Chapter 12 #3
Renata chuckles. “Protective, sometimes to a fault. A compulsive need to turn himself into a fortress to guard the people he cares about.”
Grace shakes her head, a knee-jerk reaction to such an implausible declaration. “He doesn’t—”
“He does, honey,” Renata states, tilting her head as she looks at Grace.
Her smile is a little sad, perhaps with an echo of unintentional pity.
Grace wants to look away, but she doesn’t think that’d go over well.
Renata sighs, somehow knowing her words won’t penetrate the way she wants them to.
“Crew cares about you,” she repeats. “They all do.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
The hard wood slats of Waylon’s stall are unforgiving against Grace’s back, pressing roughly into the knobs of her spine.
For nearly three hours now, she’s sat here, knees pulled to her chest, forehead resting on her kneecaps.
Listening to Waylon’s steady but slightly shuddered breaths.
The vets are on the opposite side of the stable, both engrossed in their phones, but they’ve been diligent in monitoring the horses, keeping them hydrated, and noting any changes in their behavior.
Though they will all recover, the three stalls that once housed Stringer, Abraham, and Carrot now sit like ominous maws, dark and deep and devastatingly empty.
Grace talks to Waylon on and off, quiet murmurs to not interrupt his sleep or be overheard by the vets.
She recites stories from her childhood that once helped her escape into a different world, allowed her to leave behind the mess of reality and believe, just for a little while, in magic and happy endings.
The spoiled princess with the pea under dozens of mattresses, the girl dumb enough to sneak into a house owned by bears, the mouse eating too many cookies.
They’re a patchwork of out-of-focus memories, strung together by Grace’s ad-libs—some less fitting than others, like the girl getting eaten by the family of bears, because what kind of idiot thinks she can just commandeer the furniture of an apex predator?
She talks and talks, and Waylon doesn’t so much as snort, uncharacteristically quiet and tolerant of her ramblings.
She files that away for future reference—only when he’s sick and exhausted beyond belief will he entertain her without comment.
Dinnertime comes and goes. The sun descends, and in its wake, a sky of lavender and bubblegum pink meets in the middle to form a thick streak of mauve, crossing the expanse like a giant racing stripe.
She’d skipped lunch, unable to conjure any sort of appetite after the harrowing morning, but now her stomach rumbles, loud and insistent that she find sustenance.
She ignores the sound and the pangs in her gut.
She’ll fight her body until she no longer can—refusing to leave until she knows Waylon is going to be okay, until he’s upright and grumbling at her with those judgmental sidelong glances.
Then, and only then, will she give herself permission to eat and sleep.
Half an hour after sunset, the sky begins to bleed out its warm colors, giving way to the charcoal black of night.
The vets are elsewhere, likely enjoying a delicious Ronnie-supplied dinner in the main house, and in their absence, the stables feel eerily quiet.
They take on a dreamlike quality in the night.
The light bulbs hanging from exposed beams are dull and yellow, casting the space in a hazy, surreal glow.
Grace can feel herself growing more tired by the minute, but she swims against the tide of sleep with all of her strength.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath boots cuts through the silence.
Closing in, getting louder with each step, and Grace is no longer fighting to stay awake.
Her eyes are wide open, her back ramrod straight.
She doesn’t care who it is, but she will care if they try to coax her back to the bunkhouse for a meal, a shower, and a good night’s sleep.
She pushes the heels of her boots into the dirt, adhering herself to the ground.
Clamped into the earth with such force, they’ll have to drag her out by her hair to get her to move even an inch.
When Crew comes into view, it’s a bit alarming, the wave of breath that rushes out of her.
Her limbs seem to relax despite her efforts to keep them stiff and unbudging, and her head falls back against the wood of its own accord.
Her traitorous body seems to be under the impression that she won’t have to fight him, that he is safe, that he will understand her plight.
Because of this, she can ease up and let herself uncoil.
He stands over her like a looming giant, ready to fee-fi-fo-fum a helpless village under his gargantuan feet.
For a beat, they say nothing to each other, and Grace watches Crew’s eyes scan her form, from the haphazard bun on her head to the dusty toes of her boots.
