21. Hailey
Hailey
I glance at the men, who share looks of understanding that seem to warn of an incoming threat.
Tense anger simmers in their eyes, and I can tell they're thinking about Sinclair again—the cowboy.
I wonder how many times Sinclair has messed with them to instill such visceral loathing, to the point where they automatically assume he has something to do with this setup.
His crime has to be something more heinous than what Reed explained.
Trying to steal the ranch out from under them was bad, sure, but it didn't seem like it would justify the kind of raw hatred I'm seeing in their eyes.
Plus, as harmless as he might have looked to me at first, there was always something not right about Sinclair.
Now that I think about it, I remember that subtle pushiness beneath the southern charm—a kind of greed in his eyes he didn't manage to hide when he talked about buying my land like he was doing me a favor.
Classic snake-oil salesman. So yeah, even though I don't know much about the man, I can believe he's setting Reed up.
But why? Revenge? To drive the men apart?
If it's that last one, then he seriously underestimated their friendship—because these are the kind of men who'd stick together through hell and high water.
A hint of wistfulness touches me as I think about how much they've been through together—first the military, then the farm, but always living as a unit, almost as a family even.
There's a matching hauntedness in their eyes sometimes, and though they rarely talk about it, their trauma shows up in a whole range of subtle ways.
The way Reed flinches if someone approaches from behind.
The shadows under Dean's eyes. Lennon's discomfort with loud noises.
Those days may be gone, but clearly they aren't entirely forgotten.
Especially if they were working special ops, like Dean said.
That had to be brutal. I wonder what they've had to live through, and how they deal with it all.
Perhaps that's part of why they've chosen to live together—because they've all shared the same or similar past, and so they can look out for each other, balance each other out.
I don't think it's only about the farm. Apart from Dean, the other two don't seem particularly devoted to the work.
I've seen the accounting sheets. Each of them could go out on their own if they wanted to.
They stay because they choose to, not because they have to.
Lennon's unrelenting work ethic provides the commitment to getting it done.
Reed's mischief and good humor lightens the load along the way.
And Dean's vision and leadership keeps it all together—the work, the structure, the safety.
It's obvious how much he cares about them, and how much they care about him.
These men have become more than merely best friends. They've become brothers. They are a family.
I often wished I had a close-knit group like that, but I never found it.
In Aurora, I never fitted in. In fact I always felt like I was in the wrong place entirely, and looking back, I think I was right.
After I started traveling, it became even harder to make friends, because either we didn't speak the same language, or we didn't have time to grow close before one of us moved on.
Then, when I got the volunteer post as an elementary school teacher in Sudan, I was surrounded by people from such completely different backgrounds to my own.
All-in-all, it’s made it hard for me to form the kind of deep, lasting bonds I see between these men. I envy their closeness. It reminds me of how it felt with my real parents, the family I no longer have.
The sudden ping of the timer breaks the silence, startling me out of my reverie. Grace announces, "Cupcakes are ready!"
"Hurray," I say. "Let's get them out of the oven.
" I head over to get the trays from the oven.
Still half thinking about my parents and families, I completely forget the number one basic rule of baking—never touch a hot dish with your bare hands.
Instead I open the oven door and reach for the tray—completely forgetting it's been sitting at 375 degrees for the past thirty minutes.
The instant the metal scorches my skin, I get a very painful reminder.
"Ouch!" I bite back a cry and yank my fingers away. Chaos erupts around me as the men scramble into action. Someone—possibly Lennon—guides me to the sink, while Reed grabs my hand and turns on the tap, holding it under the cold spray. I bite my lip as the water hisses against my burned skin.
"How bad is it?" Dean murmurs, bending over my reddened hand to inspect it.
"It looks like it's going to blister," Lennon says. "But I'll get some ointment on it—it should be fine in a few days."
"Damn it, Hailey."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be careful." His eyes meet mine, scolding but concerned.
It might've annoyed me once, but now I understand it.
