Chapter 4 #3
When he notices Crew standing behind them, Mikey’s laughter quiets down until there’s no sound in the kitchen except the running faucet.
He flashes a smile at Crew and, in a somewhat endearing attempt to include him in the conversation, offers, “You like spicy, right, boss? What do you think about Flamin’ Hot Cheetos? ”
Silence stretches, and Grace nearly turns around to see if he’s actually just left without responding when his rumbling voice hits her ears.
“I think Cheetos are something you can talk about on your own time,” he says, words raspy and rough.
The sound makes Grace wonder if he actually sleeps; she’d spotted him earlier that morning, jogging on the paved road that loops around all of the housing structures on Halcyon.
She’d seen him sitting out on his porch the previous night, too, when she’d remained outside after the fire died down to stare at the moon and listen to the blaring symphony of crickets and cicadas.
He’d been accompanied by a dog, who sat faithfully at his feet.
She figures that if he does sleep, he must not do it very well, considering how perpetually grumpy he seems to be—a theory that’s supported even further when he adds, “You got all the equipment ready for that burn yet?”
“I was just finishing up here, I’m gonna go get it all—”
“Because it seems to me like you thought flirtin’ with the new girl is a better way to spend your morning.”
Mikey sets the sheet pan on the counter. “ ’Course not,” he says, shaking his head. “I was just leavin’.” He gives Grace a sympathetic look, a silent apology for abandoning his task.
“Hm,” Crew murmurs as Mikey passes them, quickly speeding out of the kitchen, then hopping on one foot through the door as he hastily yanks on his boot.
Left alone and no longer comfortable with her back to him, Grace shuts off the sink and turns, leaning against the counter. “Good morning,” she tries, mustering her best, most professional smile.
“Sure is,” Crew says dryly, then takes a sip of coffee, surveying her over the lid with his piercing brown eyes. “You had enough yet?”
Grace tilts her head. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she does, not yet tucked away into her regular ponytail. Crew’s eyes follow the motion, tracing from her neck to her shoulder and then back up again. “What kind of question is that?” Grace asks.
He shrugs, a small, halfhearted motion. “An honest one. That horse is a stubborn bastard. He doesn’t want to be broken.”
Grace huffs out a humorless laugh. “Does anyone?”
For a moment, he simply stares at her, pinning her with a look that feels exposing, like he’s silently stripping away one of her protective layers without even trying. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay if you decide this job isn’t for you. Not a lot of people can handle a horse like that.”
“Your mother doesn’t share that opinion, and she’s the one who brought me here,” Grace says, folding her arms over her chest. “She thinks I can get through to him.”
“My mother is an unfailing optimist.”
Grace considers him for a moment. Then, because she’s irritated that he’s doubting her without even knowing her, and without having seen the progress she’s already made, she frowns and asks, “You seem to know a lot about horse training. Why haven’t you tried with him?”
Crew chuckles, wholly unfazed by her boldness. “I don’t have time to rescue any more lost causes, I’m afraid.”
The dig stings. Taken aback by his rudeness, Grace pushes off the counter and steps toward him. “What’s your problem with me?”
His gaze travels downward slightly until their eyes are locked again. “Why, exactly, would I have a problem with you?”
Grace’s eyebrows shoot up. “No clue, but you seem to have a hell of a bone to pick, which is odd considering we just met. Or is this”—she looks him up and down—“your natural state? Do you just default to dickhead?”
Crew’s eyes narrow, and a game of chicken begins between them, both silently daring each other to look away and neither willing to relent.
He takes a step inward, chin dipping down even farther; he’s fully towering over her now.
No doubt used to using his behemothness to his advantage.
He hums, then asks, “Is that any way to speak to someone who might be your boss one day?”
With her chin held high, Grace volleys back, “So, now I have a shot at sticking around? Thought I was a lost cause. Thought I shouldn’t quit my day job.”
His jaw works restlessly back and forth. “Guess time will tell.”
