Twenty-four
TWENTY-FOUR
Tag
W e made decent time. By 10 a.m. we’d taken care of all the sheep and chickens, had turned the horses out, and ran into town for a few items from the feed store. When we got back, it was mucking time. I wordlessly grabbed a pitchfork off the wall and pushed a wheelbarrow up to the first stall.
I needed a moment of silence to figure out what was going on with me. I’d had an honest-to-goodness pep in my step all morning. I typically worked hard and never complained, but bouncing through the day was a first. I knew the truth—Bea made me feel lighter, but my head didn’t know what to do with that.
Her meeting Tillie, the way she’d melted and cooed over the horses, and how she never stopped hovering at my back, her questions and chatter…all of it was wreaking havoc on my norms.
Bea pointed at my tools. “Are there more?”
“Nope.”
I glanced back in time to see a singular eyebrow pull into a doubtful arch. “You only have one pitchfork on this entire ranch?”
“Yep.”
“You’re lying. ”
A smile played at the corner of my mouth, but I suppressed it and buried the prongs into the wood shavings on the ground, shaking it until only the manure remained, then dumped it into the wheelbarrow. “Better back up if you don’t want me to toss crap on you.”
She crossed her arms. “Seriously, I want to help. Where is another one? Or maybe a shovel or something.”
I didn’t answer, just kept mucking.
“Okay, fine . I’ll have to find one myself.” She left the stall. Barn doors squeaked open and closed. Even boards creaked overhead as she checked the hayloft.
I chuckled to myself. She was ice cold.
Ten minutes later, I’d moved on to the next stall. She returned with a frustrated huff. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d just tell me where I can get another dang pitchfork.”
“I don’t want you muckin’ stalls. Get over it.”
“Why? ”
I snorted at that.
“Ah. I get it. You think this is fun and want to hog it all up for yourself. Getting that one-on-one manure time.”
One-on-one manure time? I couldn’t hold back the laugh growing in my chest. “Well, shit. Guess you got me figured out.”
She gasped so loud and suddenly, I startled.
I turned, gaping at her in question.
“ Samuel Taggart ! Did you just make a joke ?”
“What? No, I didn’t.”
“You totally did. You used sarcasm.”
I huffed, shoving the fork into the shavings again.
“This is a momentous occasion.” Her playful tone egged me on.
“What are you talkin’ about? I crack jokes all the time.”
“I’ve never heard one.”
“That’s ‘cause I don’t make jokes around you .”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because you, Bea Thompson” —I mimicked the way she’d emphasized my full name— “generate enough comedy for three people.”
I looked up, and we held a moment of eye contact. Her jaw dropped with a scoff but fire danced in her narrowed eyes. “But you like laughing at me, cowboy. Admit it.”
Cowboy?
Her gaze traveled down to my chest then back to my face.
Were we…flirting? A timid burn started at the base of my neck.
Bea said some of the corniest lines I’d ever heard. Just like she wrote in her letters. I whirled away so she wouldn’t see how hard I was fighting a smile. Hell would freeze over before I’d admit liking anything.
She strode into the middle of the stall. “Well, something you should know about me is this: miss out is not in my vocabulary.” Then she leaned down, stooping to gather a heap of soiled shavings into her bare hands.
“Whoa, whoa.” I swiveled the pitchfork, pressing the wooden handle across her chest like a seat belt and lifting her back. Kept the mess beyond her reach. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
“Helping.” She answered innocently.
“Not like that, you ain’t.”
“You’ve left me no choice.” She lurched past my barrier and scooped a handful of shavings, grimacing.
“What is wrong with you?” I laughed in disbelief and batted her wrist with my palm. The shavings popped out of her hands and scattered back to the ground. “Quit that!”
She sighed, straightening up. “Fine. I’ll just go to the next one.”
Before I could stop her, she’d marched out of the stall and into the next. I was on her heels and caught her by the waist as she bent to gather another handful. “Bea!” Full-on laughter shook my shoulders as I jerked her forearm, scattering the shavings again. “You gotta stop!”
She was laughing, too. It was a beautiful sound, even infused with annoyance and defiance. She pushed me away and crouched down. “I want to help!”
I placed my hands on her waist again and tugged her upright as she struggled.
