Seven
Tait
“And the reason you neglected to mention that? Along with why you’re here? The book research seems like a pretty far-fetched excuse to operate under,” Henry says accusingly. His tone is much less venomous than it was when it came to my playlist, but he’s clearly suspicious.
“There’s a very simple explanation for this. But can we pull over or something? I’d prefer not to get wiped off the road,” I say.
He seems to just take notice that we are stopped in the middle of a two line highway and pulls the car over accordingly. As soon as he flips it in park, he returns his hawkish gaze back on me and lifts his eyebrows, prompting me to continue.
“Okay, I am the photographer for the publishing company. That’s entirely true. It’s purely coincidental that the author who commissioned me wants her story to revolve around the Range. I tried to convince them that they’d be better off using someone else for the project, but with the scheduling crunch and short notice, they pushed me to. Honestly, when I told them it only motivated them more.” I hope that keeping it simple will get him off my back. I’m not exactly someone who shies away from confrontation, but something about this guy’s stern, cold stare and booming voice make me feel like I have something to feel guilty about—a feeling that I find extremely unwelcome given the circumstances.
“So, you expect me to believe that some writer—someone who, it sounds like, has already seen the show—chose you to do her ground work for her? That you didn’t use the fact that it’s your family ranch to get yourself the job out here? Now, of all times?” He pauses, and then, as if that needed further clarification, adds, “When it’s suddenly a famous ranch tied to a famous show?”
Fuck. Well, when you put it that way… I start to see how it must look: as if I took no interest in the Logan family until things suddenly appeared to be going quite well for them, as if I want a piece of that, or something. I only ever considered how I did not. How I did not need to trudge through yet another emotional journey in life. I can’t help but let out an overloud guffaw, and he rears back at my weird laugh.
“Sorry, but no. I want nothing from the Logan family. I need nothing from the Logan family. I have never once asked for anything from them. I am here to do my job, you can believe me or not, I really couldn’t care less. Also, I’m doing the photography for two different magazine articles, too, not just the book. Lastly, is it actually any of your fucking business?”
“It actually is. When I’m not busy chauffeuring I have a real job. Security being breached makes that job much harder. You wouldn’t be the first person who came sniffing around either hoping to claim something, or someone—or to feel like they’re a part of it.”
I bare my teeth. “Well, if you can get the chauffeuring done without me leaping from this truck and into oncoming traffic, then I am sure you will find in no time that I am after none of those things. I want to do my job. That means taking pictures of the pretty things, and being on my way. That’s it.”
He doesn’t need to know that my job is so much more than that. I always describe each photo, the smell of the air, the weathered feel of the stone, the worn hands of the people… I do my best to give clear inspiration and see the history of something, the craftsmanship and love that went into an old building, the wildness, the colors and contrasts of an untouched landscape. He doesn’t need to understand that my work is the only thing that hasn’t gone numb for me, that I feel every bit of it.
“What was with the last name?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“On the luggage tags. Did you make that up, hoping you could come here unrecognized? Seems a little nefarious to me.” His brows lift in a facial shrug, and I struggle not to scoff.
“Clearly you’re not into crime drama, Sherlock. Why would I use my real first name?”
“Answer the question.”
“It is my married name!”
“Then where’s the ring?!”
I only realize that our voices have continued to raise when I feel the little balloon of tension begin to deflate, then. I imagine I can hear the flatulent noise being expelled out of it, and my indignation with it.
“I changed it back after I got divorced,” I reply once I’m in control of my senses.
“Did you change it back after the show aired?” he asks, clearly not one to give up.
“Oh my GOD. Will you please let up? I couldn’t care less about the precious show. I only just watched part of it to figure out what my boss’s thought process might be. I promise you, I will be in and out and on my way.”
Then, hoping that some honesty might gain me an ounce of mercy here, I add, “This is going to be hard enough for me. I’ll be honest, I had hoped that they wouldn’t recognize me. I figured that might make it easier to do my job. If you are any indication of how I’ll be treated, then I can see that this is going to be a long six weeks, just as expected.”
That seems to land how I’d hoped. His expression softens and he blinks a few times, making me wonder if he hadn’t through our entire exchange. I also can’t help but notice that he’s got nice eyelashes for a man. Because of course he does.
“Sorry… Charlie is, well—” He winces with a frown before finishing, “He’s like a father to me. The ranch is my home. He hasn’t had the easiest time with his… family life, lately, with all this going on. And since the show began our whole MO has been bombarded. I feel a little overprotective, I guess.”
