Chapter 4 #2
Grace stands near the doorway, somewhat awkwardly shifting on her heels, until Forty turns and spots her. He’s in the middle of barking orders at the hands helping him when his eyes light up and a smile erupts across his face.
“There she is,” he exclaims, wiping his hands on his jeans as he walks over to her.
Once at her side, he turns to face everyone and clears his throat. “Listen up, kids,” he calls out, and a wave of attention spreads across the room, all eyes shifting to them. To her.
Grace’s cheeks start to warm.
“This is Grace. She’s working with the stud Renata snagged off that Real Housewife of Dallas.
Once she breaks him, she’ll officially be the new Gary.
I expect y’all to be kind and hospitable, and don’t ask her too many questions.
” He points at one of the hands with that comment, a shorter man with a dirty-blond faux-hawk who looks a little offended but puts his hands up in compliance anyway.
“Grace, this is everyone. I’m not gonna tell you all their names, because you won’t remember them.
Hell, I don’t even remember them half the time. ”
A few of them greet her from where they are, a couple even flash genuine, welcoming smiles, and Grace returns them, waving.
And then everyone simply…goes back to what they were doing.
Like Grace is just a person, someone working at the ranch like they are, and not some shiny new toy to bat around and examine.
She lets out a long, shaky breath and feels a thick, heavy tension rush out of her, her shoulders slumping in unexpected relief.
Forty offers her a kind smile before turning on his heel and walking back to the stove to tend to a large, steaming stockpot.
Grace figures it’s as good a time as any to make up her bed, but before she can venture across the room, a warm, high-pitched, decidedly female voice cuts through the low murmur of the bunkhouse and stops her.
“Hi, Grace.”
Grace turns to find a petite, smiling woman has appeared at her side.
The top of her head reaches Grace’s chin, so she has to crane her head downward slightly to meet her eyes.
She looks about Grace’s age, and just as bronzed and freckled from hours spent in the sun.
Her blond hair is curly and long, nearly down to her tailbone.
She holds out a hand, and with a crooked but confident grin, says, “I’m June.”
Grace returns the handshake and her own tentative smile—the confidence and lack of shyness isn’t her expertise. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
Behind them, a cowbell sounds. It’s loud, too loud for the size of this room, but no one seems surprised. In fact, they all become animated instantly, leaving their posts in waves to find seats at the giant dining room table.
“Bell means food’s ready, as I’m sure you guessed,” June says, looking back to the kitchen ruefully.
With a slight shake of her head, she adds, “Hope you like slop, Grace. That’s all you’re gonna get in this kitchen. And the occasional flapjack.”
“I can hear you, ma’am,” Forty grumbles, not turning to look at them.
“Turn around and I’ll say it to your face, Forty,” she counters, then rolls her eyes mirthfully as she turns back to Grace. “How’d it go with the horse today?”
Grace looks around the room, noticing the way ears seem to be perking up as she prepares to answer.
It seems they all would like to know how it’s going with the stud.
“Not bad,” Grace says, shoving her hands into her pockets to stop herself from wringing them under the mass scrutiny.
“I only spent a couple of hours with him, but we made some good progress.”
June purses her lips. “Well,” she says, giving Grace a surveying look that feels more…antagonistic than her friendly greeting would’ve suggested. Then she adds, “Aren’t you just the prettiest horse whisperer there ever was?” and Grace knows, sadly, instantly—this is one to keep an eye on.
“Leave her alone, Junie,” a man with red hair cuts in, walking up to the two women.
He stands between them and gives June a stern, brotherly-type look, then his gaze flits to Grace.
“Don’t mind her. She’s just mad because she and Gary were…
entangled,” he says with a suggestive bounce of his rusty eyebrows.
June’s lips tighten, and then, without ceremony, she elbows the man directly in his stomach, which makes him grunt as he hunches over.
She then, promptly and wordlessly, leaves them both to find a seat at the table.
Grace decides not to be offended by the sudden hostility, even if it had been hidden behind a seemingly welcoming, bubbly smile.
It’s not a new thing—women being combative with other women on a ranch, especially among fellow hands.
In Grace’s experience, there’s a competitive, territorial energy that rarely gives way to any type of sisterhood, despite the commonality of sharing space with a bunch of sweaty oafs.