Laughter, an unfamiliar friend, continued to eke from my throat. It was the second time I’d truly laughed in ages. The mud fiasco and now this. I almost lost the battle and dropped her in the shavings as my arms went weak, slacking with laughter. I wheezed a breath in. “You’re so damn stubborn!”
She elbowed me in the gut, and I oofed out a breath.
I grabbed her a third time, using a bit more force. I pulled her close and locked my arms around her shoulders to keep her from escaping. We were both breathing heavy, both laughing. Her struggling slowly eased as she realized she couldn’t escape.
Something shifted deep inside me, like hot water hitting my scalp—a rapid transition from uncomfortable to incredible the longer I held myself under the flow. The painful relief trickled down my shoulders and arms and through my core. Her hair smelled like sunshine and honey and her skin was soft. I resisted the urge to sigh into the top of her head and wrap her tighter.
I wracked my brain, trying to remember the last time someone was this close to me. My hands flexed on her shoulders as I tried to decide whether to hang on or let go. I spoke over her ear. “If you think I’m lettin’ you grab manure with your hands, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Then give me a pitchfork”
“Fine. I’ll?—”
Her hand slipped up and rested over one of my forearms.
My words faltered. “I’ll—give you a pitchfork.”
I knew it was time to let her go. Past time.
She squeezed my forearm. “Swear it.”
I didn’t recognize my own voice as I struggled to remain unaffected by the feel of her against me. “I swear.”
My arms loosened and she broke free, turning to face me. The defiance I expected was nowhere to be found. Her eyes were wide, uncertain. Her flushed cheeks a deep pink. The heat winding through my body grew to an infernal level.
I kept walls up for a reason. I kept people at arm’s length for a reason .
But of all the people who could’ve showed up at this ranch and obliterated defenses, it was Bea. With her, what you saw was what you got. She’d always been that way—never bothering to smoke screen anyone. No bait and switch. Just her .
I trusted Bea as a kid. And, despite the moment by moment debate going in my head, I trusted Bea now. Attraction to her was an easy step. Too easy a step. She was a thousand times brighter in real life. And I was already smitten with her paper version. The burn mixed with a fear-fueled dread until I could hardly pull in a breath.
She had single-handedly upended the safety I’d created here.
I was no good with women, but I wasn’t completely inept. Whatever was racing through my insides was racing through hers too. It was all over her face, clear as a bell. Was it on mine? Our beat of eye contact was almost unbearable. I turned away.
For the next hour, we mucked stalls in pin-drop silence.
The dinner is ready text dinged my phone. I dropped what I was doing, washed my hands in the outdoor sink, and made a beeline for the house. It was nearing nine o’clock and my mouth watered in anticipation. Bea had finally retreated to the house at around 8 p.m.
It was now Friday. Bea worked hard and long hours just like yesterday. I had to hand it to her—her work ethic was impressive. She was a curious observer and fast learner.
As far as descriptions go, stubborn was only the tip of the iceberg with her. Bea was downright relentless—as all-in as a person could be. She didn’t like being bossed and wouldn’t accept the word no . When I told her to take a break, she said, “are you taking a break?” A few times I sat down and had a nice, long drink of water just so she would take it easy. Her determination was a characteristic our letters hadn’t captured, and it blindsided me.
Two days, working side by side, was all it took to see that Bea was highly individualized and had a good sense of who she was and what she wanted. She wasn’t the type to be talked out of things or pressured into giving up what she deemed important.
And she had a heart of gold—but that I already knew.
My morale was higher than it had been in years . Because Bea’s spirits were as unhindered as her will. I felt simultaneously jealous and in awe. We laughed off and on and she poked fun at her own expense. It was impossible to carry on long conversations while working, but the need to catch-up brewed deep within me. I craved slowing down to talk with her. And that was really something. Slowing down, talking, lingering—had I ever wanted those things?
Yesterday and today, she volunteered to start dinner. Despite the good day, it relieved me to see her go inside. Her feet had started to drag, the red hue on her shoulders had deepened, and she’d stopped talking. When Bea went toward the house, I saw her stifle a yawn.