I’m not sure why this statement immediately fills me with rage. He’s being genuine enough and the man clearly has no social filter to begin with. I tamp it down as best I can, heat rising and burning my temples before I manage a reply. “Well, it’s all safe from me. Charlie hasn’ t been a father to me for the vast majority of my life, and the ranch will never be my home. I’m not interested in digging up the past.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then, and I have to stifle the urge to throttle him. I hold his stare until he comes to some sort of internal decision, his expression smoothing before he says, “Okay, then. Would you mind if I called ahead? I don’t want to just show up with… this”—he nods my way—“without warning.” I roll my eyes at being referred to as this.
“Go for it. You’ll save me the trouble of explaining all over again.”
He steps out of the truck and walks some yardage away. The man is big, probably six and a half feet tall, I note—purely for the sake of being able to describe him to the police—and handsome, to be sure. Hemsworth-esque. But, as with many of his kind, he ruins it with speaking. I also decide that Wranglers are highly underrated on men. As are men’s legs. There’s something to be said about strong, thick legs on a man. The arms and shoulders and chests—they’re all great, but… good legs usually lead up to an equally good man-butt. Yep, can confirm.
I am vaguely aware of the fact that my brain is choosing to deflect and assess (ha, ass-ess) him at the moment, rather than wonder who exactly he is dialing and what he might be saying.
Having him do the explaining may not have been the best choice given his obvious bias, but I’m not controlling enough to care. I’m almost relieved, knowing that the family will now be doing their best to avoid me rather than trying to welcome and show me around, telling me the history of the place, inviting me to family dinners, etc. I don’t know if they would have anyway, though. Maybe things are run by Henry now? Maybe they have managerial people who handle all the outsiders while on the property?
I once spent two weeks in living in a castle in Scotland, with (surprisingly) what I would imagine is the truest picture of an ideal family, aside from Cole’s. They weren’t without their drama and fights—especially among the older generation. But they had game nights and movie marathons, Sunday dinners with extended family, chores around the farm. They were some of the most warm and loving people. People who never pried deeply into my personal life, but simply included me in all of theirs. I was party to all of their traditions and idiosyncrasies, all while they continually shared the anecdotes and history about their castle home. I still keep in touch with them over email, though correspondence has slowed… Admittedly, my letters are fairly surface level. I share details about my sister and her family often, but I don’t have a friend group, let alone my own family to speak of anymore, and I fill my days with whatever makes me feel good, which seems boring to write about.…
Henry begins his march back to the truck, brows furrowed under a lock of floppy hair that’s curled over his face. He’s somehow managed not to have one of those hat tans with the pale forehead that most farmers and cowboys end up with, which makes me wonder if he’s got a streak of vanity and takes care to avoid it?
Again with the deflecting, Tait.
He hops in and puts the truck back in gear without making an attempt to look my way. I want to maintain the illusion of my detachedness enough that I refuse to inquire about the call. It’s hours that go by, each minute pushing me farther up this hill I’m determined to die on.
Eventually he relents, huffing an agitated sigh through his nose. “I spoke with Grace, Charlie’s wife. Relayed everything you told me,” he says.
In for a penny, I still refuse to give anything else by asking for details. “Thanks,” I reply.
He chuckles and shakes his head. I refuse to ask about that, too.
We turn onto a gravel road, the nervous fluttering in my belly too strong to worry about music or making conversation. I’ve let about eighty-seven different scenarios mentally play out—carefully developing what my responses will be to each should they occur—when suddenly, the stone barn is in sight.
I lose my grip at the same time Henry seems to speed up. “Wait… please wait,” I say, voice embarrassingly tight.
I grab the wrist of the arm on the steering wheel, and he visibly flinches, but doesn’t pull away. I feel the coarse hair under my hand and wonder if I hurt him? I look at my hand—my fingers don’t nearly meet all the way around the big wrist and I’m not even squeezing him.
“Your hand… is extremely, extremely sweaty,” he says flatly.
I jerk it back and wipe both on my pants, letting a nervous laugh barrel out of me.
“Sorry. ”
He looks at me, brows dipping before his expression softens into what I determine must be his pitying look. And then he offers me an encouraging nod.
For some reason, the gesture bolsters me. I take a deep breath, face the house and say, “Okay. I’m ready.”