Fifteen
Henry
The entire downtown hears the truck before we see it. My view is especially front and center, though, from outside the feed store. The truck squeals and fishtails around the corner, then proceeds to creep to its destination; a poor attempt at being inconspicuous.…
I’m somehow not the least bit surprised to see Tait in the driver’s seat. Emma—Mrs. Logan—is in the passenger’s, with Grady’s face poking through the middle from the backseat. They all offer me a well-timed, singular wave in synchrony, and I can’t help but laugh. I tip my hat and get back to loading hay.
I wonder what all transpired to group those three together this early in the day. No doubt Mrs. Logan had a hand in it… but I realize Tait is probably here to get her new camera. I’ll have to track her down in a bit after I’m done here, before I need to meet Charlie and James up at Duane’s to go over the season’s schedule .
Duane is the eldest of the Charlie’s siblings, and while he is my least favorite, he’s been the one to spearhead the most profitable side of the Range, negotiating and managing the production and schedule for Dollar Mountain. Charlie is the one who really steered it into a guest ranch versus a working cattle ranch, and evolved the place to something everyone in this family can live with. But Duane has been the one to pimp it out to the big shots. He’s had enough remnants of old cabins, areas filled with Native artifacts, and random trees declared historical or protected at this point to keep the land intact forever. This meeting tends to be more of a formality, since we know the overall production schedule, and since the next few months will give Charlie, James, and I an excuse to be gone for hunting season, anyway.
However, we still need to ensure none of our lines are crossed and that they’ll remain in their assigned areas so we can still hunt and guide without clashing. Duane thinks that’s all second fiddle at this point, but Charlie remains firm—he believes that the land and its history and culture are what draw people of all kinds to the place, and will long after Dollar Mountain ends. Since the guest ranch is occupied by the various staff associated with the show, we need to maintain the outfitting entity. The Logans (even Duane, in his own way) have a deep respect for their land and what it’s always provided. It’s just that Charlie and James feel that it’s best appreciated in those real, visceral experiences—not via a television.
My mind wanders back to Tait and what she thinks of the whole evolution of the place. There’s so many years of history… Does she think the show cheapens any of it? Does she even know the history and the incredible thing that they’ve managed to maintain in the first place?
I put away the hay hook when I see her jetting into the grocery store next door, deciding I’d better catch up with her now before I end up being too late. I stuff my gloves into my back pocket and head inside.
It takes me a bit to find her, but when I do she’s holding her grocery basket with her jacket in it, staring at chips.
She doesn’t give any outward sign that she’s noticed my approach, but when I stop beside her, she continues her far-off stare and does a sad sing-song, “Hey, Henry.”
“Hey, Tait. You doing alright here?”
“Oh, sure… just having my third existential crisis of the day.”
I know she’s referring to something else, but since she’s opting for humor, albeit a little dark, I jump in.
“Yeah, I hear that. Do you go with the Ruffles, or the salt and vinegar Lay’s? It’s a loaded choice. My personal favorite are the cheddar and sour cream Ruffles, though. They might smell like feet, but artificial cheese is good for the soul.”
Her little half-hearted laugh makes something inside me squeeze. She grabs the Ruffles and we move on. I feel stupidly proud of her going with my recommendation.
We both attempt to speak at the same time, “Did you” and “So, what’s” coming out a garbled mix. So I gesture for her to go first.
“So, what’s on your agenda today? What is it you do exactly?” she asks as she throws some popcorn in the basket.
“It’s an evolving job, honestly. Aside from the guest ranch and outfitting season, the main jobs revolve around the equine side of things. When the show came in, they brought their horses and their trainers, and I got lumped in with them a lot of the time. Plus, we have our own, still. I guess I sort of represent the ranch’s interests by making sure the animals’ care is managed while they board with us, and before we have all their people staying on set with us twenty-four seven,” I explain.
“I’d guess that that lends itself to having slightly less people around that way—if they’ve got you overseeing it?” she asks, seeming genuinely interested.