Now, I crossed the barnyard, catching a whiff of something fantastic. The last rays of orange light receded, leaving a dusk gray blanket over the ranch. Fireflies dotted the bushes, blinking around the sides of the house. The bullfrogs and crickets provided consistent background noise—a muted roar everyone forgot about after a minute or two.
And there was Bea, setting dinner out by the porch swing.
Porch dinner? My heart thumped.
Yesterday, we ate dinner inside at the bar stools.
As I got closer, I noticed she’d showered. She was wearing my red t-shirt again and the cut-off shorts. Her damp hair was pulled back in one of those clip things. The image of her slightly bending as she arranged plates on the wicker table, of the way a drying wisp of hair brushed her cheek, of my tied shirt riding up the curve of her waist…I swallowed and looked off into a distant pasture, trying to muster the strength to get through this dinner.
Dim light, sexy company, fireflies.
I was already on a slippery slope. It’d embarrass me to admit how often I remembered the feel of her back pressed against my chest or her soft shoulders squished in my embrace. These feelings were brand new to me—terrifying.
I’d navigated life in such a way to ensure I never felt attraction. For anyone. Ever.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Bea wasn’t supposed to happen.
She looked up. “Oh hey! Perfect timing!”
“Hey,” I forced my eyes to her face.
“You done out there?”
“Gettin’ close. ”
“I figured you’d want to go back out, so I thought I’d serve dinner on the porch.” She looked at me, shoved her hands in her back pockets, and swiveled her body from side to side. “That okay?”
She asked as if I had the power to say no.
“Yep.”
We had chairs on the porch in the past, but they were old and decrepit. Tossed them a long time ago, which meant the only remaining seat was the porch swing. I swallowed again wondering what I’d gotten myself into with her. I almost requested my dinner to go, but one glance at the food and I knew I didn’t have the heart.
She’d taken time to serve piles of spaghetti, broccoli, and garlic bread. Arranged the items nicely on each plate. Almost looked fancy.
I eased into the seat. “This smells delicious. Been a long time since I’ve had spaghetti.”
“You could put anything on noodles and I’d eat them.”
“Have to agree. Noodles are great.”
“Too bad they’re chock full of carbs. Why are all the delicious things bad for you?”
I was thinking the exact same thing, but not about the noodles.
When she sat next to me, I caught that honey scent again. Stronger than before.
My goodness.
It had to be her shampoo.
She picked up her plate and gave me an encouraging nod. “Well, go ahead.”
I obeyed. When I lifted the fork, Bea and I bumped elbows.
She laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re a leftie.”
“Sorry.”
Thirty seconds later, we did it again and simultaneously responded by awkwardly laughing and scooting away from each other.
I didn’t mind bumping elbows. Part of me kind of liked it. But I dutifully offered, as any proper leftie would, “We could switch places if you want.”
“Oh, sure!”
Bea popped out of her seat, and I slid down. When she sat, she was a touch closer than before, our non-dominant arms only a few inches apart.
We fell into silence as we ate. It was comfortable, but expectant. This tentative friendship existed on a precipice, teetering between comfortable communication and awkward silence. Each of us waited for the other to take a sledgehammer to the side of the dam. Once we started really talking, catching-up—would we ever stop?
As I finished off my plate, Bea gave the dam one, hard blow.
“Tag, can I ask you a question?”
I gave one nod in answer.
“What happened to the ranch?” Bea drug her fork through a puddle of sauce on her plate, moving it back and forth like a windshield wiper. “Jesse said it was eighty acres, but didn’t Meadowbrook used to be thousands?”
Without meaning to, I huffed.
“Long story?”
“A sad story.”
She put her empty plate on the wicker table, turned to face me, and tucked her knee up onto the swing between us. Her actions said what her words didn’t: I’m ready for story time. I glanced over to find her round brown eyes studying me. Truth be told, I’d carried a lot of shame for the ways Meadowbrook had spun out of control.
But, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell somebody . Sometimes it felt like each part of my story was locked, trapped inside. Buried so deep within me it would take a miracle to free it. But as much as I wanted to open up to her, I didn’t have experience in vulnerability. I’d practiced holding it all in, swallowing the pain, and suffering in private. I knew this behavior was called suppressing, but it was the only way I could function day to day.
