Thirty
THIRTY
Bea
I woke a little later than I’d planned. My coffee blazed hot in my thermos. I tried to grab a sip ten minutes ago, and it scalded my tongue. Tag quietly drove down the driveway, past the pond and toward the pastures, so we could start the feed routine. I stifled a yawn.
My eyes were dead set on closing again. I pulled them open and sat forward, determined to stay awake. If Tag saw me dozing, he’d force me to go back to bed.
Even though the drive was two minutes, my head lolled to the side against my will.
I snapped upright when Tag said, “What in the world?”
“What?”
I scrambled to get my bearings and realized he was frowning out the front windshield into the purple haze—at a big, deep puddle over the gravel drive.
“Where in the world did that come from?” He opened his door. “Get in the glove compartment and grab my Larry.”
I popped the drawer and ruffled registration papers and ketchup packets. “ What’s a Larry?”
“A flashlight.”
“This?” I pulled out a rectangle-shaped thing that looked like a thick pen.
“Yep.” He took it and we both got out to look at the puddle.
The water was brown and murky, stagnant. Tag flashed the light all around the edges of the puddle.
“It didn’t rain last night did it?” I asked.
“I don’t think so?” He stepped a few paces to the side and leaned down to touch the grass. “It’s dry over here.” He came back and tapped his boot into the puddle. “Ground’s soggy as quicksand.”
“Is there a pipe around this spot?”
Tag froze. He kept the light trained on the puddle, but looked over at me. He softly cussed. “Yeah. Yeah, there is.”
“Oh no.” My heart plummeted. Another expense? How much would this cost? Wondering hurt my insides.
Tag sighed, long and loud and exhausted.
“Do you think it’s busted?”
“Seems like.”
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinkin’.”
I took that as my cue to shut up and wait for instructions. The purple light bloomed into soft lavender on the eastern horizon. Birds joined the ranch’s nighttime symphony of bugs and frogs. Horses nickered nearby and puffed with excitement, probably wondering why we weren’t bringing them their food yet. As I waited, I imagined turning the truck bed to face the sunrise, and Tag throwing an arm around me as we watched the sky light with fire, our feet dangling off the edge.
I shook my head. I couldn’t think thoughts like that. No matter how wonderful the mental image was. Tag wasn’t interested, not like that. Why was that so hard to remember?
It had been two days since our conversation in the barnyard. We still talked and worked together, but something had shifted between us. The looks he gave me were softer, gentler—relieved even. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to have that conversation.
My body seemed to be glitching, stuck in a permanent feeling of a phantom hug. Every moment, I imagined his arms around me and still felt the press of his open hands into my back and hips. I’d never had a hug like that. And I was craving another like an addict craved a high, plotting and scheming how to get one.
Tag took another deep breath. “If I’m rememberin’ correct, this line is the one that feeds to the pastures. So, if I cut it off, we won’t be able to fill the troughs from the faucets. We’d have to transport buckets from the barn hose.”
“Oh my.”
“Yeah, that’ll be a process.”
“Can we fill troughs first then cut it off?”
“That’d be best.”
“Will you have to hire someone to fix this?”
Tag ran a hand through his curls. The defeat in his voice made me ache. “I…I honestly don’t have the money.”
“Could we…leave it?”
“It’s only gonna get worse. There’s probably gallons dumpin’ into the dirt as we speak.”
We fell silent.
Tag stared at the puddle, his mind visibly working in the gentle light. He finally said, “I’m gonna have to dig this out today…I can’t pay someone ‘til after I get paid. But this is an emergency that needs to be taken care of. If I can access the pipe, I think I can replace it. Maybe Hank wouldn’t mind runnin’ into San Antonio to grab the replacement parts and save me some time.”
“Is there any place to rent like an excavator or a skid steer or something?”
“In San Antonio, yeah, but after the expense of the semi…”
Tag jerked his hat off his head in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, puffing his cheeks with a noisy exhale.
Fixing the semi cost Tag more than he thought it would. Mike even charged extra for the rush.
What a mess.
Long moments passed again before he spoke up. “It’ll be alright. We will feed and water the horses then cut the water line. The horses…we won’t exercise them today. ”
“I’ll muck their stalls and help Cook bring them up and back for training.”
“That’s way too much.”
“No, it’s not. I can do it. If there is anything else essential, you can tell me. When I finish, I’ll help you dig.”