“Exactly. That was the simplest way we could figure to have less ‘cooks in the kitchen,’ so to speak. First come the animals, then come the production crew, and lastly the actors, their trailers, their harems.” At this she looks at me accusingly, and my stomach does one of those bastardy flips thinking about the little kernel of jealousy I read on her face. “Kidding, kidding. But, by the time the whole swarm descends it’ll feel like a music festival in that valley. Thankfully, by that time, I’ll get to be far away and on a mountain.”
I look down at her basket to see that she’s also put in some fruit, a box of cake mix, some fresh herbs, and a rotisserie chicken that is balancing precariously on the edge.
“Plus, there’s never a shortage of labor that needs to get done. Fences need mending, fire lines need maintaining. The family tries to keep staff small so I usually do a lot of that. Well, Grady, Caleb, James and I do. Here, let me help you out.” I laugh and take the basket from her arm and go retrieve a cart.
I’m not sure why it feels pervy to touch her jacket and neatly put in the top basket, but it does. Probably because you have pervy thoughts about her, and touching her clothes reminds you of those thoughts, you pervy fucking pervert.
“Thank you,” she says when I return with it. She doesn’t go to take it from me, though, so I don’t feel like she’s anxious for me to leave.
We walk around companionably as she continues to add a menagerie of things. I can’t see a connection in much of them, but she seems to know what she wants. I can’t help but snort as she appears to have an internal debate over green enchilada sauce versus red—given that I don’t see a single other ingredient for enchiladas.
“What? I can feel you judging me,” she says, eyes still on the sauces.
“Nothing, nothing. I just was thinking that your grocery shopping reminds me a little of your playlist organization.”
She tosses her head back and belts out a laugh, and, just like every other time before it, I can’t help but get drawn in. She laughs with her entire face. Her nose scrunches up and her eyes close, like laughing is the best feeling she’s had every time she does it. She backhands my shoulder when it dies down.
“I am not saying that your assessment of my playlist making skills is at all accurate, but I am a terrible grocery shopper if I don’t have a list, or specific things in mind. I will be surprised by half of this when I get home,” she admits.
“I still take umbrage with the fact that you can transition from Cardi B to Tom Petty back to back,” I press on.
“You ‘take umbrage’ ? Who are you? Who says that?” She laughs again. “You’d probably take umbrage with the fact that I eat breakfast for dinner more than not, too, huh?”
“Not at all. That’s completely different,” I say. “Music is like a filter over an atmosphere. Now, if you were listening to Slayer while eating a crepe, that I would take umbrage with.”
“Well, I guess dinner’s off the table for us then.” She shrugs.
“Not to be rude, but I’m not sure I’m interested in the menu at your place.” I laugh as I gesture to the cart contents.
She laughs back, but it morphs into a sigh as she looks over the items. “I’ll probably come up with something brilliant, and realize thirty minutes in that I forgot the main ingredient. I rarely cook full meals since I got divorced. I used to enjoy it, actually.”
“I know what you mean. Cooking for one isn’t a huge thrill for me either.” Her gaze flies to mine.
“Did you used to cook for… more than one, then?” she asks, and I hear the real question. My knee-jerk reaction is to change the subject, but before I do, I recall her sweaty, trembling hand as we pulled up to the house that first day, and her monologue on dating later that night, so I compromise…
“I have. I did. For a little while.” But I can’t bring myself to elaborate further. She saves me after a brief pause.
“People always think that when you get skinny after heartbreak, it’s from depression. I think a lot of times it’s just a matter of convenience,” she says with a small snort. I level her with a look and a nod in agreement.
“At least, it could be. Could also be that you’re just… already full. Of feelings, of questions.” And then she adds immediately, “Sorry. I’m not sure why I said that. Cole—my ex—he had an affair…” She swipes her hands through the air like she’s struggling for more clarification. “He left me for her.”
I take a second to decide how to respond. The fury that rises in me at this admission isn’t exactly proportional to the amount of time that I’ve known her, I realize, but it stirs something in me that I usually take care to avoid.
“When someone betrays you, you don’t have a chance to lose feelings. You’re left with all that leftover love, plus anger right alongside it, with nowhere for it to go and no one to give it to. It’s like a phantom limb or something, I guess,” I say, and stop the cart when she stops, regarding each other.