When he gets all growly, it's usually because he's worried—like yesterday, when Reed was out too long and wouldn't answer his phone.
It's funny how well I can read him now. What once seemed like pure bossiness now feels like something else entirely. Care. Affection.
While Reed keeps the cold water running over my hand, Lennon heads off to fetch the ointment.
Meanwhile, Dean finally scoops up Grace, who's still reminding everyone that there are cupcakes in the oven.
He sets her on a high stool, slips on an oven mitt, giving me a pointed look as he does so, and pulls the tray out.
I roll my eyes. Yeah, yeah, message received—use the mitt next time.
Lennon returns and leads me over to the couch, where he gently applies the sharp-smelling, minty ointment to my palm.
"It might sting, and the skin might peel," he says. "But it'll be fine."
"Thank you," I say softly. He meets my gaze and gives me a small smile—one that makes my heart skip.
"Daddy!" Grace calls. "Should I kiss her boo-boo?"
His smile turns crooked. "Only if Hailey wants you to."
"Do you want me to kiss your boo-boo, Hailey?"
"I would be honored."
She hops off her seat and comes over to gently kiss my hand. Then she wrinkles her nose at the sharp minty smell. "It smells yucky, Daddy."
"That's because I put medicine on it." He caps the ointment and straightens up, looking at me in the eyes. "You stay down for the rest of the night, and you should probably skip any farm work tomorrow so it doesn't get infected. I might come over later to check on it."
I nod. It feels like overkill for a burn, but I'm not used to being taken care of like this. So I say quietly, "Thank you."
He gives me one of his heart-melting smiles, and I blush slightly, and smile back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that this exchange hasn't gone unnoticed by Reed and Dean, who are watching us from across the room. But the second I look their way, their eyes drop.
I'm banned from taking any further active part in the baking process, despite this whole cupcake idea being mine in the first place.
The men insist on finishing the job themselves, and I am relegated to watching from the sidelines as they bicker over measurements for the frosting and debate whether or not they should cut out a section and add frosting to the middle or spread the frosting on top.
They even ask each other the question of the century—"What exactly is a frosted lolly?" Grace tries to explain, but her answer only confuses everyone more. In the end they simply make up another batch of cupcake mixture, but this time making the batter as thick as possible and going for a longer, thinner shape, doing the best they can with the batter on a flat baking sheet instead of filling up the indents in a traditional, round, cupcake sheet. It’s a sorry looking mess by the time it’s done, but it seems to satisfy Grace.
It's an adorable scene, and it fills me to the top with warm fuzzies.
Their good-humored bickering reminds me of my parents.
I'd been a very young child at the time, but as far as I can remember, Mom and Dad were both highly talented cooks, each in their own unique way.
They always argued in the kitchen, good-naturedly, about whose roast potatoes were best or whose gravy had the fewest lumps.
They were free spirits who refused to follow a cookbook recipe, insisting instead on adding their own twist—usually involving whatever happened to be in the fridge or cupboards that needed using up.
Their experiments turned out either amazing or horrifically inedible in roughly equal measure, but they were rarely bland.
Even with the bad ones, we'd choke it down anyway, with plenty of laughter—and fruit juice, if necessary, to wash away any lingering aftertaste.
"Hey," Reed says, rounding the counter and walking over to me. I notice the other two are still chatting with Grace, but their eyes are on me too. "You okay?"
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
He gently strokes a finger down my cheek, and when he pulls it back, there's a tear clinging to his knuckle. Shoot. I didn't even realize I was crying.
"Sorry," I say quickly, wiping my face to catch any others. "It's…" I hold up my hand. "This stings."
Reed's expression softens. I don't think he buys it, but he doesn't press me.
I'm put on bed rest the next morning too, which feels like overkill for a burn, but Dean insists. He says I can come in later to help with the accounting.
The next morning, after Lennon returns from dropping Grace off at pre-school, he comes into my room and says, "Hey. Figured you might need more ointment."