69. The Burning of Lemon Juice in a Paper Cut
THE BURNING OF LEMON JUICE IN A PAPER CUT
brIGHTON
I wake the next morning with an ice pick lodged behind my left eye. Well, it might as well be. The sun slices across my face and brings with it the burning of lemon juice in a paper cut—acute, brutal, and razor sharp.
And my stomach is roiling.
When did I get to the age when hangovers hurt?
My text alert screeches from the nightstand. I reach for it, but struggle to move without vomiting. I’m not this old. Next to my phone is a bottle of Tylenol, a sports drink with electrolytes, and a package of those orange peanut butter crackers.
Braxton: Need you. Can you stop by and be the scary Ranger you are?
He has no idea how scary I can be right now. My breath alone could kill us both. But seriously, this is not the time. I need an eight-hour snooze, a greasy burger, and a brain transplant.
I can’t sit up without the room becoming a tilt-a-whirl, much less “stop by.” And then there’s the whole effort of keeping the contents of my stomach down.
It’s well after I’m normally at work. Easily an hour or two later, but I try, nonetheless. Besides, after yesterday, I’m guessing he doesn’t even know I’m not at the barn.
Me: Do you know what time it is?
Braxton: Re-read. I said “need.” Emerson’s sister is here and threatening to take Colt.
This is about the only thing that could get my ass out of this bed. My family. My brothers. And now that cute little nephew of mine. And I don’t know who Emerson’s sister is. But she picked the wrong fucking day to mess with my family.
Headachey.
Exhausted.
Elated.
Nauseated.
Me: On my way.
I regret it the moment I send it, but as Pop would say I “Ranger Up” and slide to the edge of the bed. The Tylenol and the sports drink are downed before both feet hit the floor.
“Luna, girl? Want to go see Brax?” She lifts one eyebrow, though her ears do perk a bit. My dog gets me. “I know. Me too. We can sleep in tomorrow. Today we’ll go save the world.”
I gag a little as I stand and shuffle to the bathroom, avoiding turning on the lights and just doing what I can manage in the dark.
Teeth brushed, face washed and moisturized, I slide on jeans and boots—my everyday uniform—and pull my hair back to let the cool air conditioning hit my neck.
I throw on a butter yellow tee with That Girl Is a Cowboy written across the front in ranch-esque script and grab my shades.
These are staying on. Just until I can get back home to my welcoming bed.
I throw back all the water I can stomach on the drive. I very rarely regret my Wrangler, but this morning, I’m wishing I had a truck like Braxton’s with its soft suspension. I bounce with each dip or bump in the road, my guts reminding me that even at twenty-nine, I don’t recover like I used to.
It just adds insult to injury.
I park at the barn and leave Luna here since she has a love affair with Strait. As young and vibrant as he is, he loves Luna’s demeanor. Always has. She works her way into his stall and circles in the hay to take a nap.
“Jealous. So damn jealous,” I say to my girl as I wander to Braxton’s house wondering what fresh hell has befallen us today.
I let myself in and beeline it for the kitchen and the coffeepot. My steps falter when I see my big brother, holding my tiny nephew. My brain knows, but my heart didn’t remember. Such a cutie. So tiny and pale compared to my olive-skinned brother with his perpetual tan from working outside.
I tap his cheek and say hello, wary that my breath says barroom floor and not minty fresh goodness.
I grab a to-go mug and fill it. This one is mine, actually.
Seems we’ve traded coffee cups between the houses, barn, and offices so many times that they’re coming back to me.
Coffee in one hand, I tilt my head to Brax, asking if he’s ready.
I really want to say as little as possible now that I’m here.
It’s not my typical M.O., but my mouth has decided to salivate, and nothing good can come of that.
Besides, I need this coffee, and my head is screaming at me to get to a quiet, cool, dark place.
The blonde, who’s beautiful but obviously out of her element, tries to stop us as we go. “Excuse me?” Her voice is too loud on a morning after drinking too much.
“Yes?”
“And you would be?”
“Brighton.”
“Where are you taking my nephew?”
