15. Hailey
Hailey
C ooking with Dean turns out to be better than expected.
I offer to help because it seems like the right thing to do.
Since I am here for dinner anyway, I might as well lend a hand.
I half expect him to turn my offer down, but in the end he doesn’t.
Once we're in the kitchen, I start chattering, expecting little in return and bracing myself for awkward silences.
It ends up not being awkward at all.
Surprisingly, Dean turns out to be a good conversationalist—not because he says much, but because what he does say is pertinent and insightful. He's an active listener, remembering key details even from my most off-hand comments.
For example, when I mention we should probably get a different disinfectant, like the one my aunt used for her weekly deep clean, he says, "Your aunt deep cleans every week?"
"Yup," I answer. "Would've been every day if we'd let her."
He snorts.
I talk about my past—growing up with my aunt and uncle, going to school, then college, and my short time as a junior accountant before I left to go traveling. Once again, he doesn't say much, just offers quiet nods and grunts at all the right moments.
When I tell him my one and only amusing anecdote from my time at the accountancy firm—the time we had a 'Secret Santa' where everyone brought a pre-wrapped gift and added it to a big sack.
Then everyone took a turn to randomly pick out a gift from the sack and unwrap it to ee what they had got from 'Santa'.
Someone from Sales had ended up with a highly inappropriate gift that some wag had decided to anonymously contribute, and the Head of HR had announced at an "all hands" meeting that it wasn't corporate policy to gift vibrating dildos as Christmas presents, and she then had to red-facedly try to explain to our oldest Senior Partner what a vibrator is used for—he shakes his head and chuckles.
Even that small chuckle transforms his face, making him look almost boyish.
I can tell he's a man who doesn't smile much—not because of open grief like Lennon carries, but because there simply isn't much to smile about. His entire life seems focused on work and duty. Not tragic, but still a little sad.
"If you hated accounting so much, why did you do it?" he asks quietly, opening the oven door to check on the roasting meat. The rich, umami scent teases my nostrils, making my stomach rumble.
In retrospect, I'm glad he talked me into a large breakfast this morning, even though I only managed half of it. It had sustained me through the long, exhausting day—he'd been right that there was no time to stop for lunch, not with Buggy and everything.
Breakfast feels like a distant memory now, and the steaks smell fantastic. I've never had butter-roasted potatoes before, but they smell decadently good.
Dean glances across at me expectantly, and only then do I remember he's asked me a question. I shrug.
"I didn't exactly 'hate' it, and it seemed like the right thing to do at the time," I admit.
"I was good at math and aced pretty much all the tests.
It was always expected—get a steady job, move out, have a family and kids.
That was what a responsible adult does." I shrug.
"I just went along with it. Honestly, I don't think I even realized I had a choice. "
I pause for a moment, recalling it clearly.
"One day, I was sitting in my office, preparing for a department meeting, and it hit me.
I didn't want this life. I hated it. And I realized that if I didn't change course, I'd be stuck in it forever.
Once I'd thought about that and accepted it as the truth, everything became much clearer.
So obvious, in fact, that I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before. "
He flashes me that crooked smile of his, understanding flaring in his gaze. I can't help but think he might have been a charmer back in the day. Not in the obvious, showy way Reed is, but something quieter—in those secret smiles, those simmering, hidden looks.
For a few seconds, we hold each other's gaze, a quiet recognition passing between us. Time seems to stand still. Then the front door bangs open, and Reed's off-key whistling echoes down the hall.
We both snap our gazes apart like guilty teenagers.
"What's going on here?" Reed asks, glancing between us.
"Dinner," Dean says gruffly, turning back to the stove.
When Reed turns to me as if questioning why I'm helping, and what’s really been happening, I shrug. "I offered. It didn't feel right to leave him to it all alone."
"Don't feel bad. He enjoys it."
He winks at me, just like he did back at the stable, and once again it sets my mind spinning. I press my lips together, trying not to react, but judging by the heat in my cheeks, I probably fail.
"I can cook too," Reed says. "I do a mean mac and cheese, but with one or two secret ingredients."
I smile faintly. Dean says nothing, and I can't think of anything to say either.
That tension hangs in the air—complicated, tangled, undeniable.
How is it even possible to be drawn to two men at once? Three, if I count Lennon.
I have no idea what's wrong with me.
Dinner—or perhaps supper by this time of night—is a little quiet. It's late for Grace and her tiredness shows in her mood, which takes up most of the men's attention. Innocently, I suggest she might like a cup of hot cocoa, and they all throw me warning looks—but it's already too late.