Her eyes harden. “I guess it will.”
A cheeky little smirk folds onto his lips, and Grace feels a primal urge to slap it off of his face. He walks away without another word, whistling as he goes.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
By lunchtime, Grace has roped the stud, and she’s also quietly started to refer to him as Waylon, because some bastard whistling “Good Ol’ Boys” this morning got the song stuck in her head and it just…
happened. Roping Waylon is not an easy feat—he resists it intensely at first, but she continues to patiently utilize the pressure-release method that’s worked well enough so far.
When he finally gives in and stops yanking away from her, she gives him a break, letting him get used to the sensation of the rope against his body.
Through a few more rounds of this—she pulls, he yanks, he stops, she releases—she manages to get him to follow her lead for a few steps. And then, toward the end of the session, like some kind of miracle, his hind legs join his careful, tentative walk.
In the paddock adjacent to Waylon’s, they’ve brought in a Quarter Horse gelding named Duke.
Duke is meant to set an example for Waylon, to help him understand how to behave.
He was handpicked by Crew because he’s the calmest of the herd and nearly the oldest. Grace finds that she agrees he is calm, but Duke is also ornery.
He is generally displeased about his new babysitting gig, and he shows that to her with sidelong glances, litanies of grunts and sighs, and by taking carrots from her hand with a little too much force.
When she tells Forty as much, he chuckles and says something to the effect of You know what they say about animals taking after their owners, which is how Grace learns that Duke has been Crew’s horse since he was a teenager.
With a little time before lunch, Grace decides to leave Waylon under Duke’s unenthusiastic supervision and heads to the main house to update Renata on her progress.
She doesn’t know exactly what the threshold is for her to secure the position—saddle-breaking, if she had to guess—but the fact that Waylon was willing to follow her lead even for a moment is a good sign he’ll continue to progress.
It won’t be an overnight affair, but if she continues to work with him and build trust, she should have him ready to ride within the next week or two.
Whether she’s been allotted that kind of time for this trial, she isn’t sure. They never really discussed that part.
She comes up near the back of the house, which faces the stables and the bunkhouse. There’s a wraparound porch that’s complete with multiple rocking chairs and outdoor couches with lush pillows, and wind chimes that hang from the eaves and echo a soothing, quiet song.
But the peace of the chimes is interrupted when the sound of voices begins to cut through the windswept music.
Grace’s steps slow; her first instinct is to turn around—whatever conversation is going on sounds intense, and she doesn’t want to eavesdrop.
But then she hears something that sounds suspiciously like her name, and she can’t help but move a little bit closer.
Once she’s within earshot, she recognizes both of the voices almost immediately.
“Has she done something to make you think we can’t trust her?” Renata asks. Her voice is calm, her tone mild.
Crew’s voice, on the other hand, is not. “She’s from Braxton.” He’s firm, exacting, and verging on loud. “Nothing good comes out of that place.”
Grace’s heart sinks in her chest. Hearing the words that are constantly playing on a loop in her mind, spoken aloud and with such conviction—
Renata maintains her calm; her words are slowly enunciated, with the kind of patience only a mother can manage. “That’s quite a judgment for someone you barely know.”
“You don’t know her, either!” he shouts. “It’s not like she had a résumé with a list of references. You chose to ignore the inbox full of actual applications from actual professionals for someone who shares blood with Bellamy Whitlock. Please, enlighten me on the logic behind that decision.”
Grace’s head hangs as she continues to listen. With every word out of his mouth, Crew breaks her down, dismantling all the confidence she’d built up that morning with Waylon.
Renata sighs. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Crew, especially if you’re gonna raise your voice at me. But I’ll have you know, she actually did have a reference—someone I happen to know and trust.”
A long, silent pause passes between them. “I’m sorry,” Crew finally says, softer but still slightly on edge. “But even if she breaks that horse tomorrow, I don’t want you promising her a place in my bunkhouse. That’s my call to make.”