“ No. ”
“Tag—”
“You’re not digging, Bea. Everything you just mentioned is gonna keep you busy past dinner. Catchin’ horses alone will be hours of your time. And most of ‘em won’t even bother comin’ to you.”
“I’ll get those mint treats. They like those.”
“That’ll help a little…maybe. Cook can get the mares.”
“Okay.”
We stared at the puddle for about ten more seconds until Tag muttered, “Let’s go.”
The sun finally stopped frying us and dipped behind the horizon. I filled the umpteenth bucket of water in the back of the Ranger, my arms shaking with exhaustion and the soft palms of my hands stinging from hard labor.
After we had fed the horses this morning, we tried to fill the troughs. The stream from the faucets was barely a trickle, sending panic through Tag. In the Texas heat, the most important thing for his horses and sheep was water. The new agenda for the day was to get water to the animals at any cost and get the pipe fixed.
The process of transporting water from the barn hose to the pastures was painstakingly slow. I had found twelve two gallon buckets and nine five gallon buckets in the barn and bungee cords. I bungeed all the buckets in place the best I could, filled them, drove three miles per hour out to the pastures, backed as close as possible to the troughs, dragged each one to the end of the truck bed and poured it in.
Then repeated the process all over again.
I lost count of how many trips I’d made. Dozens. By the time I had one trough partially filled, the horses would come by and almost drink it empty. It was getting dark, and I’d done little else besides water duty.
Tag hadn’t even tried to stop me. He knew they would suffer heat stroke, and he couldn’t do it alone. Thankfully, Hank stepped in to help. He drove to San Antonio for the parts Tag needed and mucked the stalls and did some other routine care for the horses. Hank was a godsend, honestly.
Since I was alone on the ranch, Tag had me run to the barn and get the walkie talkies. I had one strapped to my hip, and Tag had the other in case there was trouble or an emergency.
Occasionally, I checked on him. With one hand, I held the barn hose over the buckets, letting it blast full speed. With the other, I lifted the walkie to my face. Both arms screamed in pain and my thumb cramped as I held the speak button.
“You alive?”
A few seconds passed, then his staticy response came. “I think so.”
“Need more water yet?”
Pause. “No.”
“The troughs are all about half full. I think that’ll be good through the night.”
“Yeah. Should be.”
“You need to eat, Tag.”
“Not ‘til I’m done.”
“Okay. You getting close then?”
Another long pause. “Hope so.”
“I’m going to make dinner.”
“Good.”
“Want me to bring you some?”
“I’ll just have a plate when I get in.”
“Okay.”
I finished my last water run, put the buckets and bungee cords away and stiffly walked to the house. I wanted to help Tag, but I knew if I tried to lift a shovel, I’d burst into tears. Not that Tag would let me try anyway.
My head snapped upright. A noise woke me. I swiped drool off my cheek and swiveled around in the swing, bringing my feet down to the wooden porch floor.
Tag’s weary voice reached my ears. “Bea, what’re you doin’? You should be in bed.”
I blinked, my eyes struggling to open. I must’ve passed out. “I was waiting for you. I wasn’t comfortable going to sleep knowing you were out there alone.” I suppressed a yawn and successfully pulled open one eye. What an asset I would’ve been in case of emergency, huh? “Looks like I went to sleep anyway. I didn’t even realize.”
My eyes focused in the yellow porch light, absorbing the state of Tag.
He was covered; dark mud caked his arms, legs, hands, and torso. His face was splattered and smeared. A red bandana was unfolded and tied under his chin, probably in an attempt to keep the sun from searing the exposed skin on the back of his neck. His shoulders and back slouched forward—no doubt from the pain.
“Did I look this bad? The night I came here?”
He breathed an exhausted chuckle. “Worse.”
We stared at each other for a long moment.
“What time is it?” I asked.
He lifted his right hand and tapped the backlight. “10:57 p.m.”
“Is it done?”
“It’s done. I turned the water back on and everything.”
“Wow. Good job.”
He walked, or shuffled rather, to the porch swing and eased down onto it. “I’m gonna strip down and head straight to the shower.”
I stood to give him some privacy. “I’ll put your plate on the…” My words died off as I watched poor Tag try to take off his boots. He didn’t complain or even make so much as a grunt, but his body involuntarily jerked him back as he tried to lean forward. He attempted again, slowly tipping his foot upward. His fingers shakily fumbled with his boot laces, and he couldn’t gr ip the knot.
