my thoughts from the way she looks at me.
She swallows, almost like looking at me made her lose track of her thoughts, too.
“I’ve been here a week,” she continues, her cheeks now looking a lot like the color of her lips.
“I think I’m ready to say good mornin’ instead of good morning. ”
I snatch my hat off the ground and drop it on my head. “I don’t think so.”
She braces her hands on her hips, doing a playful little stomp with that Barbie boot. “C’mon, when do I get to start talking like a Texan?”
I roll my neck, ignoring the raucous burn flaring from the strain. “When you’re a Texan.” I don’t have time for silly banter. My body aches, and it’s breakfast time. I need to get Sadie fed, fight with her about runnin’ a comb through her hair, and get her on the bus.
Then I need to get to that envelope.
“I’m done here. Feel free to stay out here if you want.”
Her face falls, but I move my gaze past her, toward the house, and head out of the barn.
The morning sun is already hot, promising another sweltering day on the ranch.
Our air conditioner hasn’t worked in two summers, and because the entire unit needs to be replaced, I know we’ll have to make do with iced tea and Popsicles again this year.
Unless I win.
I hang my hat on the rack near the door, but keep my boots on as I tread toward the stove and flick the burner on.
The door clicks shut, and a moment later the sink turns on.
Turning, I find Quinn filling the coffeepot, then pouring it in, adding grounds from the porcelain container on the counter.
Just as I reach back to grab the fridge door, she turns to do the same, and our hands collide in midair.
A sudden brush of her skin against mine, just two fingers hardly grazing, and I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned, because the connection ignites a flurry of excitement in my chest.
That pisses me off. I don’t want a flurry of anything but wins and cash, damn it.
“Oops.” She smiles, drawing her hands behind her back. “Sorry, you first. Your house. I just thought I’d try and help.”
I pull out the glass bottle of milk and knock the door closed.
“You don’t need to do that,” is what I say, but I’m not sure why.
My mind is yelling, Thank you, but I can’t bring myself to say it.
And I don’t want her in this space, doing things, helpin’ while she smiles and fills the house with her sunshine attitude and intoxicating, sweet, lady smell.
I don’t want to get used to something just to have it taken away all over again, and once the film is done, Quinn Farley, those boots that stir me up beneath my jeans, her smile, and sweet smell will leave Sable Sky and never return.
Ain’t no use in gettin’ personal.
“Sorry,” she says again, her tone deflated. Like clockwork, as my daddy’s old grandfather clock welcomes the new hour in a weighty chime, Sadie appears at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing one sleepy eye with a closed fist.
“Oh, you’re here again,” she directs groggily but happily to Quinn, then adds, “mornin’ Daddy.”
“Mornin’ sweetheart,” I greet her, then remind her softly, “Miss Quinn’s gonna be here off and on for a few months. For the rodeo movie, remember?”
Quinn lifts her camera, wiggling it to jog Sadie’s memory. I hadn’t seen that in her hand before, but maybe that’s because I was shamefully taking in every damn inch of those legs, tanned and lean, on display in that ridiculously short skirt.
No one at a ranch wears a damn skirt. It’s dangerous for so many reasons, and with that long hair down, she’s a liability on tan legs if I ever saw one. Sadie points at Quinn. “You’re so pretty, Miss Quinn, I love your outfit!”
Quinn makes a show of curtsying, and Sadie giggles, copying her. “Thank you, Miss Sadie. I adore your Princess Elsa nightie.” She wags her brows. “Anna is my favorite. I have Anna pajamas back at the inn!”
Sadie slaps her hands to her cheeks and gawks, mostly because we watched Home Alone for the first time this past Christmas, and imitating Kevin McCallister is her favorite thing. “Really?”
Quinn looks proud to answer, “Really.” Her green eyes cut to me, where I’m wearing a scowl as I drag a piece of bread off the loaf and jam it into the toaster.
“Well, anyway, I’m here to film your daddy and everything he does to get ready for the rodeo.
See?” she offers sweetly, switching the camera on, a green light blinking near the lens.
Sadie waves at the camera like a damn natural, and Quinn’s smile widens as she directs her. “Tell me your name, your age, and your favorite things,” Quinn guides, Sadie preening from the attention, bringing her hands beneath her chin playfully.
“I’m Sadie Ruth Vaughn, I’m six years old, and I love my chicken Big Bertha, my favorite horse is Daisy, I love sittin’ in my daddy’s lap for a story, and playin’ with my friends, Petunia and Alice.”
“Don’t forget Lola,” I add, smearing fresh butter along the hot, crispy toast.
“She’s a baby, Daddy. She ain’t my friend, all she does is cry and throw fits!” Sadie insists about Petunia and Alice’s little sister, Tate and Love’s youngest daughter.
“You did that at two, too.”
“Fine,” she amends. “My best friends are Petunia, Alice, and Lola.”
Quinn asks her questions about her favorite colors and cartoons, and I’m urgently overrun with the need for fresh air.
Grabbing a dish towel, I push out the back door and traipse toward the chicken coop, my chest unusually and suddenly tight, and not from the workout this morning.
I’ve seen Sadie with women before, mother and grandma figures, you name it.
She spends time with Love, Tate’s wife, and she’s a favorite at school, not to mention she and Mabel have a great bond.
But having a woman in my house. In my kitchen. Making coffee and saying good morning to my baby girl. I don’t know. I’m feeling things I’m not trying to uncover right now.
“Mornin’, y’all,” I greet the hens as I enter the coop, the butter already warming on the pan inside.
“C’mon now, Bertha, move on over. Let me see what your sister has for me.
” Big Bertha pecks at my ankles relentlessly, squawking and carrying on the way she always does when I come to collect. She’s only nice to Sadie.
I fill the towel with a handful of fresh eggs, and walk back toward the house, the rose gold sky catching my eyes. Bringing a hand up to shield myself from going blind, the brightness tamps, and I stop five paces from the house.
Through the window above the sink, I see Sadie and Quinn in the kitchen.
She’s got her hands on the stepladder as Sadie pulls mugs down from the shelf she can’t reach.
Usually she climbs onto the counter and I’m always telling her to use the ladder so she doesn’t fall off and get hurt. But Quinn is cautious behind her.
Sadie passes my favorite mug to Quinn, and says something that makes Quinn laugh. Her head falls back, and her eyes squeeze shut as Sadie continues, egged on by Quinn’s reaction. The two of them laugh for a few seconds, and I stand there, watching my little girl in a way I love seeing her.
Once I’m back inside, Quinn is in the middle of explaining something to Sadie, and I remain silent, cracking eggs over the stove.
“Most of the time, no. I usually just observe quietly, and I record the things that I think matter most,” she finishes as Sadie sits next to her listening intently, elbows on the table, fists clenched beneath her chin.