Chapter 9 #3
She seems especially intent when they discuss the stud scam—Bellamy’s most predatory and lucrative swindle.
With the help of experienced forgers and talented snake-oil salesmen of the most sinister variety, he’d sold at least a million dollars’ worth of fraudulent horse semen, pushing claims that it was all from prized studs and sure to result in future success and riches for the buyer.
He preyed on those new to ranching, those with money burning holes in their pockets, and those with too much whiskey in their system to make sound decisions.
He’d scammed everyone from elderly women to eighteen-year-olds with trust funds.
And because there were so many variables with breeding, he’d flown under the radar for years, swiftly avoiding any consequences for his thievery.
With every story, every victim Grace recounts, Renata looks more and more like she’s calculating something, or many things, while continuing to listen.
Grace is about to ask what kind of master plan she’s cooking up when they’re interrupted by the kitchen door swinging open. Clint walks in, and he looks a little dazed with his hair and pearl-snap shirt both slightly undone, a cream hat in his hand.
“Well, hi, handsome,” Renata greets cheerfully.
“Enjoy your nap?” She walks over to him and starts fastening his undone buttons.
Clint stares adoringly at his wife as she fixes him up, even as she licks her fingers and presses down on a stubborn cowlick in his silver hair.
Watching them, it occurs to Grace that she’s never witnessed this sort of natural, settled-in intimacy.
The only married couple she’s known in her life was her parents, and they were vicious to each other, resentful and violent.
When they looked at each other, there was never love in their eyes. Never softness and warmth.
Eventually the two split apart, and Clint nods a greeting to Grace. He walks toward the table and reaches into a bowl of potato chips, popping one into his mouth. While crunching on it, he asks, “How’s it going with that horse?”
Grace sits up a little straighter in her chair. Waylon—she’d almost forgotten he was the reason she was coming up to the house in the first place. “Good—real good, actually. I came up here to talk to Renata about our progress.”
Clint tugs lightly at the sleeves of his shirt. “Good news, then?”
Grace looks at Renata, and all shades of anger and disgust from their previous conversation have disappeared. She looks excited now, her eyes bright as she awaits Grace’s news. With an involuntary grin, Grace says, “I saddled and mounted him this morning.”
The look on both of their faces sends a surge of pride through her—it’s a lovely mix of pleasantly surprised and not surprised at all. Like they both knew all along that she could do this. The confidence emboldens her, and she adds, “I think he’ll be ready for a real ride by next week.”
Renata turns to Clint. “Can you believe that? And she was in a shoulder brace for most of last week.” She looks back to Grace, incredulously shaking her head. “I should’ve known Maryann wouldn’t steer me wrong. Well, then, Grace, what do you say? Do you want the job?”
She asks it so casually, like she isn’t handing over an opportunity that will change Grace’s life forever. And Grace knows she just asked it straight-out, but she can’t help the disbelief at her turning luck, and her throat tightens with emotion. “Really?”
They both chuckle. Renata says, “Really. We’d love to have you stay on full-time, if you’re interested. What do you think?”
Joy, or something very close to it, erupts in Grace’s stomach. She can barely contain it as she responds, almost immediately, “Of course. I accept. Yes.”
Renata grins. “Great.”
“Well done, Grace,” Clint says, and there’s pride in his smile, and Grace learns right then that being on the receiving end of such a look is like standing in the warm glow of the sun after months of frigid winter.
He looks at his wife, and his smile transforms into a conspiratorial smirk. “You know what that means, honey.”
Renata grins, nodding. “I do.”
“Grace,” Clint says, “have you ever been to a hoedown?”
Despite the full spectrum of emotion Grace has experienced in the span of five minutes, she honks out a laugh. “I grew up in Texas. Of course I have.”
“Of course. My mistake. But I’ll tell you what—I bet you’ve never been to a hoedown like the ones we have around here.” Clint looks past her with a twinkle in his eye.
Like something out of a movie, Grace looks toward the window to find a line of vans heading for the house.
“You see,” he continues, “my birthday is tomorrow. And every year on my birthday, my wife subjects everyone to the most expensive, most over-the-top hoedown on God’s green earth.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
In the laundry room that evening, Grace is moving all of her clothes from the washer into the dryer when June walks in with a collapsible basket on her hip.
