CHAPTER 3
Emma
My dogs sure are barkin’.
I’ve spent my entire adult life and part of my not-quite-adult life on my feet, serving in truck stops and dive diners. Which means my feet are used to abuse. But none of that prepared me for today.
It’s not just my feet. My legs, my hips, my shoulders, and my arms are all screaming at me to give it a rest. I started at four this morning on a Greyhound bus from Reno.
Then, another bus and another one after that.
Besides a handsy man who sat next to me on the second bus, forcing me to find another seat, the rides were uneventful.
But no bus goes to Yosemite Ranch. Which means I’ve been hoofing it all the way from Sweetbriar, over the hills, and down into the valley. A lot of cars have passed me by, but none have stopped. One woman slows down to glare at me, then speeds off, like I’m a criminal.
Which I guess I am.
I’ve been walking for hours and hours, lugging all of my worldly possessions in the duffel bag on my shoulder. I bought it at Goodwill for three dollars. The strap is cutting into the flesh of my shoulder, and I’m pretty sure I’m listing to starboard now, whatever that means.
I’ve never had a massage, but I hear they’re nice. And right now, I’d give every penny I’ve managed to scrape together for one.
Unfortunately, I haven’t done a lot of penny scraping. What I’ve got in my pocket probably wouldn’t cover the cost of a pinky finger massage, let alone one for my whole body.
I should’ve rested when I reached the nearby town of Sweetbriar. I should’ve at least refilled my water bottle. But I was impatient to arrive at my new job. I knew it would be a walk, but I didn’t know it would be a trek.
I’m so flippin’ relieved to see the huge letters forged in metal and arching over a lane—Yosemite Ranch. I turn in, thinking I’m home free. Little did I know that I had another mile to go.
Who needs a mile-long driveway?
Now I’m not even sure I’m in the right place. I’ve reached the end of the lane, and I see a huge spread before me—homes and barns and outbuildings and corrals and gardens.
And it looks like there’s a wedding going on. No—it’s definitely a wedding. But not a normal one.
Fancy cars and SUVs are neatly lined up on the grass. I see two parking attendants dressed in suit jackets.
As I get closer, I realize that this looks like a wedding from a movie set or a fairytale.
Everyone’s dressed up in the kind of expensive clothes I only see on TV—never in real life.
The entire ranch is decked out for this celebration with flowers and fancy plants and fairy lights.
I see a huge fountain, water shooting through a rainbow of colorful lights.
I’m looking at a white event tent so massive it could probably be seen from space. Its roof is peaked in a way that reminds me of a castle. It has arched windows along its sides. Music flows out and rolls over the ground, along with the sound of laughter and chatter and the clank of glasses.
I follow the sound, like I’m hypnotized. I poke my head inside the main entrance.
And gasp.
Holy shit!
There’s a huge wooden dance floor surrounded by overstuffed lounge furniture and cocktail tables.
A disco ball hangs from the ceiling. There’s a raised platform for the disc jockey.
Oriental rugs. Potted ferns and palms. Tables and tables of food and treats.
A bar with fancy lighting. Even a chocolate fountain and two pretty Golden Retrievers wearing big, fancy bows on their collars.
Oh. There must be over two-hundred people in here, and a couple of the guests are already giving me the stink eye.
Of course they are.
I suddenly become painfully aware of what I’m wearing and the ratty duffel bag I’ve got slung over my shoulder.
It’s stupid to even think it—I don’t belong here.
Well, duh. I’m a wedding crasher. A trespasser.
Not only do I not belong at this wedding, I doubt I belong on this ranch, in this area of Nevada, or among these people.
The only way I’d ever be asked to attend a fancy party like this is if I’d been hired to bus tables.
I decide to slink backwards and away from the lights and food and music. I don’t have any other option. I’m not exactly the type who’d grab the DJ’s microphone, call for everyone’s attention, and announce that I’m here for cookin’ and cleanin’.
The problem is that I’ve nowhere else to go. I’ve no other job, no home, and only fifteen dollars shoved in the bottom of my sock. I’ve been promised a job here at Yosemite Ranch, and I need it.
My life depends on it.
Maybe I can tiptoe out of here and go sit under a tree in the dark and wait for the festivities to end. Then, when people get in their shiny cars and drive away, I can quietly ask for the person I came to see. I’ve committed the name to memory.
Just as I turn to go, my gaze lands on the bride and groom as they glide in one another’s arms on the dancefloor. They’re fairytale movie stars, to match the fairytale movie set. The groom is a very big guy with black hair, smiling so hard at his bride that it looks like his face will break.