Pages were the one place I could be real. And I gave up on those a long time ago.
A tap on my knee jerked my attention back to Bea. She lowered her voice. “Tell me a sad story.”
I swallowed.
“You know,” she continued, “I’ve been with you for a week and you haven’t told me anything about yourself or your history or your journey as a rancher.”
“I’m not that interestin’.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Well, you are to me.”
I glanced over again. Her gaze was soft, anticipatory—gently roaming my face.
Something funny happened in my chest. I remembered the hayloft, the inquisitive little girl up there who asked me a million questions.
“I wish I could be your friend. You’re interesting.”
I didn’t know what I’d done to capture her interest, but knowing I had it…a warm sensation swirled and drained around my heart, settling deep into my stomach. Heat stung behind my eyes, and I blinked a few times, clearing the burn.
Why was I afraid? Hadn’t I longed for this exact moment? I wished my head would give me the green light, letting me know it was safe to go. But that wasn’t ever going to happen was it? Talking about me wasn’t going to feel comfortable until I just…tried.
Was there anyone I’d try for besides her?
I cleared my throat, hesitating.
She shifted, waiting.
Leaning forward, I dropped my own plate on the table and drew my knee up to the swing, mirroring her. My foot on the ground pushed us into a gentle rhythm. “The downsize happened for a lot of reasons. The short answer’s money. But it’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“Money is always complicated.”
I nodded. “You remember me tellin’ you about Gran’s memory startin’ to go?”
She furrowed her brow in concern, likely guessing where this conversation was heading. “Yeah, I do.”
The dam broke.
For a long time, I told Bea about my Granny’s dementia and my journey as her caretaker.
About the thirty-year-old debts and lapsed policies I found when I took over Meadowbrook’s administration .
About the time I found Gran wandering the ranch looking for okra in the wee hours of the morning.
About the state nursing home that mistreated her and the insane price of the assisted living with a memory care unit. And how I had to sell the land in order to pay for it.
I explained how Meadowbrook downsized one section at a time, detailed the years I didn’t turn a profit, and shared about my shift into horse ranching.
It all flowed out.
Bea listened, teared up a few times, and asked gentle questions. “Was it hard to give up the land?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Not as hard as you’d think. By that point, I’d already discovered my passion was athlete horses. And I didn’t need thousands of acres to do that.”
“Where was Cooper during it all?”
“He came and went as he pleased, same as always.”
“What’s he up to these days?”
“Well, I bailed him out of the county jail recently on the condition that he’d stay at the ranch.” I waved a hand into the vicinity. “You can see how that worked out.”
Her eyebrows shot upward. “Jail?”
“He got arrested for petty theft and assault. Cooper’s a mess, Bea. I don’t know how to help him anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Tag. You’ve always felt responsible for him.”
I shrugged. “He needed someone to look after him. I did a pretty awful job, apparently.”
She shook her head. “He needed responsible adults . You were a child trying to be a parent.”
“He dropped outta school at sixteen and hit the road, and I was never able to get him back.”
“Cooper doesn’t have a diploma?” She rested a hand over her heart, shaking her head in disbelief. “That makes me so sad for him.”
Dumbfounded, I sat there. A squeezing sensation around my chest made it hard to breathe. I didn’t tell her? She would’ve tamed her surprised expression if she knew. How did graduating not come up in our letters ?
I wanted to finish high school. I would’ve if things had been different. I about killed myself trying. Man, I didn’t want to talk about this.
Her brow furrowed in thought. “Did you finish school?”
I lifted a shoulder, contemplating telling her a lie. But water poured from the dam now, the honest flow long overdue. The truth scraped out without my permission. “I got…eight weeks into my senior year and never went back.”
I glanced at her, seeing concern, not judgment. The crease between her brows held. “Why?”
“Too many responsibilities. I couldn’t do it all.”
She took a deep, quiet breath. “I know school meant a lot to you.”
“This ranch meant more. And it needed me.”
She nodded quietly.
“I can’t help but think…” My words trailed off as I belatedly considered whether or not I wanted to say them.
She waited a few beats then prodded me. “Think what?”
“If I had finished, maybe Cooper would’ve too. He was followin’ my example when he quit. If things were different, maybe he’d have a payin’ job right now.”
