Damian
I’m an asshole.
Not a complete one. Most days, anyway. But I’ve got enough evidence stacked against me that there’s no point arguing the charge.
Leaving Sabrina at the train station sure as hell didn’t help.
I didn’t do it on purpose. Dates have never stuck in my head worth a damn.
Ranch life doesn’t run by numbered squares on a calendar.
It runs by calving season, rain, feed deliveries, busted equipment, and how much work is left when the sun goes down.
Half the time, I couldn’t tell you what day of the week it is without checking my phone.
I knew Sabrina was coming. I just had tomorrow in my head instead of today. Shit happens. She’ll get over it.
I turn off the county road and onto the long dirt drive leading to the house. Sabrina has gone quiet beside me, staring through the passenger window like the pasture might offer an escape route.
I glance at her and nearly miss the bend in the drive.
Jesus Christ, she’s pretty.
The photograph I saw didn’t do her justice. It showed her face, but it didn’t show the way her cheeks turn pink when she’s pissed off or the little crease that appears between her eyebrows when she’s holding back whatever she really wants to say. It sure as hell didn’t show the rest of her.
She’s got curves everywhere. Full breasts beneath that soft-looking top. Wide hips filling out her jeans. Thick thighs I’ve been trying not to stare at since she climbed into my truck.
One side of her mouth sits a little higher than the other, like she’s always half a second from calling somebody on their bullshit.
There’s a faint mark near her chin, too small to be noticeable unless a man’s looking too closely, and her eyes aren’t one flat color.
They’re brown around the edges, lighter near the center.
I want to know what they look like when she laughs. I want to know what all of her looks like without those clothes.
What the hell am I doing?
I don’t know this woman. She’s been in my truck fifteen minutes, and she already thinks I’m an asshole. Probably thinks I’m an idiot, too.
I face forward as the house and front pasture come into view. Then I see the cattle standing in the drive.
“Son of a bitch.”
Four cows are on the wrong side of the east fence, and two more are nosing around the section of sagging wire like they’re considering joining them. One post is nearly flat, and another is leaning hard enough that the whole stretch could go if the cattle put any weight against it.
Sabrina leans forward. “What’s wrong?”
“Fence is down.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.”
It comes out harsh, but I don’t have time to soften it. I’m already counting cattle and working out how long it’ll take to get them back where they belong before the rest of the herd catches on.
I pull up beside the house and throw the truck into park. “Go inside. Door’s unlocked.”
I’m out of the truck before she can say anything else. I grab a rope, head for the barn, and put Sabrina out of my mind.
Or try to.
It takes the better part of two hours to get the cattle back in and patch the fence well enough to hold until morning.
One stubborn heifer makes a run for the lane twice, and I find two more damaged posts farther down the line.
By the time I’m done, sweat is running down my back, mud has dried across my jeans, and I’m in no mood to deal with another problem.
The second I walk into the house, I head for the kitchen. I pull a glass from the cabinet, fill it at the sink, and drink until there’s almost nothing left.
“Is everything all right?”
I jerk at the voice behind me. Water hits the back of my throat wrong, and I cough into the sink, pounding a fist against my chest.
“Jesus Christ.” I turn around, still coughing. “You trying to kill me?”
Sabrina stands in the doorway with her arms folded. “All I did was ask you a question.”
“You came out of nowhere.”
“I walked through the doorway.”
“Well, stomp next time. Clear your throat. Something.”
Her mouth flattens. “I’ll try to remember.”
I finish the water and put the glass down. “Fence post gave out. Cattle got through. They’re back in now.”
“Were any of them hurt?”
The question takes some of the edge off me. “No.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
I look at her standing in my kitchen, and the whole damn situation hits me again. There’s a woman in my house. Not someone dropping by. Not a neighbor needing help. Sabrina has two suitcases with her and thirty days to decide whether she wants to marry me.
Assuming I decide I want to marry her.
The whole thing sounded a hell of a lot less insane after half a bottle of whiskey.
That’s when I filled out the application.
I’d come in late, eaten cold leftovers over the sink, and spent another night listening to the house sit empty around me.
I’d seen the advertisement before and thought it was bullshit.
Then I got drunk enough to stop pretending I liked eating alone every night.
A wife didn’t sound so bad. Someone to talk to. Someone in my bed. Kids running around the place someday.
I’d thought about all the parts I wanted and none of the ones that came with them. Another person in my rooms. Touching my things. Asking where I’m going and when I’ll be back. Watching me closely enough to notice every shitty habit I’ve built over the years.
Sabrina looks like she notices plenty. Maybe this was a stupid fucking idea.
I push off the counter. “Might as well show you the place.”
I don’t wait to see whether she agrees. There isn’t much to explain anyway. Kitchen, living room, office, bathroom downstairs. Three bedrooms upstairs, though one is mostly filled with boxes and another hasn’t been used in years.
I point to the back door. “You’ve got to lift it when you lock it or the latch won’t catch.”
“All right.”
“Hall closet sticks. Pull hard.”
She nods.
In the living room, I gesture toward the shelf beside the fireplace. “Don’t rearrange the records.”
Her gaze goes to them. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“And the chair stays where it is.”
She looks at the old leather recliner, then at me. “Why would I move your chair?”
“Women move things.”
One eyebrow climbs higher than the other. “Women?”
“My mother comes over and decides everything’s in the wrong place.”
“I’m not your mother.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“No. You just assumed I’d start rearranging your furniture because we’re both women.”
I’ve got a comeback, but saying it would only dig the hole deeper. I head upstairs instead and show her to her room.