His lips fold into a straight line as he studies her, until finally, his eyes find hers.
She’s distracted by the weight of his stare and doesn’t notice the plate in his hand until he’s holding it out to her, until the aroma of smothered beef tips and mashed potatoes and bacony green beans hits her nose and her stomach lurches in demand once more.
“You need to eat,” Crew says by way of greeting.
Tucked into his palm beneath the plate is flatware folded up in a paper towel, and she notices now that he has two bottles of water in his other hand, dwarfed by his palms into looking miniature.
Grace takes the plate and the flatware and sets it gently on her lap, then watches as Crew places the water bottles at her side.
She thinks, for a moment, that he’ll leave, having done his duty to keep his ranch hands fed and hydrated.
But he doesn’t—he looks into Duke’s stall for a long moment, face tight but otherwise unreadable.
Then he turns and grunts as he slides down the stall door to sit next to her, stretching out his long, denim-clad legs.
Grace looks at him, waiting for…something. She doesn’t know what. A reprimand, maybe. A statement of doubt to echo his mother. An exit strategy. But he just looks at her plate, nods toward it with a single, firm movement. “Eat.”
She tucks in and practically inhales the food.
It’s delicious, but she hardly gets the chance to savor anything, considering how quickly she devours it.
She downs almost an entire bottle of water in one go.
The dramatic gasp of air she takes after crackling the plastic beneath her fingers is loud and ridiculous, but the water tastes uncommonly good. The best water there ever was, maybe.
Sufficiently fed and watered, Grace lets herself sink back into the door, a wave of exhaustion now flooding through her, taking all the space left by hunger and thirst. Crew turns his head and watches her, and eventually, she meets his eyes, feeling a bit sheepish.
A bit like a fool, to let all of her resolve crumble the moment someone shoved food and water in her face.
He must pick up on it, must see a flash of shame in her eyes, because the corner of his mouth crooks upward.
“It’s okay,” he says, even though she’s spoken none of her worries aloud.
“It is?” Grace asks.
Crew nods. He bends his legs, lets his arms slink atop his knees, and blows out a long breath. “It’s been a day.”
“No shit.”
He breathes out a laugh at that. With a dip of his chin, she loses eye contact and decides to follow suit. Together, they stare straight ahead.
“You talked to my mother.”
It isn’t a question. A ranch often operates like a small town; there’s always someone watching, and even the most banal acts are supervised in one way or another. It isn’t surprising that Crew has already been briefed.
“This morning.” She looks down the line of stalls, stopping her journey before she gets to Carrot’s. “After.”
“I didn’t want her to do that,” Crew says darkly, gently bumping his head back against the door. Like his frustration has to manifest itself physically, like he can’t let it simmer inside without somehow inflicting it on the outside. “I asked her not to.”
“She mentioned that,” Grace replies. She lets a beat pass, a beat of quiet consideration, before saying, “I appreciate you going to bat for me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t have to,” he says. “I wanted to.”
Maybe it’s the hour, or the fading twilight, or the smell of burning cedar in the air, she couldn’t say—but something makes her brave enough to pry open that statement. “You wanted to.”
He nods once, and she continues.
“Because…”
Crew smirks, turning his head. Grace lets him look at her for a moment, not returning the stare, keeping her focus across the way. For the span of a breath, a heartbeat, a lifetime, he just looks. Breathes.
Finally, he says, “Because I didn’t want to put any more doubt in your head.
I didn’t want my mother to make you start questioning your place here.
Not when you just…” He trails off, and Grace finally gives in and turns her head.
He’s such a striking man, a paradox of gentle sharpness with features that shouldn’t work but do—a face from which it is difficult to look away.
“Not when you’ve just started to feel at home. ”
And God help her—when he speaks those beautiful words, Grace can’t help but let her eyes fall to his lips to watch them move, watch them change shape around each vowel and consonant.
A stifled but rational voice in her head barks, There’s trouble this way, and makes her abruptly turn away so she doesn’t tailspin into complete delusion. Because this man, in all of his strange beauty, in his disjointed but enchanting charisma—
He is trouble.
For her sanity.
For her heart.