CHAPTER TWO COEN #2
“Oh, okay,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Coen Taylor.”
She nods, ignoring my hand and stepping aside. “I know. Come on in. I made pasta.”
I step into the dark hall. The house is nice, homey.
“Go on, straight ahead.”
She’s got a brisk way of speaking. I walk in, entering an open concept with thick wooden walls and an enormous stone fireplace that reaches to the second floor. Everything is the typical ranch style found out in these parts, way nicer than anything I had growing up.
“You hungry?” she asks.
I nod, although I’m not sure. She darts past me and turns on the kitchen light, bathing the dim room in a golden glow that smarts my eyes.
Carefully, I set down my bags and take in the interior of the ranch house.
It’s nice, a little outdated, but well loved.
She opens the oven and takes out a blue and red painted pie dish, peeling back the foil.
Inside is a massive pile of chicken and pasta smothered with cheese and white sauce.
My stomach tightens. Maybe I am hungry.
“Want anything to drink?” she asks.
“Uh, just some water is great,” I say.
She pulls out a barstool at the counter and sets the dish on a towel. “Go on. Sit and eat while it’s hot.”
I’m a little confused, but rolling with it. I could have sworn the person I was supposed to meet was Scott Iron’s friend, Bill Maxwell. Sinking down, I watch as she gets herself a glass of white wine. She turns, lifting the bottle.
“Sure you won’t have just a bit?” she says.
I shake my head. “Nah, but I’d take a coffee.”
“Your loss,” she says cheerily, popping it back in the fridge. “So, how was the trip in?”
“Long,” I say. “But good, yeah.”
She pops a cup in the Keurig, and the scent of coffee and faint bubbling of it brewing fills the air.
“How far?”
“New York to here,” I say. “A couple layovers.”
“Where?”
“Uh, Dallas, mainly.”
She nods, frowning. “I’ve never flown anywhere but New York.”
“Really?”
She shakes her head, passing me the mug. “Never had a chance to travel. All me and my sister have ever done is fly back and forth to where our mom lives in New York. You probably think that’s pretty small town of me.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m from a small town.”
Silence. She shifts her weight from left to right.
I take a bite and have to pause. I haven’t had food this good in a long time.
I’m used to road food, to feeling a little bit uncomfortable from eating things in packages, or being at award ceremonies where the meal is sparse and cold.
This tastes normal, like what my mom used to make.
“You’re a good cook,” I say. “Thanks for dinner.”
She smiles. “You’ll eat in the house with us. I promise, you don’t want to eat out with the wranglers.”
“Am I staying here, in the house?”
She shrugs. “You can, but we do have a little guesthouse out back. It’s really nice. I cleaned it the other day, put fresh sheets out.”
“That’s perfect.”
More silence. She taps her fingers on the table. My eyes drift up her body to her face. She seems pretty young to be a ranch manager, but maybe she’s just got a young face. Who knows. I don’t want to ask her age; that seems rude.
“Is that all you brought?” She points at my carry-on.
“Yeah, Jamie didn’t want me to take my music shit. I’m supposed to be on a break.”
At the mention of my job, she shifts awkwardly, her round eyes fixing on me.
“Honestly, don’t get offended by this, but I don’t really know much about your work,” she says. “I listen to more folk, like Americana, than country music.”
My hand goes still. I clear my throat.
“That’s what I used to write, actually,” I say.
Her face lights up. “Really?”
“Yeah, I got my start writing folk songs for a couple bands. None of them are still going, but it was great.”
She pulls out a stool and sits. “So you switched to country? Did you like that better?”
“Honestly?” I say. “It pays better.”
I expect her to judge me, but she just nods. “I get that.”
We’re both quiet again while I eat until the plate is empty. I can tell she’s pleased I liked her cooking, and I'm oddly happy she’s happy. Standing, she goes to rinse her glass.
“So, are you running this place all on your own?” I ask.
She turns, crossing her arms and leaning on the sink. “My dad owns the ranch, but he retired last year because of a couple different things, nerve damage from working so hard and age. So it’s just me running things. I mean, my sister helps a lot, and we have fifteen wranglers.”
I’m impressed.
“I can give a hand,” I say.
Her brows arch skeptically. I smile, getting up.
“I was raised on a ranch, used to do the whole cowboy thing until I went to Nashville,” I say. “I know my way around one.”
“Really?”
“Really, really.”
We both smile, and some of the awkwardness melts.
God, she is pretty. But I promised Jamie I wouldn’t sleep around out here.
No, I’m supposed to be detoxing from everything.
It’s kind of rough that the ranch manager turned out to be one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen, with huge fucking cartoon eyes she keeps fixing on me like I’m the only person in the world.
Maybe that’s just the loneliness in me talking.
I don’t know.
But I should go to bed.
“You want me to show you the guesthouse?” she asks.
I nod, grabbing my bags. She takes a key from the counter and ducks awkwardly around me, leading the way out to a four season porch in the back. To the very far right is a barn, the light on, the shadow of someone moving around inside visible on the ground.
“My sister,” she says. “She’s putting the horses to bed.”
“How many do you have?” I ask.
“A lot. Those are the ones we ride the most.”
I nod, on her heels as she goes down into the yard.
We duck beneath a thick tree, and a neat, cottage-style building comes into view.
She climbs the short steps to the front porch and turns the key, pushing in the door with a heavy creak.
I lean past her, looking for a light switch.
We’re very close, close enough that I feel the heat from her body.
For the first time, I feel that twinge I expected coming home.
She turns to speak and then falters.
My heart accelerates, just a bit.
“Uh…it’s right there,” she says, pointing.
“Okay,” I say.
Neither of us move. In the distance, something crashes in the barn—sounds like a horse kicking at the side of its stall. She startles, snapping to attention.
“You need anything, just let me know,” she says, scrambling down the steps. Her eyes are huge in the moonlight, looking up through her wispy bangs.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say.
Sometimes, I wish I was better with words.
When it’s my fingers on a keyboard or my pen in my notebook, they flow like a stream.
But when there’s a person in front of me, when I’m on the spot, I’m at a loss—especially when the person is as pretty as Sabrina Maxwell.
That makes it a hell of a lot worse. She gives me a thin-lipped smile and heads back to the house.
I watch her go. Then, I step into my new home.