“The bathroom’s across the hall,” I tell her. “Hot water takes a minute. Don’t crank the knob all the way left or it’ll stick.”
She steps into the bedroom and looks around. The room is plain, but it’s clean. I put fresh sheets on the mattress yesterday and found towels that didn’t look like they’d been through ten years of ranch work. Even cleared junk off the dresser.
She touches the edge of the dresser, then looks out the window. That’s it. No comment. No smile. Nothing.
“Well?” I ask.
She turns toward me. “What?”
“You going to say anything?”
“About the room?”
“About any of it.”
Her expression goes careful. “It’s nice.”
Nice.
The word people use when they don’t have anything good to say.
“Don’t sound too excited.”
She draws a breath through her nose. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything.”
“You just asked me to.”
“I asked what you thought.”
“And I told you.”
“Yeah. Nice.”
Her eyes cool. “Would you prefer I lie and say it’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen?”
“I’d prefer you quit acting like you’re inspecting the place for faults.”
“I’m looking around because I just arrived here.”
“Quietly judging everything.”
“I haven’t judged anything.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
She stares at me. “You told me not to move your chair, Damian.”
“So?”
“So I’m trying very hard not to say what I’m thinking.”
Goddamn it. I knew she didn’t like my place. “Go ahead.”
“No, thank you.”
That pisses me off more than if she’d said it.
“Right,” I mutter. “Well, I’ve got work to do.”
“I’m sure you do.”
The words are mild, but they land wrong.
I give her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m sure you have work to do.”
I turn and head downstairs before I say something I’ll regret.
There’s always work on a ranch. A man can stay busy until he’s too tired to think.
I check the water troughs, haul feed, look over a steer favoring one leg, and repair a hinge on the smaller barn.
The sun drops while I’m working, but I keep going until there’s nothing left that can’t wait until morning.
By the time I head back to the house, my shoulders ache and my temper isn’t any better.
Sabrina is sitting on the couch with a book open across her lap. She’s tucked into the corner with one leg folded beneath her, hair loose around her shoulders.
She looks good there. Too good. Like the room has been waiting for her to sit in it.
I don’t care for that thought at all.
“I’m taking a shower.”
She looks up. “Okay.”
I wash off the sweat and dirt, change into clean jeans and a fresh shirt, then head back downstairs. She’s still in the same place, still reading, like she’s claimed that spot in my house.
“Steak and potatoes all right?” I ask.
She nods. “Sure.”
“You actually want that?”
“I said sure.”
“Could just be saying it to be polite.”
She breathes out a sigh. “Steak and potatoes sound good.”
“Fine.”
I go into the kitchen and pull two steaks from the refrigerator. She follows a moment later and sets her book on the table.
“What can I do?” she asks.
I nod toward the sack on the counter. “Wash four potatoes.”
She rolls up her sleeves and gets to work while I season the meat. I try not to watch her, but she’s in my kitchen and that makes it difficult. She scrubs each potato like she’s punishing it, drowning it under the water and working at every patch of dirt.
“You planning to take the skin off with that brush?”
She glances over. “They’re dirty.”
“They came out of the ground.”
“I know where potatoes come from.”
“Then quit trying to buff ’em to a shine.”
She puts the potato down a little too pointedly and picks up another. I take the steaks outside, get them on the grill, then return to find her opening cabinets and drawers.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a knife.”
“Second drawer.”
She opens one and looks inside. “This one?”
“That’s the third.”
“They aren’t labeled.”
“Didn’t realize drawers needed instructions.”
She closes it and turns toward me. “You could’ve shown me.”
“You could’ve counted.”
Her eyes flash. “Do you work this hard at being difficult, or does it come naturally?”
“You’re the one getting pissed over a drawer.”
“You made it into a test.”
“It wasn’t a damn test.”
“Then why are you acting like I failed?”
The kitchen goes still. Her cheeks are flushed, and that little crease is back between her eyebrows.
I should shut my mouth. Instead I say, “You’ve been judging me since I picked you up.”
Her lips part. “You left me at the station.”
“I got the day wrong.”
“And never apologized.”
“I drove into town and got you.”
“I waited for an hour.”
“I had cattle out.”
“You answered the phone like you’d never heard my name.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what happened.”
“I knew who you were.”
“You sure about that?”
My temper snaps tight. I step closer to her. “You really think I ordered a mail-order bride and then forgot her goddamn name?”
She tips her face up and doesn’t step back. “I think you signed up for a wife without considering that an actual woman would show up.”
“You don’t know what I considered.”
“I know you didn’t remember what day I was arriving.”
“Quit saying that.”
“Quit acting like it’s nothing.”
She’s so close to me that I can see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Her eyes are dark, and her chest rises fast beneath her top.
She’s furious. So am I. And all I want to do is back her against the counter, grab those full hips, and fuck the fight right out of both of us. The thought makes my cock harden so fast it pisses me off all over again.
I step away and hit the edge of the table with my thigh.
“Fuck this.”
I head for the door.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“Outside.”
“We’re in the middle of making dinner.”
“I can’t be in the same room with you right now.”
“Should I leave, then?” she asks, anger and hurt bleeding through the words. “Forget this whole stupid arrangement?”
I stop with my hand on the door. “There’s no train until morning.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
No. It isn’t.
I walk out anyway. The night air is cooler, but not enough to do me any good. I drop onto the porch steps and lean forward, forearms on my knees.
She’s pissed. I’m pissed. The steaks are probably burning, and my cock is hard enough to make my jeans hurt.
This is the first fucking day.
I’ve got no idea how we’re supposed to make it through thirty.