Her hair is gathered at the top of her head in a tangled bun, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in days.
She says nothing as she sidles up next to Grace and sets her hamper on the floor.
Grace yanks runaway socks from the back of the washer and tosses them into the dryer, and once everything is out, she slides over, freeing up the machine.
Grace has shared a bunkhouse with only three women in her life.
The first, Jackie, was already at Braxton when she showed up as a teenager, and she’d been something of a lifeline for Grace.
She’d been rough around the edges and a little mean at times, but she’d also protected Grace from ogling eyes and wandering hands, and chewed out the ranch hands who spoke to her indecently.
Protective as she was, she couldn’t manage to keep a lid on her temper and was fired less than a year later for punching the foreman directly in the nose.
And then there was Abby, who was much more like June in her disinterest in making new friends.
She saw Grace as competition on the ranch and with the men.
Despite her animosity, Grace had learned from Jackie that sometimes, on a ranch, you need someone in your corner.
Grace took that to heart and protected Abby the same way Jackie had protected her, and there were scars on more than one man’s skin to prove it.
They never became real friends, but they were eventually reluctant allies, watching out for each other when it mattered.
Until Abby fell in love with a bartender in Frasier, packed her bags, and left in the middle of the night.
Though anything Grace says to June will likely be taken the wrong way, or ignored entirely, she can’t help but speak up.
Whether June wants to acknowledge it or not, there’s a solidarity between women on a ranch.
An unwritten law by which they must abide.
To break it would be to betray something precious, snipping the invisible string that connects them all.
She knows what it’s like to shy away from the offering of friendship, especially in a setting like this.
But she also knows how vital it is, how comforting.
She strategizes silently, quickly, knowing she needs to be creative about how to approach this.
A simple How are you? isn’t going to penetrate June’s steel-reinforced walls.
Instead, Grace goes with “Can I ask you something?”
June is piling all of her white—well, perhaps the clothing used to be white; now it’s all varying shades of beige—garments into the washer, tossing the colorful ones to the floor by her feet. She sighs, and uttering the words seems to physically pain her, but she finally says, “Go ahead.”
Grace fiddles with the knob on the dryer, telling the machine to bypass the gentle dry. Not a single article of clothing Grace owns warrants anything gentle. “Do you know about this party tomorrow?”
“Clint’s birthday party?”
“Yeah.”
June reaches for the bleach that sits on the communal detergent shelf hanging over the washer and dryer. “What about it?”
“Is it—” Grace searches for the words, hoping to not convey how nervous she is about the prospect of attending a rich person’s birthday party. “Is it like an everyone’s invited kind of thing? Do you all usually go?”
June chuckles, but there’s little mirth in the sound. “Yeah, we all go.” She lets the top of the washer slam down, then angles her body toward Grace. “Haven’t you figured out by now that these idiots will jump at any chance to get shit-faced?”
Grace smirks. “Right.” She presses the start button on the dryer, and the rumbling sound of her clothes beating against the machine starts to echo through the room.
She angles her body toward June, too, and folds her arms over her chest. “Let me guess—no one showers? Everyone quits work and walks over in their sweaty jeans and dirty boots?” Grace holds June’s eyes as she speaks, never once relenting.
There’s a sparkle in June’s bright blues, newfound and momentary, but the flash of it confirms something in Grace’s head: June gives as good as she gets.
So, with that in mind, Grace kinks an eyebrow, daring her to refute the statement, to feign ignorance.
Instead, June smiles knowingly and gives Grace a careful once-over, like she’s seeing her for the first time. It’s the only response Grace gets to her question, and it’s all she needs. June continues to appraise her as she says, “I heard you’re sticking around.”
“You heard right.”
June hums. “Well, then.” She kneels down next to her clothes, digging around until she grabs hold of something light blue and pulls it out from the colorful pile.
She shakes it into its full form, revealing a sundress, simple but beautiful with delicate red embroidery lining the hems. Without preamble, she walks over and presses it against Grace’s shoulders, surveying the fit.
Grace looks down, the dress falling just below her knee.
It smells like June—floral and clean with a remarkable lack of grime and sweat.
June hums, seemingly satisfied, then looks at Grace.
“You’re lucky the party isn’t until tomorrow,” she says, grimacing.
“It’s gonna take me hours to make you presentable. ”