The woman is drop-dead gorgeous, with red hair collected up into a soft twist. She’s wearing a wedding dress so flippin’ elegant that it belongs on a reality TV bridal show. She floats in his arms and gazes into his eyes.
Sigh.
Next, my focus is pulled toward the sea of guests, many of whom are eating and drinking at round dining tables draped in white linen and decorated with fresh flowers. I watch, transfixed, as one woman brings a fork to her mouth, closes her eyes in delight, and swallows a bite of fluffy cake.
My stomach growls in complaint. I haven’t eaten all day, and I’ve drunk so little that I’m lightheaded.
Hungry. Thirsty. Exhausted. Nobody would want me at a wedding.
And right then, my attention turns to the chocolate fountain. I’m dangerously close to walking right over there, bending at the waist, face up and mouth open so I can drown in a waterfall of chocolate.
Or, if I were really quick about it, I could just grab a plate of food and some water and disappear into the shadows.
It’s tempting. And I might be able to get away with it if I didn’t stick out like a dusty sore thumb in a sea of money and style. But I know the truth of who I am, and I know that I wear my truth for the world to see.
I’m bone tired, fresh out of options, and bent under the weight of all I’m carrying.
My stringy hair is covered in road dust and smells like diesel exhaust. I’m in dirt-caked shoes. The jeans and jacket I wear are just as second-hand as the frayed duffel bag I’m lugging around.
I think back to the email I received a couple of days ago. I’ve read it so many times that I’ve memorized it. But did I get it wrong? Did I misread the job offer? Maybe the email really said I didn’t get the job.
“We can’t wait to meet you. You can start this weekend. Please arrive Saturday afternoon and talk to Finn MacLaine. The MacLaine family owns the ranch. You’ll be living in his house with his eight-year-old daughter, Jasmine.”
That’s what the email said. I don’t think I got it wrong. I’ve read it a hundred times.
I really did get an email that offered me a job as a live-in housekeeper. I really am supposed to be starting this weekend.
And I really can’t wait to start. This job is saving my life.
I’ll be out here in the country, away from all of Reno’s low-life rejects. I’ll have the pleasure of waiting on two people every day instead of a hundred. I actually like housecleaning. I like physical work. I enjoy cooking. And I’m really good at it.
Though it’s getting dark now, I saw enough of Yosemite Ranch and the surrounding valley on my hike down. It is beautiful here.
I may have just lucked out.
So I’ll find Finn MacLaine and tell him I’m here. Maybe he’ll be okay with me getting some rest and something to eat and drink before I get to work.
I scan the party guests again, wondering who is who. I have no way of knowing, but one thing that’s plenty obvious is that there are a whole bunch of very big, very tall men all at the same place at the same time. All wearing the same kind of suit.
They tower over all the guests. One is an older guy with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He might be the father of the groom. Then there’s the groom himself, with jet-black hair, and four other men with many of the same features.
I bet those are the MacLaines, and one of them is bound to be Finn. But which one? The groom is probably out, since who would ask their new housekeeper to show up for orientation during their wedding reception?
Of the other four, three have that same raven-black hair, and one is a blond.
Two of the dark-haired brothers are at the bar ordering drinks and laughing.
The blond is the biggest behemoth of them all, and he’s hanging back from the festivities with his arms crossed over his chest, looking more like a bodyguard than a groomsman.
The other one is sitting at a table with a pretty young woman in a fancy dress.
I’m too nervous to make the rounds, asking for Finn MacLaine. These men are huge and intimidating. I’m just over five-two and on the petite side. They’re filthy rich, and I’m just plain filthy and broke. They’re pure class. I’m just trash.
At least that’s what I’ve always been told. My whole life.
My stomach growls again. And I know that if I don’t take a seat and get something in my belly, I’m going to pass out right here, halfway in and halfway out of the party tent.
And then people will scream. Dancing will stop. Someone will call an ambulance.
No embarrassment there, right?
Sigh.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, summoning my courage.
Scanning the crowd one more time, my gaze locks onto that pretty young woman in the fancy dress. She glares at me. I shrink back a step, but she shakes her head at me, which freezes me into place.
She gets up and stomps over to me. I note she’s wearing worn cowboy boots under her shimmering dress. She’s holding a plate of food, and every couple steps, she opens her mouth and sticks something else in it.
When she reaches me, she’s chewing, and when she speaks, her mouth is full. I like her immediately.
Until I hear what she says.
“What the hell are you doing here?”