Chapter 4
Chapter Four
While dashing around my kitchen, grabbing sandwich fixings, I try to process having Rowdy Whittaker in my barn. The night we met at the film festival, I thought we were onto something. After we stopped arguing, anyways. Why did he ask for my number if he never meant to call me?
Whatever. I don’t need a man.
Okay, maybe tonight I do. Or at least, I need someone steady and trustworthy to help me help this kiddo.
Where are the boy’s parents? What is Sons of Eden?
The poor boy was so hungry he ate an entire bag of raw oats, several pounds of bulk carrots, and every single one of the apples, leaving only the seeds and stems. Who does that?
He also left a mess, but I’m not about to hold that against him, plus I think he was in the process of cleaning it up when I scared him into hiding.
When I return from my kitchen with two sandwiches and a silo of the peanut butter cookies I made yesterday, Rowdy and the boy are still up in the loft.
My horse Shasta pokes her nose over her stall door, ears perked, reminding me that I’m going to need to hit up the feed store tomorrow for more oats and grain mix.
“I’ve got some sandwiches and homemade cookies,” I call up toward the loft.
After some low murmurs, Rowdy climbs down the ladder. Annoyance at him—at myself for being annoyed—flares inside my chest, but I force it all back with a firm exhale.
“He doesn’t have any other family,” Rowdy says to me, his tone low enough so the boy can’t hear. “Zach’s on the way.”
I’m apprehensive about moving too fast for the boy’s comfort, but Rowdy’s connected to the community in ways I’m not yet, so I’m going to trust him. And though I’ve raised two children of my own as well as been a surrogate mom to many of their friends, nothing like this has ever happened to me.
When the boy climbs down in faded camo pants that are at least a size too small and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that’s dingy and torn at the shoulder, I have to fight the urge to sweep him into my arms and hug him. It’s obvious he’s been on his own for a while. Weeks, at least.
“I’ll get you some water.” I set the plate on a hay bale and fill one of my big plastic cups at the utility sink, then carry it back to where the boy is already halfway finished with one of the sandwiches.
His eyes turn wary when I approach, so I set the cup down where he can reach it then step back.
His fleeting look of gratitude gives me a peek at the innocent child hiding behind the mask of bravery. When he gulps down half the water, the harsh overhead lighting reveals a long scar underneath his forearm.
The mama bear in me has her claws out. Who has been hurting this boy?
Rowdy lowers to one of the hay bales. “Zach came to Finn River in a similar way as you. He was on the run from some people who wanted to hurt him. A local rancher here named Henry took him in, and together, they figured out a way for him to stop running.”
The boy doesn’t reply, but his gaze shifts my way for a second. He picks up the second sandwich.
“Would you consider something like that?” I ask. It sounds weak but I don’t know how else to try to win his trust.
“Zach can help us work out a plan to keep you safe,” Rowdy adds. “Connect you with some tools and resources so you can stop running.”
The boy gulps more water then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why would you help me?”
Rowdy leans forward, hands on his knees.
“Because you have the right to a decent life. One free of harm. You’ve already taken the hardest step by leaving.
But it’s only the first step. The ones ahead of you will be darn near impossible to tackle alone.
I also want to help because I have some experience with this thanks to supporting Zach when he needed it. ”
The boy’s gaze lifts to a point beyond me, and his mouth hardens. “Zach’s a cop?”
Footfalls on the gravel draw my attention to the man in a forest green sheriff’s deputy uniform approaching my barn, his pace easy.
“An honest one,” Rowdy says before turning back to the boy.
“Why should I believe you?”
Zach steps into the light, a look of compassion in his indigo eyes. “Because I know how hard it is feeling like you don’t belong.”
The boy’s eyes shine with sudden emotion and his cheeks flush.
“You’re in charge,” Rowdy assures him. “Nobody’s going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. But we can help. Will you let us try?”
The boy swipes at his cheeks while his gaze skips between the three of us. “Okay,” he finally says, his voice rough.
Zach and Rowdy exchange a quick glance that speaks to the familiarity between them. There’s also no mistaking the pride in Rowdy’s eyes.
“What’s your name, son?” Zach asks.
The boy seems to stand up a little straighter. “You can call me Colton.”
