14. Dean
Dean
I rub the back of my neck and stare at the figures on the screen.
Given the circumstances, Lennon's done a reasonable job organizing things, but there's still information missing—stuff I have to either infer or flat-out guess at.
I hate guessing, but it's not Lennon's fault.
Bookkeeping isn't supposed to be his job.
It used to be their asshole bookkeeper's job—the one who'd been skimming a little off the top for years.
He kept the amounts small on purpose, just enough to slip under the radar. If Lennon hadn't gone back to check an old receipt, we probably still wouldn't have a clue.
After kicking the bastard's ass to the curb, we've spent the last six months untangling the mess he left behind. Mostly, it's been Lennon's job, but I chip in here and there. I don't like leaving it all to him.
Honestly, I'm not sure how much I'm helping. Half the time I can't make heads or tails of the numbers or even figure out what the hell we're calculating. I'm no fool, but I've never been great at math—which of course is why I went out and found a trained bookkeeper in the first place.
Now here I am, doing it anyway.
I sigh and push my chair back, rubbing my temples and trying to clear my vision. It's almost time for the hands to come in, and I'll need to introduce Hailey and explain her role.
She's been working all day in the horse stables, and I'm a little surprised not to have heard a peep out of her. I meant to check in once or twice, but the day has shot past. Now it's eight-thirty and I haven't seen her once. Still... no complaints usually means no problems. Probably.
I've half-expected her to storm into my office at some stage during the day, call me an asshole and a slave driver and a dozen other colorful things, and stomp back to her log cabin. But no.
Heck, even Reed complained the first time I gave him that task. Whined every damn minute he was doing it. Seems she hasn't whined once.
I'll hear about it tomorrow.
I make a note to warn her about staying away from Buggy in the blue stable at breakfast tomorrow.
Probably should've said something earlier, but it escaped me in the mess of a million other things today.
Besides, why would she go in there? I told her to clean the main stable, not the one Buggy's in.
Even though I told her to finish all ten stalls today, I figure it'll take her another half or even a full day, seeing as it's her first time.
Today's more a test of her endurance—and her willingness to work hard, even with the boring stuff. Once I know how she handles it, I'll know how to steer the rest of her training.
But before I check in on Hailey, I need Lennon to help me validate these numbers.
I find him sitting out on the veranda with a beer in hand, staring morosely at the evening sky—orange and pink splashed across the darkening blue.
"'Sup?" I ask. He spares me a single look and nods like everything's fine.
Obviously, that's a lie. He's drinking—and Lennon never drinks unless something serious is rattling his cage. He likes to stay sharp in case Grace needs him.
The only times I've ever seen him drunk were right after Georgia's death, and on the day of her funeral.
Whatever's on his mind right now is probably about Georgia too. Poor bastard. I wish I knew how to help—but honestly, I don't have a clue.
"Where's Grace?" I ask.
"Sleeping," he says. Silence for a moment, then "You didn't warn the new hire about Buggy."
That's a surprise. How come he knows that? "I'll tell her tomorrow morning."
His lips press tight, and he oozes disapproval. "You can't forget shit like that. You know how violent Buggy can get. She could've gotten hurt."
"Did something happen?" I'm instantly on alert. Lennon wouldn't be bringing it up otherwise.
He nods. "Buggy broke out of his stall. Attacked her and then bolted. He's halfway to Canada by now."
My heart misses a beat, my muscles clench. Fuck. I've fucked up bad .
"Yeah," he says, seeing the unspoken words in my eyes.
"Oh God. Is she hurt? How bad is it? Is she okay? Where is she?" My breath fights for release, panic clawing at me.
The frozen fear in my chest might hint at something deeper, but I shove that thought aside. It's professional concern. Health and safety. That's all. I'm feeling guilty because I put her in danger.
"She's fine," he says, and a flood of relief washes through me. "Kicked in the leg. Just bruised from the fall. I took her to the hospital—Doc said rest for three days and gave her painkillers."
"Oh. That's good then." I take a deep breath as he swigs from his beer. He doesn't seem happy. Still tense. Still morose.
"I don't think she should stay here," he says. "She lives close by. No reason she can't climb the fence and come in every day."
I think about the tiny distance to her cabin. It's not far. But I doubt the place is even habitable yet—it's been empty for twenty years. She can't stay there, not until it's checked out.
"And you're not saying that because you're attracted to her?"
He flinches, then glares at me. I hold his gaze.
"There's nothing wrong with being attracted to her. She's a fine-looking woman. Georgia wouldn't expect you to be a monk for the rest of your life."
"You don't know what the fuck Georgia would've wanted," he snarls.
I eye him steadily. He's right in as much as I hadn't been all that close to his wife, even when they lived on the farm. They had lived in their own separate cabin back then—the one we use as a guest house now, in fact. He hasn't set foot in it since she died.
I may not have been her closest friend, but I remember Georgia fondly as a strong, athletic woman—the last person you'd expect to die early—and a kind woman who loved to laugh and sing. She loved him too, and I know damn well she wouldn't want him stuck in misery and loneliness.
Lennon doesn't look ready to move on, though.
Mostly, we avoid mentioning Georgia around him. For the first year after her death, nobody said her name—even alluding to her would send him into a fit of rage or despair.
