Six
Henry
I get the bags packed in the back seat of the truck and make sure they’re wedged in securely. I assume little miss sunshine back there won’t want her precious camera equipment to get thrown in the bed, and since I know that Mrs. Logan will have my balls if I make the ranch look bad in any way, I decide that’s the better course of action. I need to muster up the energy to be more… personable… but fuck, I have plenty of real work back at the ranch to be doing, and this girl flew into the wrong airport. Not to mention, I can already tell that the woman I just met is going to be about as warm as a glacier.
Something nags at the back of my mind, though—her name, Tait, and something about the way that stare cut right through me. Eyes that at first look almost brown, but up close are actually a dark mossy green. She’s tan, but I guess she’s from California after all, so it’s likely fake. Her blonde hair is a wavy mane down her back and around her shoulders, wild. Almost like she’d been yanking at the roots the whole way here. She’s definitely not what I would have expected, though. I guess I’m small town enough to think that a California photographer would show up looking completely underfed, in head-to-toe black, rocking oversized glasses, or something. This girl showed up looking comfortable, in what Grace and Grady like to refer to as “athleisure,” and a jean jacket.
I could also tell through her gray workout leggings that, objectively, she’s got shapely legs (the term “thighs that could crush a watermelon” comes to mind) and couldn’t help but notice a sizable rack. Objectively. Again, California, so probably all fake (for all that I’d be able to tell). I should reel in the judgmental tone to those thoughts, but I feel immediately agitated by the woman, with no idea why.
I turn to head back only to find her charging headfirst at me like a buck ready to lock horns, rolling a bag with each arm behind her.
“Let’s roll!” she exclaims with a jerk of her blonde head at the truck.
The change in demeanor is jarring, a little manic. I silently take and load the other bags while she gingerly hops in—as if trucks are her regular mode of transportation, or something. I laugh under my breath, thinking about the last date I went on. She’d worn a skin-tight skirt and ended up needing me to give her a lift to get in and out every time. She probably thought it was cute and funny—maybe an excuse for me to touch her… I found it annoying.
I’m not jaded enough to think that it’s them and not me who’s causing my love life to be a veritable wasteland .
“So, Henry. How far is the Range from the airport?” Tait asks, cutting into my philosophical thoughts.
“Well, since you flew into Boise instead of Hailey, we are looking at about a three-hour ride.”
I catch one eyebrow shoot up and a little head shake.
“I didn’t book my flight, Deacon did. I hope this isn’t too much trouble.”
The slow and precise way she says it, combined with the curl of her eyebrow, makes it clear that she couldn’t care less about the amount of trouble it is. Something about the determined set of her jaw, the way she juts out her chin with the small cleft in it, her pouty bottom lip—it gets under my skin and I want to needle her more.
“Nah, what’s an extra six hours of my day when it could have been a total of one? The work will still be there, waiting for me, tomorrow. Along with tomorrow’s work.”
I see a muscle in her jaw flutter out of the corner of my eye.
“Would you mind if I play music? That seems like a pleasant enough way to pass the time,” she asks.
“Sure,” I reply. I don’t offer to help her figure out radio stations. She whips out her phone and manages to sync it to my Bluetooth immediately. I flinch and prepare for the worst…
… And am pleasantly surprised when the first song is by Chris Stapleton. Not my favorite of his, but tolerable at least.
The next song throws me off, though. Hootie & the Blowfish?
Song number three is, straight up, an oldie: “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac.
After that, the chaos continues.
I’m subjected to Justin Bieber, followed by George Strait, the Eagles, Katy Perry, Tom Petty, Post Malone, Shania Twain, Queen, then a few in a row that have the most filthy and/or violent lyrics I’ve ever heard (uncensored, and the girl doesn’t even bat an eye)… She mouths “spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me” without so much as a hesitant glance in my direction. It takes more than a song to scandalize me, but the unflinching, relentless randomness of this has heat creeping up my neck.
Oh, sure, now we’re back to some country.
I can’t take it anymore, and frankly, I’m starting to get a little afraid.
“What. Is. This.” I try (and fail) to keep my tone neutral.
She is momentarily shocked that I burst our long-standing bubble of silence.
“What? It’s Tyler Childers.”
“I know who this is. I mean what is this whole goddamn playlist? There is absolutely no rhyme or reason to any of it.”
“What do you mean? They’re all good songs—that’s what it is!” she says, not trying to disguise her offense.
“No,” I manage to respond with an annoyed sigh.
“Ummm excuse me, what do you mean no ?!” she sneers.
“I mean no, I can’t follow along with this. It’s distracting my driving. You need to group a playlist together by at least similar genres or something. This is different decades, different tempos, different genres, and different everything. This is psychotic.”
“Oh, sorry Deliverance, I left all my dueling banjo tunes back home. Are you for real? It’s fucking music!”
“Sure as hell is not fucking music, not sure what kind of fucking you’re into, but this mash-up would not be good to fuck to.”
Woah—what was that? What made me go there? But I press on.
“Also, really? ‘ Deliverance ’? You know you’re in Idaho, right? Not exactly known for being backwoods or toothless. I know I got a purdy mouth.” I bare my teeth at her in the biggest smile I can manage.
Her mouth hangs open at that and it takes everything in me not to piss her off more and poke my finger in it. I know I’m being a dick, but I’m (mostly) serious, and seeing her temper flare is the closest I’ve been to hilarity in a while.
She doesn’t grace me with a response, but disconnects the phone and puts in her headphones. Relieved, albeit a little let down she didn’t attempt a comeback (not sure what that is about either), I go back to driving.
The girl is attractive, there’s no doubt about it. But I’ve been attracted to plenty of women before. Tait Von Frankenstein, or something to that effect, practically wears a “fuck off” sticker on her forehead. She’s either attached, or not interested. Her face completely shifted when we locked eyes earlier. She came down the escalator looking a bit wide-eyed, and immediately shuttered that expression. I’m not sure if I should feel suspicious of this yet, or what it means… Something about her continues to pester my brain, though, and I’m determined to find out why. Maybe she reminds me of someone?
I can’t help but feel protective of the Logans. They took me in fifteen years ago when I was just sixteen, gave me a summer job and raised me up from there. I had a dad who loved me in the way he knew—which was to ignore me as much as humanly possible, and tend to his own vices. While doing the latter, he got into a bar fight over who knows what, ended up accidentally killing a man, and going to prison. After that, I was sent to live with my aunt, Grace, and by extension, Charlie. The Logans put me to work, caught me up on school, and changed my life. I sometimes could do without Charlie’s brothers—namely the one that pimped me out to the TV producers as an extra. That shit has followed me since. They had a great laugh at that—still do.
For the most part, though, the Logan family is all the family I need. Helping maintain the ranch, working outdoors, guiding hunts, driving cattle for the ranchers who still lease out the land—it’s what brings me contentedness. It’s all I know how to do, and all I could ever want to do, and I never would’ve had the opportunity to know it if not for them. They’ve made me a part of their family, and as a guy that never knew what that was before, they’ll have my loyalty for life.
But like me—like us all—they have their own skeletons and demons. I know Charlie has two daughters out there that he hasn’t seen in decades. Only after a long whiskey night will he mention them.…
I slam on the breaks, forcing Tait to nearly smack her head on the dash.
“Alright, dude what the fuck .” She whips in her seat to face me.
“Tait… that’s—that’s a fairly unique name,” I say.
It’s the eyes. I see the resignation on her face when she accepts that I know.
“Yeah, it is. ”
“What’s your last name again?” I ask.
“Logan. My name is Tait Logan. And yeah, I’m Charlie’s daughter.”