16. Beck #2
“Didn’t know we were having a wet t-shirt contest. I’d have finished my work earlier,” he says, with a sly smile.
My face heats, blood whooshing in my ears as my blood pressure rises. Lyla is still standing there, and when I look back at her, she tilts her head and mouths one question.
Jealous?
I lift the hose and fire a spray of water at her, making her shriek and run toward the house. She retreats, the backside of her now also soaked, and I shake my head with a laugh.
That fucking woman sees right through me.
I am jealous.
I’m jealous of anyone else who has the pleasure of even looking at Lyla Morgan. But also, Dylan is a fucking shithead, and has always been a shithead. This is the last straw.
I go outside to the tap and quickly turn off the water, and then head into the stable where Dylan is taking the saddle off his horse. He’s so casual, aloof. I want to ruin him for having the balls to comment on Lyla’s wet t-shirt.
“Dylan,” I shout, and he looks up at me, still cocky. Still fucking infuriating. “You’re fired.”
It’s almost one in the morning by the time I get back to the house.
I’m bone tired but satisfied, the way I am after a productive day at work.
The calf was delivered without complication, and was up and walking–albeit on very wobbly, knobby legs–within a half hour.
Sutton left once she deemed the calf, and Mom, to be healthy.
But I stuck around for another hour to make sure it had a good feed.
I kick my boots off by the door and hang my hat on the coat rack. The house is quiet, and dark, except for the warm lamp glow coming from the living room. Dad must have fallen asleep in his chair again. He’ll be snoring, mouth hanging open.
The only person I find snoring when I round the corner is Lyla.
Fast asleep on my couch. My heart squeezes as I take in her small frame, curled up on the large leather sofa, her cheek smushed up against the throw pillow.
She looks small, almost fragile if I didn’t know her any better.
If I didn’t know what a ball buster she could be when she wants to be.
If I wasn’t acutely aware of the way she has a vice grip on my heart.
Critter wakes when he hears me and comes over to greet me, his silly tongue hanging out of his mouth. By the look of his one tooth sticking out over his lip, I realize his tongue hangs out because he has no other teeth to hold it in.
“Hey you little weirdo,” I say, reaching down and fluffing his ears with an affection that surprises me.
I notice the two empty highball glasses, only a small amount of clear but amber tinged liquid sitting at the bottom.
It’s the remnants of whiskey, watered down by melted ice cubes.
I pick one of them up and pour myself a glass from the bottle sitting on the coffee table and sit in Dad’s wingback chair next to the fireplace.
The table is littered with a deck of playing cards, as if someone lost and threw their hand. My dad’s, probably. He was always a sore loser.
But Lyla must have indulged him, and she looks peaceful enough, her soft features relaxed and unbothered in her peaceful dream state.
He can’t have pissed her off too bad. I like that she enjoys my dad’s company.
She holds him in a positive regard, goes out of her way to help him and spend time with him.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t harbour so much resentment toward him. I know he’s trying, that he’s doing everything he can within his means to rectify the rift between us. And I’m getting there, I am.
I’m assuming that after a long night of drinking and cards, he retired to bed, and knowing that I worry about him, Lyla stayed until I got home.
Now that I am home, I don’t have the heart to wake her to make her trek through the yard in the middle of the night back to the guest house.
It’s not far, only a couple acres, but too far at this hour.
Any number of predators could be lurking in the yard.
Coyotes, wolves, they like to hunt little creatures in the tall grass.
Creatures like the one Lyla saved that day in the driveway.
I chuckle to myself thinking about how opposed I was to having her here on the ranch. Watching her sleep here and thinking about how things have changed since she arrived, I can’t imagine her anywhere else.
Next to the cards, my eyes land on a yellow lined legal pad, with the first few pages flipped all the way back. I pick it up, and see Lyla’s loopy and even handwriting on the lines. The first few sheets are the notes she was telling me about.
Selling more cows is the first bullet point. I’ve thought about it, but I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around that one. This herd dates all the way back to my ancestors that founded this farm. They’re Hollis cows through and through.
The next point says ‘lay off some of the ranch hands’. Lyla will be pleased to know that’s already been taken care of, though I will have to pay him severance.
The next page makes my heart bottom out.
She’s made notes that look like answers to common interview questions.
She describes herself as “easy to get along with” which I find ironic.
But then she goes on to list other qualities.
Most of them have to do with her work ethic, organization, all of which I can attest to now, having worked with her some.
Then there’s a title called ‘personal’, under which she’s listed ‘passionate’, ‘caring’, ‘honest’.
I think maybe she has a good handle on her attributes.
I knew Lyla was planning on leaving, that her ultimate goal would be to get a job in the city again.
I guess I expected her to wait out her time here, and I worry that she’s leaving because of me.
Because I’ve been prickly, cold, unwelcoming.
But I’m sure she wants to get back to her life, and then I might have a hope in hell at getting over her.
She stirs, maybe sensing my presence in the room, and I put the notepad back where I found it as she rolls over to look around the arm of the couch to where I’m sitting. Her eyes are sleepy, a crease running down her cheek from where she laid on the pillow.
“What time is it?” she asks, groggy, her voice raspy and quiet.
I didn’t think Lyla could get any more beautiful than when she’s giving me hell, ribbing me the way she likes to do.
But I was wrong. This Lyla is breathtaking, and I’ve lost all sense of the day and time because the only thing I can think about is seeing this version of her every morning when she wakes up.
“Late,” I answer.
She rubs her eyes and sits up. “Sorry, I thought I’d stay with your dad until you got home. Make sure he got his CPAP on okay. I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep. I should go.”
I stand and nudge her shoulder, urging her to lay back down on the couch.
“It’s fine. I don’t want you walking home in the dark,” I say.
She snuggles back down into the couch, and I grab the knitted blanket draped over the back of it, covering her with it.
Then, I pick Critter up and plop him on the couch next to her.
He snuggles into her side and closes his eyes.
Without thinking, I run a hand down over the top of Lyla’s head, caressing it tenderly.
She blinks up at me, and I clear my throat.
“Goodnight, Trouble.”
I walk quickly out of the room before I have the chance to do something even more stupid without thinking, but as I do, I hear her soft voice behind me. It trails off as she drifts back into sleep.
“Goodnight, Bossman.”