I say as little as possible since I need to keep my focus on making it to the barn in one piece without vomiting. Brax must be out of his element too because the woman, the kind he’d normally chase, is left on his porch, tapping her toe as if owed an explanation.
When we’ve successfully left her in our wake, Brax shifts Colt from one arm to the other. “Thanks, Bright.”
“Anything for you. I’ve got to say, though, that girl in there is just your type, except for the rich bitch written all over her. Is she younger or older than Colt’s mom?”
He sighs. “Twin sister. Colt’s only aunt on that side.”
“So, she’s my competition for favorite aunt? Oh, I totally have this in the bag. Dog, horses, exploring the ranch on a gator.” I count off on my fingers before turning to him. “What can she do? Buy him a car?”
“A Maserati, probably. She’s loaded.”
“Yeah, but that’s eons from now. I have years of winning that start immediately.”
“Not everything is a competition, you know?”
“The hell you say. Favorite aunt right here.” I throw up my hands, but my laugh is choked out by my stomach reminding me that it wouldn’t have a problem showing me its contents. I’m still very much hungover and have to pause. “Going to the office or coming to the stables?”
“Stables, I guess. No clue how to work with a baby on my hip.”
“That makes two of us.”
He laughs but bows his head at the same time, saying somberly, “Mom would know.”
I nod once before locking my gaze on his. “Yeah.” But that’s all I say and peel away from them to head to my office. So long as I’m here, there’s shit to do.
“Brighton?” I turn when Brax hollers. “Thanks for this morning. For yesterday.”
“Of course. I can’t have Colt’s favorite aunt be that woman.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of his house. “Never. Gonna. Happen.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He smiles as he wanders away.
“Tell me again about the feed.” My head still pounds. My stomach roils and the late afternoon heat hits me from all directions, warming my body in a way that is all kinds of bad.
“It’s the same stuff Randy always sends over.”
I roll my lips together, not believing my client’s story. The puzzle pieces are not forming a picture that’s true. A stable full of horses don’t just become sick, not healthy ones with good nutrition and the right environment.
“Why do you ask?” he continues.
I stare at Rich Lager. He’s older than my dad, probably mid-sixties, but those years have not been kind.
Deep wrinkles crowd the corners of his eyes and his dry skin is leathery from time in the sun and…
something. Overindulgence in alcohol, if I had to guess.
He certainly hasn’t taken care of himself.
Just as I know he’s not taking care of these horses.
Rich has been a client since I moved home from College Station. He bought an old place east of town not long before I graduated. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we never met before the July morning when he contacted me. Come to think of it, his horses weren’t thriving then either.
But there was a familiarity in him, something almost comforting I couldn’t put my finger on, that made me trust him.
Four years later, I’m not so sure of that.
“It’s unusual. His stuff is top quality. I haven’t seen horses get or stay this sick on his feed.” Or anywhere else in a sixty-mile radius for that matter. “I’ll place a call and see if we can’t get yours replaced as quickly as possible.”
He nods, subtly stepping between me and the exit.
My mind spins, but instead of trying to get past him, I make my way to the horses again, rubbing their snouts, studying their eyes and their manes.
“And the water’s been tested so you know it’s safe?”
The hardness around his eyes is nothing new, but the challenge in them is. “Yes.”
“Let me grab some supplies. I’ll be back within the next couple of days to draw some more blood—not just the standard tests—and see what we can find.” I’m hedging but something is off.
I’ve never worried about Mr. Lager. Never worried about being miles away from anyone or in a pasture or barn with limited cell signal.
Because I’ve never seen what I notice in his eyes right now...
There’s still that initial familiarity, but the comfort piece is long since gone.
I walk toward the barn opening, turning to slide past him since he doesn’t move from his position blocking my path. I swing into my Wrangler, knowing my pistol is within arm’s reach if I need it, and take in the scene as I pull away.
Rich Lager stands silhouetted, eyes boring into me, in the dark barn. A barn that hasn’t been maintained well, but one that I wouldn’t say is hazardous for his horses. The earth at his feet is dry, and the yellow grass sits over deep crevices in the parched soil. Drought hit us all. Hard.
None of this adds up.
I make a right on 281 and head for my house, watching my cell, waiting for bars to pop up so I can exhale.