“I’m Raymond,” the redhead says, slightly raspy. Still hunched over, he reaches out with a limp hand. “Great to meet you, Grace.”
Grace chuckles. “You too, Raymond.”
“C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the table. He slowly returns to a fully vertical position and beckons her with a wave. “Let’s eat.”
Once dinner is ready and everyone is seated around the table, it’s almost impossible to parse out the overlapping conversations.
Some are lighthearted, others seem to be verging on actual arguments.
But, strangely, there’s no tension. No anger.
And most of all, there doesn’t seem to be any concern with the fact that not one but two women are sitting among them.
Too often at Braxton, Grace felt like a captive animal on display with drooling, hungry men poking and prodding at her cage.
Here, she’s left alone to eat her food, which does look like slop but tastes like heaven.
Potato soup of some kind, with thick morsels of bacon and gooey cheese and sprinkled with green onion.
She enjoys each spoonful, for once, not feeling the need to rush through her meal and get out of the spotlight.
The engagement she does experience is friendly and curious.
They ask about her past without prodding too much; they seem genuinely interested in getting to know her at whatever speed she’s comfortable.
It’s an odd, pleasant conversation she is not accustomed to in the slightest, but she tells them about her favorite music (country), food (steak), and movie (Forrest Gump).
She learns about them, too—all nine of the hands, except for June, who doesn’t seem especially keen on offering up any information about herself.
Raymond is from Tennessee; he loves to rope and competes in the local rodeo.
Harrison, a Texas native, is an aspiring poet whose smile is interspersed with silver-capped teeth.
There are two ex-convicts, Bryan and Michael, who did brief stints for possession charges and found a home at Halcyon after being released, when they had nowhere else in the world to go.
Caleb, Alec, and Pierce all love to drink and often make it a competition among one another amid games of Hold’em and blackjack.
And then there’s Forty, the unspoken dad of the group, whose face lights up when she tells him she likes to cook and would love to help him in the kitchen.
“Well, good,” he says, pointing his spoon in her direction.
“I’m gonna hold you to that, because these idiots can’t tell an onion from a goddamn apple. ”
A raucous protest sounds around the table from the affronted cowboys, and Grace can’t help but laugh.
It’s different, a little strange, even, to feel any sort of joy among fellow ranch hands, but she lets herself feel it anyway.
If she only gets a few days of this loud, loving, patchwork family, she’s going to sop up as much of it as she can.
She eats her delicious soup, listens to their stories, and for the first time in a long time, the smile on her face isn’t forced.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
At breakfast the next morning, while he stands beside her and dries the dishes she washes, Grace learns that Michael “Mikey” Chapman—the owner of the faux-hawk—is an open book. He’s more than happy to gab away about his time in lockup and all of his strange experiences inside.
“I’ll have to teach you how to make my special ramen sometime,” he tells her as he wipes down an old, heavily seasoned sheet pan. “You like Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, right?”
Grace tilts her head, considering. “Sure, they’re okay.”
Mikey gasps. “Okay? The greatest snack God ever invented is just okay?”
Scraping bits of egg off a skillet, Grace says, “Didn’t Frito-Lay invent Flamin’ Hot Cheetos?”
“That’s heresy, ma’am,” he says, eyeing her with a humorous scowl.
They work through the pile of dishes, laughter and gentle ribbing continuing until another presence makes itself known in the kitchen.
It’s odd—though the person doesn’t make any noise, Grace can still feel the energy shift around them.
With a quick glance over her shoulder, her suspicion is confirmed.
Crew Caldwell. Looking just as pleasant as he had the previous morning.
He stands at the counter, pouring coffee into a giant thermos, and he doesn’t look up or acknowledge them, even when he’s done. He simply stands there, sipping his coffee, frowning.
From what she’s gathered so far—which isn’t much, just what she could pick up around the dinner table and then the subsequent fire they all sat around, cradling Solo cups of Jack Daniel’s—Crew is unforgiving and tough on the ranch hands.
But he doesn’t seem to work in a loud, spurious way like Bellamy does.
His authority is quieter, more intense, and more intimidating than Bellamy could ever hope to be.