The only person he can bear to talk about her with is their daughter—and even then, it costs him. He swallows his grief and answers her questions as patiently as he can, but I can see the toll it takes.
Everyone else gets their heads bitten off.
I'm no psychologist, but it isn't healthy to wallow in grief like that. I refuse to let his love for her turn into something cursed and bitter.
So, after the first year, I made it a point to slowly start talking about Georgia again. Back then, he looked like he was getting better—not drinking, not spiraling—and I figured I could risk it. Avoiding her memory wasn't helping him. It made the barrier grow stronger.
He's gotten better at it. Sometimes now he even brings her up himself, tells us things Georgia would've said or done.
Today, though, it feels like he's slipped back into the angry, bitter man he was a couple of years ago. He's testier than usual—and I think I know why.
"Hey, if you want to talk to her, she'll understand. You don't have to beat yourself up because you're attracted to her."
"Weren't you the same person telling Reed he needed to stay away from her?"
"Reed is Reed. You're you."
He grins humorlessly. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not interested in her, or anyone else."
I don't buy it. Neither does he.
I catch the sound of footsteps behind me and his expression changes—a flicker of desire, followed by something tortured. His face shutters closed, and he gets up and walks away.
That gives me enough warning about who's coming up behind me even before she gets there. That, and the sound of a limp.
"Heya!"
Her chipper voice is a surprise, considering she's spent the day shoveling shit and getting attacked by a feral horse. Yet somehow, she still looks and smells like sunshine, her face glowing with energy and life in a way I simply cannot understand.
Why the fuck does she look so damned happy? Why is she beaming with vitality and affection, making it impossible to ignore her—making me ache to possess her?
"How was today?" I ask her.
"Great! I cleaned all the stalls in the main stable, and I still had a little time, so I thought I'd try the small stable too. That plan didn't go so well."
"Yeah, I've heard. Your leg okay?" I nod toward the thigh she's clearly favoring as she walks. She smiles.
"I won't lie. It hurts. But I've experienced worse." It certainly looks stiff and sore the way she's walking. "You might need to replace the door for one of the horse stalls. It's the horse called 'Buggy,' I believe?"
I nod. Buggy's the only horse in the blue stable—and for good reason.
We don't ride him, most people can't even get close to him.
He attacks other horses if given half a chance.
He's technically a thoroughbred stud, worth a small fortune.
Real name: Prince Caspian the Third. But one of the hands nicknamed him Buggy, because, in his words, "That damned animal has got one heck of a big bug up its ass.
" The name stuck. We should've sold him years ago.
"He kicked the door down, then he kicked me, then he ran off. Lennon rescued me —saved me from a trampling. Luckily the doctor says it's only a bruise, no broken bones, and he wants me to rest for a couple of days. Which, incidentally, is fine by me, because I ache all over!"
Jesus. That's much worse than Lennon made it sound.
"It's my fault. I should've warned you about Buggy, but I never thought you'd get through the whole of the main stable in one day. I'm sorry. Really, I am."
She blinks. "Oh no, it's totally my fault. I shouldn't have approached an animal I didn't know. That's like horse etiquette one-oh-one."
"You know about horses?"
"Only a little. There's a stable near Aurora that my aunt and uncle used to take me to, whenever I could persuade them, and I did a little horse trekking in Peru."
I nod. "Well, I'm sorry it happened."
"No problem." She glances around. "How was your day?"
I raise an eyebrow. Is she genuinely asking? Just making conversation? Or buttering me up for something?
"A lot of accounting."
"You say the word 'accounting' like it's some kind of torture."
"It might as well be. I despise it."
"I can help you out, if you want."
I cock my head, and she continues, "I'm a qualified accountant.
That was my job back in another life. I didn't mind it at first but doing it every day got intolerable.
It's been a few years, but I'm sure I'll remember enough to help with whatever you need.
That way I can rest my leg too, like the doctor said. "
"You'd do that?" This has nothing to do with our deal to help her learn farming. It'd help us, sure—but what's in it for her?
"Sure," she shrugs. "I'm grateful for the opportunity you've given me. It's the least I can do."
Opportunity? She says it like I handed her a position at a Fortune 500 company, not a shovel for mucking out horseshit all day.
Before I have time to ponder it, the hands start arriving for supper. This time of year we stay out late in the fields to make the most of the daylight. By sunset we're all more than ready for our food.
We've got two full-time staff—Ouray handles the tractors and livestock, whilst Marsha shares caretaking duties with Reed, helps me with admin, and doubles as an occasional babysitter for Grace—plus a few more who come and go depending on the season.
Hailey greets them with her usual friendliness. They greet her back in kind, but I notice one of the temps smirking at the back. I give him a hard look and a sharp shake of my head. That should be enough.
No one is allowed to touch her while she's here.
Except Lennon. He's the only one I'll permit to have a relationship with her.
Permit? Listen to yourself! You're not her father. What right do you have to permit her to do anything?
Yet the urge remains—along with an unwelcome thought: perhaps she should move to the main house after all.
Once the introductions are done, we head into the kitchen. I start pulling things together for supper, and she insists on helping. As she does, she chatters about her day, and I listen, amused.
For a second, it strikes me—what we're doing almost feels domestic. Almost like we're a family.
Hah. If we're a family, it's a goddamn dysfunctional one.