“Fine,” Renata says, sounding tired. “You want to be irrational about this? You want to make snap judgments about her based on her family, something that is completely out of her control? You want to take this opportunity away from her, when she’s so clearly excellent at what she does?
Fine. Make the call, son. But it’ll be on you to find someone else. Someone better than she is.”
“Fine. Like I said, there’s a full inbox of applicants.”
“Great.”
“Good.”
Loud, thumping steps follow the clipped declaration—Crew’s heavy boots stomping down the porch stairs, if Grace had to guess.
Angry, defeated tears begin to well up in her eyes as she processes what she just heard, and her first instinct is to drop everything and run for the hills.
She’s already felt like an impostor, like she’s taking advantage of their hospitality by eating their food and enjoying their air-conditioned facilities without having secured the job.
And if the foreman of the ranch—and the heir to the Halcyon throne, no less—already has his mind made up about her, well.
That doesn’t seem like a battle she’s going to win.
She can’t change who her family is. Grace turns around, kicking dust with her boots as she rushes back to the bunkhouse, painfully gritting her teeth to keep the tears in her eyes at bay.
She immediately starts strategizing—the walk to get to the Halcyon property line will be brutal; it’d probably be smart to see if she can find a spare canteen, and maybe some of that deer jerky Forty’s been insisting that she try.
If she can make it off the property, she can get to the main road into town, and then hitchhike until some gracious soul takes pity on her, all alone and boiling in the Texas heat.
It’s as good a plan as any—once she makes it to town, she’ll figure out the rest from there.
So caught up in her own thoughts, it doesn’t even occur to her as she bursts through the bunkhouse door that it’s lunchtime.
The dining room space is bustling with noise, and the stench of sweat and dirt mixes with the lemony, sweet scent of hot tea and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Forty has one perfectly golden one atop his spatula at the stove, which he proceeds to flip over his shoulder, sending it soaring through the air.
With only a tiny bit of assistance from Raymond, the sandwich lands with a thunk on his paper plate.
“Still got it, old man,” Raymond says before devouring almost half of it in one bite.
Grace stands somewhat dumbfounded in the doorway, her mission halted by the unexpected company.
And then they all notice her, and she learns quickly that the greeting she received the previous night wasn’t a onetime thing.
She isn’t quite yet old hat, so they all light up with smiles and beckoning hands, urging her to join them.
Reluctantly, she does, sitting next to Mikey and nearly moaning when the first bite of grilled cheese hits her tongue.
The group talks loudly around her, engaging with her here and there, but she can’t offer much besides a closed-lip smile—Crew’s words are still stuck in her head, in the pit of her stomach, in the bubble in her throat.
It feels like if she tried to actually talk, all that would escape her lips would be a rasping sob.
And then someone says something to her and pulls her out of her panicked spiral. “Saw you out there with the horse this morning.” It’s Pierce, sitting across from her and looking impressed. “You seem to really know what you’re doing.”
“That right?” Caleb asks, mouth half-full of Doritos.
“Oh yeah,” Pierce says, leaning back in his chair and nodding adamantly. “That thing damn near kicked me to death when I tried to wrangle it. Grace got him roped on the second day. Bet she’ll saddle-break him before the week’s out.”
“Well, hell, girl,” Forty chimes in. “I figured you were good, but I didn’t realize you’re a goddamn magician.”
The onslaught of compliments is so unexpected, so different from anything she’s ever known.
It’s an odd sensation, feeling like the center of attention and not wanting to shy away from it.
There’s no disingenuousness in the way they’re speaking—it’s as though every statement, every commendation is simply an inarguable truth.
And as they continue to sing her praises and rebuild the shattered remnants of her confidence without even knowing they’re doing it, Grace makes a decision.
She likes it here. She likes these people. She’s even starting to like Waylon.
With her belly full and her cheeks warm with delight, she decides she isn’t going to run, and she definitely isn’t going to let some snide, spoiled cowboy prince ruin this for her. This little taste of family. This strangely wonderful sense of belonging.