"Mommy used to make me hot cocoa," Grace murmurs. She glances at her dad. "Why has Mommy gone away, Daddy? Why can't she come back?"
My heart breaks, as Lennon's face shatters. He struggles to rein his feelings back in, to keep his composure for his little girl, and to answer her in a way she will understand and accept, but we can all see how much he's struggling.
"Mommy died," he says. "Remember? She's with Jesus now, in heaven."
"Yes, but why can't she come back to visit us?"
"Because once you've died and gone to heaven, you can't come back, honey.
Not even if you really miss your husband and your daughter and want to visit them very much.
" His voice stays even, but his face suddenly looks old and tired.
I wonder how many times they've had this conversation or something like it.
Grace's face crumples, and she begins sobbing, breaking my heart all over again.
Despite my original concerns, staying in the guest cabin isn't so bad.
It's sort of like my parents' place, though slightly bigger, and with much more modern amenities—plus unlike my place, all of them actually work.
I get there and immediately strip and take a well-earned shower.
I take a painkiller and ease into bed, hoping the pain in my thigh won't keep me awake all night—but I needn't have worried, because the moment my body touches the bed, I fall asleep.
For the next three days, I do as the doctor ordered and take things easy.
This would have been frustrating if I'd been on my own in my cabin, but here, with the three men and little Grace to keep me company and take my mind off things, I find the time passes and I don't mind at all.
Besides, it gives me the chance to do a complete review and rewrite of Dean's books.
All the columns add up correctly now, which is more than could have been said for them when I first picked them up and looked through them.
On the fourth day, however, I feel someone shaking me awake a lot earlier than I'd like. "Rise and shine. Back to work today."
I blink open my weary eyes to find Dean standing there, looking down at me with that serious expression of his, yet still looking as handsome as ever, even if he can't find a way to smile.
"Breakfast time. This morning, you're going to help us move the cattle into the south pasture."
I yawn. "Perfect."
That's how it continues for nearly two weeks straight: Dean waking me up and telling me the task of the day.
I'm learning a whole range of farming skills, and much of it is hard, back-breaking labor, but I don't mind, since I'm learning so much.
I'm experiencing first-hand how a farm operates, and the accumulated knowledge is like gold.
Marsha lets me accompany her during her health checks and when loading up animals for delivery to various wholesalers and auctioneers. She shows me the locked pharmaceuticals cabinet and explains how she tallies its contents at the end of each week and enters it into a special book.
She also shows me how to arrange meetings with the vet and introduces me to him when he comes by one day to inspect one of the heifers. Though I don't plan on having my own livestock for a while, it's all useful information.
On Tuesday, I accompany her to watch a calf being born, aided by one of the hands.
This particular hand, Ouray—which means 'arrow' in English—has Native American ancestry. He knows many stories passed down from his parents and grandparents about his Ute tribe, which had settled in this valley thousands of years before the white man even knew that America existed.
He tells me about his tribe's creation legends—how, according to their traditions, birth is represented in the earth itself.
The stories remind me of something I once read in my mother's diary: a line about returning what was lost back to the earth, not unlike what my mom had written in her letters to me.
I never fully figured out what she meant by it—but now I wonder if it has something to do with all of this. Could it all be connected in some way?
Despite their politeness, I can tell most of the hands don't expect me to last. They keep a cautious distance, not opening up, not letting me in on their inside jokes—waiting to see if I'll disappear after a few days like so many others.
However, the longer I stick it out, and integrate myself into their little community, the nicer they are to me.
Ouray warms up even more when I explain how my mom and dad used to bring me to the True Heart Lodge during vacations, how much they loved it here, and how they had planned and hoped to one day live here for good.
"I think I remember your mother," Ouray says. "She was a lovely woman. She had a strong connection to the land and a close friendship with the Ute."
"Yeah. I loved her very much."
The only hitch comes in the second week. Up until then, Reed has pretty much left me alone. We meet at breakfast and dinner and sometimes pass each other during the day, but we're usually too busy to do much more than exchange a few words. He flirts, sure, but he hasn't taken it further.
Then, at the end of a particularly long and tiring day, I open the door to the guest cabin where I'm housed—and there he is, as large as life, lounging on my bed like he hasn't got a care in the world.
"Hello there."
Up to now, I'd been praising myself for ignoring the intense, almost overwhelming rush of desire I feel whenever I see him—and for not sleeping with him.
But right now, it floods through my body.
It seems I'm about to go through a trial by fire.
"Reed," I sigh, and close the door behind me.