Her hand moved to squeeze my forearm draped over the back of the swing. “It’s not your fault.”
I had to stifle a physical reaction. It was all my fault. A burden I could never share with her. Dropping out of school was the tip of a very big iceberg.
“You did everything you could.”
Eventually, silence fell over us, drawing my attention to the time. The sun was long gone, and the dusk gray sky had morphed into deep night. A bit of regret burned in my blood. Had I said too much? I was so… different than Bea. Our stories were black against white. The contrast between the two of us grew more stark with every word out of my mouth.
Bea Thompson was everything I wasn’t.
If I didn’t disgust her by now, it was only a matter of time.
Her soft voice spoke up again, changing the topic. “Have you…have you always been alone? ”
“Not completely. I’ve had the employees here, of course the horses, I call my cousin…” I stopped abruptly, realizing how stupid I sounded.
The only people I could depend on drew a paycheck from me? I couldn’t look at her after admitting such a thing.
For a while, my cousin and I were close, but after she got divorced years ago, things changed. We only talked once a month, maybe less now.
For the first time, I wished I’d dated or had other siblings or a relationship with my mom or something just so I could prove to Bea I was valuable. That I could show her there was someone else in the world who cared.
Here was Bea, beloved singer, sister, and daughter. She had a promising future, a good family, talent, and stability. Then there was me—broke, loner cowboy who couldn’t even get his own mother’s attention.
A voice, familiar and sickening, filled my head.
I am nothing. I am noth ? —
I pushed the voice back, refusing to listen right here and now.
She spoke quietly. “That’s not really…what I meant. I meant alone as in, you know, dating and marriage?”
“Oh.”
She leaned closer, her knee gently bumping against mine. “No girlfriends?”
I cleared my throat. “I haven’t had a lot of time for…dating.” Although that was true, it wasn’t the real reason I’d never pursued any relationships. Penny practically stopped in every day to take care of my horses. Several years back, she made her interest in me crystal clear. I could’ve easily dated her, but I didn’t want to. When that ship sailed and Penny got married, it didn’t rattle me in the slightest. Zero regrets.
“What about you?” I kicked myself for asking. Because if she had a boyfriend back in Colorado, I really didn’t want to hear about him.
“I’ve dated. My most recent relationship was with a guy in the music industry—the bassist for a band I’ve done some gigs with. I found out the hard way that he was a player.” She shrugged. “So, I’ve been single for over a year now.”
“He cheated?”
“With a mutual friend.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, it sucked, but I was just glad it happened when it did and not later.”
“So, it was serious then?” Leave her alone.
She lifted a shoulder. “It felt serious, I guess, depending on what perspective I looked at it with.”
“Perspective?”
“If I compare what I had with David to what I had in my dating relationships prior to him, then, yeah, it felt serious. But, if I compare what we had with what my parents have?” She huffed. “It felt as immature as a summer fling.”
“Your parents are happy?”
“They adore each other. Dad worships the ground she walks on, and Mom is convinced the world wouldn’t turn without him. It’s beautiful.”
A soft hmmm came out of my throat. “What’s their secret?”
“They claim it’s friendship.”
It was my turn to ask a question, and I gladly changed the subject. “Speaking of music, have you decided what you’re going to do?”
She groaned. “No. My lawyer called me back and said the contract was sound. To be honest, I was kind of hoping there would be an issue and the decision would be made for me. Anyway, I called Jerry yesterday and told him that I wasn't any closer to making a decision. He stayed professional, but I could tell it pissed him off.”
“You’ll know soon.”
She shrugged. “I certainly hope so. I’m leaning toward ‘no’ at this point, because I can’t imagine letting someone like Jerry tell me what to do.”
I grunted a laugh.
She smacked my knee. “What was that for?”
“Nothin’.”
“That laugh wasn’t nothing. Spill. ”
“Just—good luck to Jerry if he tries to boss you around.”
She threw her head back and laughter, free and unhindered, came out of her mouth. “Are you saying I’m stubborn?”
I held my thumb and index finger together, squinting through them. “A hair.”