“Exactly,” she says in a quiet voice, her eyes darting between mine. “I imagine, that, in a way—and I hope this doesn’t sound super fucked up—but, I imagine in a way, it’s like a death. At least that’s how I chose to process it.”
She’s still looking at me with a mix of shock and admiration, and I feel my expression mirror hers as we just managed to put into words what I’ve felt for three years. It’s amazing how putting words to something, reducing a big, impossible thing to language, makes it understandable.
“I agree. You can look back and try to hold on to the good bits that way, without getting bogged down with the anger. It’s harder to be angry at someone who’s dead to you,” I reply, her expression tripping on a wince.
She turns and keeps walking. Without looking back over to me, she says, “I hate that I still can’t honestly say that he’s dead to me. Just the relationship, the shared life is. Even though I know that I’m over him, even though in hindsight I can appreciate that being with him led to good things in my life—in spite of the way it ended. I don’t think I’m bitter, but I don’t really know if I have closure, you know? How do you know?”
I inhale deeply, carefully weighing my response, searching for an epiphany to share with her as I’m absorbing it for myself. “I guess if you’re holding back from anything because of them, you don’t have it. I think we learn from experience, so of course you’re going to make decisions differently based on your experiences with them. But I think if you are denying yourself anything, or not doing something because of them… I guess that means you don’t have it.” I shrug, because fuck if I actually know. I’m still floundering through it myself.
She peers at me sideways, and I’m snared again for a second. We look away and back at the same time and then suppress a laugh. We’re both a mess. The silence easily transitions back into companionable, but now coupled with another level of understanding each other. We both have shit, and neither of us is dying to dig into it too deep.
Eventually, we turn down the same aisle for a third time and she grabs a bag of shredded cheese. I can’t hold back another chuckle, and she lets one out, too, and gives me a little hip check. I’m enjoying this version of her that’s touching me, even if it’s only because I’m teasing her. Childish, or not, I find that I want to find something else to poke fun at.
“I’m going to need to find some takeout places around here, aren’t I?” she says.
“Just come by my place if you need anything, I’m sure I’ve got what you need. I can feed you.”
“You think you know what I like? Maybe I need to take a look at your menu.”
“I guess it depends on your tastes?”
She smirks triumphantly. “Guess it’s not a big menu then, huh?”
She stops and faces me, folding her arms across her chest. A motion which, inevitably, leads my gaze there. I realize what I’ve said and how she’s responded, and how slow I am on the uptake. I drag my focus back up to her face to see if I’m accurately gauging this situation, the fact that a bag of shredded cheese segued into this flirtation, or if I’m just reading into it. I feel my jaw flex at her little eyebrow tilt, and notice the way her mouth makes a little “o” when she sucks in a quick breath.
As much as I want to be a happy distraction (and the current tightness in my lower abdomen is indicating that I really want to be distracted back), this would be too messy, I can already tell.
Have I ever noticed the collarbone on a woman? Because all I can think about is running my tongue along it and slipping off those tiny, ridiculous straps on her dress, one at a time. I wonder if she is shy at first when she’s naked, or if she gets more confident and bold as she sheds each layer…
Her arms fall to her sides and her chest rises in time with mine, her nipples pebbling beneath her dress.
Jesus, man, it’s like you’ve never seen boobs before. Remember when you had the audacity to wonder if they were fake? As if you’d even know or care? Shit, I’m ogling again!
Wait, why the fuck am I here?
“CAMERA!” I practically shout, like the idiot I am.
She jumps, but immediately replies, “Yes, camera. I’m checking out now and am going to go look into it. I promise you, there is no reason for you to come though, I have insurance.”
I nod, especially since I realize that I’m already late for the meeting I have seemingly forgotten about, and since her mentioning me coming on even that completely unrelated note shot heat straight to my dick .
“Alright, I’ll catch you later, then.”
By the time I get back to my truck, I’m sweating and need to remove my hat and unbutton my shirt. It doesn’t feel like it’s singularly caused by the heat wave rolling in outside, either.
This is going to be a long six weeks.