“You think we’re doing the right thing?” I ask Rowdy as Zach’s SUV disappears into the rainy darkness.
“I do.” Rowdy’s steady gaze locks with mine, and despite the awkward energy fizzing between us, his tone and confidence are enough to reassure me.
“I meant what I said. He’s welcome to help out here. I certainly could use a hand. But he needs more than a job.”
“I think Zach convinced him of that.”
“Do you want to come inside? I could make coffee, or tea? You probably missed dinner. I could fix you something.” I hate the edge of need in my voice, but I don’t know what to do with the questions running around in my brain, most of them about Colton.
What’s going to happen to him next? What did he run from?
Colton’s visit and the obvious crisis he’s in stirred up something in me, and I’m not sure what to do about it. Though one thing is clear: I’m going to find a way to continue to help him, however I can.
“Tea sounds great, actually.” Rowdy follows me to my porch and up the wide steps.
I sneak a look at him, then wish I hadn’t because it makes me conflicted all over again. I’m a fun, emotionally stable, sex-positive woman with a clean bill of health and a zest for adventure and you’re really not going to ask me out?
Inside, the music I left on and the last of the fire I built earlier almost makes the place feel cozy, but it’s still lacking, though I try not to dwell on it.
I expected to relish a quiet house with oodles of time for long walks and trail rides in search of inspo, then the freedom to paint whenever and for as long as I needed.
But it’s not quite working out that way.
We both slip off our boots, then Rowdy hangs his cowboy hat and jacket on the coat rack. I lead him down the short hallway past the open concept living area with twin leather couches facing the river rock fireplace to the kitchen.
Rowdy gives my living room an appreciative scan, his hands tucked into his pockets.
“Do you take honey or sugar?” I flip on the electric kettle and take two tea bags of my favorite orange spice—the only herbal variety I have.
Rowdy joins me in the kitchen. In just his socks and without his hat, he looks a little less serious, but no less handsome.
Especially with his thick salt-and-pepper hair, slightly mussed, like he ran his fingers through it on the way to my kitchen.
I flex my fingers to stop my craving to do the same.
“Honey would be great.”
I pull the honey from the second shelf, then add the tea bags to two mugs.
“The place looks good,” he says while I pour the hot water into each mug. “I love how you’ve blown out the walls and added all these windows.”
“Thank you.” The work took nearly nine months to complete while I lived in a trailer, but experiencing the ever-changing sunlight that streaks into the house, from sunrise to sunset, has been worth the wait.
Never in a million years did I think my art would make me wealthy enough to create something so beautiful and spacious. “My kids were convinced I was nuts.”
He squeezes a blob of honey into his tea, and I hand him a spoon to stir it in. Our fingertips touch for an instant, and that same uneasy energy gallops under my skin. “Why’d they think that?”
I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “It was a rundown farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.” I set his spoon in the sink, then lean back against the counter, cradling my cup.
“You’re not in the middle of nowhere,” he says with a hint of teasing in his tone. “And the house just needed someone to care for it.”
“Lily thinks it’s a lot of house for one person.” I wince as soon as the words leave my lips, but I cover it with a sip of tea. Way to sound desperate.
“She’s the chef, right?” Rowdy blows across his tea, then takes a small sip. “In San Francisco. Your son’s the snowboarder.”
Well, damn. He remembered all that? “Yeah,” I manage. The first guy I dated after my divorce couldn’t even get my kids’ names straight.
“Have they visited since you fixed it up?”
I smile. “Both of them came for Christmas. We went skiing and baked cookies and played board games by the fire.” When they left, I cried for two days.
Not that I’d want them to give up their dreams to keep me company, but I miss them hard.
I miss their chaos, their messes, their dirty, balled up socks, their sleepy hugs.
I think I miss being needed, though my divorce lawyer reassured me it would pass.
But it’s been two years and if anything, the feeling has only strengthened.
My mom keeps encouraging me to find outlets like volunteering, but so far I’ve only signed up with the community art center, and though I love teaching the lovely group of senior ladies who bring wine and cheese to each class, maybe I should try working with their afterschool kids program too.
Not only because helping kids express themselves through art is fun and deeply meaningful, but their parents could be closer to my age.
Rowdy blows across his tea before taking another sip. “So you’re liking Finn River?”