She shoved my knee again. Bea was touchy. While we talked, she touched me on the arm, the hand, the knee, the shoulder. Did she do this to everyone? Or just me? I wanted to hate it and pull out of her reach, but I found myself doing the opposite—inching closer, letting my knee drift toward hers, sliding my hand further down the back of the bench. Like a pup starving for attention.
“I’m not stubborn.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m self-assured. There’s a difference.”
“All the same. You don’t comply very easily.”
Her laugh ebbed and flowed again. “Neither do you. You’re a stick in the mud. Which I’ve found rather surprising.”
“Surprising? Why’s that?”
“Well, in our letters, you were a lot more…share-y.”
I grunted. “Time changes people.”
“Time doesn’t change people. Experiences change people.”
“Time equals more experiences.”
She tsked. “Are you saying you’ve had experiences that changed you?”
“Haven’t we all?”
“I have.”
“Then you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”
She took a deep breath. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. I’ve had a lot of experiences. None of them have made me afraid of vulnerability.”
Am I that easy to read?
I looked at her in the yellow porch light, wishing I could read her mind. “Why do you think I’m afraid?”
“The boy I met in the hayloft didn’t want me to get to know him. In fact, you said I was better off not knowing you. You let me in eventually, and we became best friends. But now, here we are and it’s taken almost a week for you to discuss something other than horses with me. ”
I shook my head as a burn bloomed at the base of my neck. “Bein’ open has never come easy.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “I wasn’t looking for an apology. I’m happy to be let in however much or little you want.” Her smile faded, replaced by the serious crease between her brows again. “While we are talking, can I ask you one more question? It’s one that has bothered me for a long time.”
“Go ahead.” My pulse jumped.
“Why did you stop writing me?”
I should’ve known this was coming. Sixty seconds of forethought would’ve gone a long way with this answer. I scrambled for an alternative answer to the truth. I couldn’t ever share the truth with her. Not about this.
I sighed. “I got?—”
We said “busy” in unison.
She shook her head in refusal. “You were always busy. We made time for each other. I’m not sore about it at all, I just wish you’d tell me honestly if you outgrew me.”
Her words felt like a punch to the gut. Outgrow her? Was she serious?
The sincerity in her chocolate eyes answered my unspoken question.
Dammit .
That’s how she’d felt all this time? That I outgrew her? The notion was absurd. I could never outgrow what we had. Not in a hundred years. Not in a thousand . For all the crap relationships in my life, it’d be pretty ballsy to admit I outgrew her. As if something or someone was there to replace her.
“Does it matter anymore? After all this time?”
She thought for a moment. “To young Bea it matters.” She tapped my knee with a playful smile. “Come on, Tag. Did Scribbs outgrow Strings?”
Bea was keeping the question light, but I’d be an idiot not to see her need to understand why I obliterated something so wonderful and good.
Writing that final letter was like ripping off and destroying a part of my soul.
And I bled for a long time.
I reached up to lift my hat, forgetting I’d hung it on the porch railing—ran my hand through my hair instead. I silently cussed my cowardice. The reason I stopped writing her—and writing at all—was on the list I wouldn’t grant her access to.
When alternative answers failed to surface, I found myself stammering words I’d never intended to say, “Yeah…yeah, I guess I outgrew you. A—a little.”
She nodded like she understood, but she averted her gaze, hiding her true reaction. Then she shrugged, her voice soft. “Well, I didn’t outgrow you. So if you want to write me letters, I’ll give you my new address.”
Tight muscles in my throat strangled my attempt at laughing. Her forced, breathy chuckle died off too.
After a few quiet moments, she whispered, “Jeez. How long did we talk?”
I tipped my watch. “Hours. It’s after eleven.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to head to bed. Tomorrow is rodeo day.”
“Yep. It’s a couple hours drive, one night. You going?”
Her gaze snapped to mine, quickly searching my face. “Do you want me to?”
Our eye contact was full, prolonged. I forced myself not to look at her mouth. I imagined going without her, and I didn’t like the way it looked in my head.
The word came like an overflow. I couldn’t hold it in if I tried.
“Yes.”
Her brows lifted.
“Come with me.”
My heart thumped a new rhythm as I watched the relief spread over her face. She overflowed, too—an excited smile suppressed with a bite against her lower lip. “What time do we leave?”