The night sounds almost drowned out his quiet exhale—a hiss of pain as he hurried through the task.
In a split second, I was on my knees, pushing his hands back.
“Bea—”
“You can barely move.”
“I got?—”
“No, you don’t.” I pushed his hands away again.
My own ached, but whatever pain I was experiencing didn’t hold a candle to what Tag was.
His stubborn butt tried to pull his foot away from me.
I grabbed his boot and held it. “Tag.”
His eyes lifted to meet mine.
“Let me take care of you. I want to.”
The light was enough to see his tight swallow, the way his gaze roamed my face and the gentle lines that appeared on his forehead. He took me in until he slowly sat back, his hand gripping the side of the swing the only indication of his suffering.
I made quick work of the laces, loosening his boots until I was able to slip them off and remove his socks. Inexplicable happiness filled me. Tag had always been alone in the world. The thought made me simultaneously sad for the boy I knew and concerned for the lone ranger before me. But it also made me so glad to fight in his lonely corner.
Many times, I’d wondered what brought me here, wondered why I’d made such a rash decision. But right here, taking off Tag’s boots, I knew the universe orchestrated this.
What a terrifying, wonderful thought.
I joined him on the swing again and lifted my hands to untie the bandana around his neck.
He whispered, his voice hoarse. “Bea?—”
“Hush.”
He dutifully obeyed, silently watching me as I untied the knot. My knuckles gently scraped against his scruffy chin a couple times.
“Can you lift your arms?”
“Not really.”
“Let me help you get this shirt off. ”
He sat forward as I helped him peel the soaked shirt over his head. He groaned twice. Probably couldn’t help it. His arms smacked down on his thighs like they were heavy weights, and I tossed his shirt to the ground.
My goodness.
I knew he must have some nice muscles under there, but my imagination was—clearly—conservative. He was lean and defined. His skin rippled and glistened with moisture, twitching from exertion. Tanned, too, like he frequently went shirtless.
The guys I’d dated had cush jobs and rich parents. The last guy, David, was strong and ripped—but like elite gym membership and protein powder strong. Tag was strong because every day he went out and gave his all. And he, in his sweaty, mud-crusted glory, was the sexiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. Heat pooled low in my belly as I imagined his dirty hands gripping me by the elbows and pulling me into his bare chest—how willingly I would go and how my palms would slip over his skin and clasp behind his neck.
My breathing shallowed, and I tore my eyes away, the heat climbing into my cheeks. I shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like that. Especially while he was watching me. He had a front row seat to me ogling him. I hoped I wasn’t doing anything weird with my face.
A moment of panic overtook me and I abruptly stood, smoothing down my soft t-shirt.
I attempted a joke. “Need me to take off your pants?”
He laughed. The sound was run-down, barely audible, but still a laugh. “Nah. I’ll find a way.”
“Once you get in the shower, I’ll put your plate somewhere in your room. That way you can just eat then flop in bed.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I hurried inside and kept my back turned so he could lumber through the kitchen and down the hallway. Once I heard the shower running, I grabbed a fresh bottle of water, his dinner, and a bottle of painkillers.
I hadn’t been in his room before. A thrill ran through me as I approached his cracked door. Pushing it open, the first thing that grabbed my attention was the bed. Made to perfection. Not a single wrinkle on the bedspread.
I allowed my eyes to scan the features around his bedroom. The antique dresser, the navy blue quilt, the small picture frame on the wall, his cowboy hat hung on the post of the bed frame. A writing table with a wooden chair sat in the corner. A large framed mirror hung against an empty wall.
His granny probably decorated this room back in the day, but he obviously cared for his belongings meticulously. I was learning him bit by bit; he liked order, but some things fell beyond his realm of ability—like the paperwork or keeping up with fine details. It was clear he valued environmental calm, even if it meant shoving papers into random files, just to get them out of sight and mind.
I’d heard clutter could negatively affect people. Especially if they already struggled with anxiety. It made sense to me that he kept things neat. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the few personal touches, I’d doubt this bedroom was inhabited by someone.
I set his plate on the nightstand and stepped close to the picture frame. It was of him and Tillie. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He had one arm around her neck and clutched a blue prize ribbon in the other hand. He was beaming. Tag was tall even then, lanky and thin. His hat was sideways on his head, like in his excitement, he may have knocked it loose.
I imagined that boy sitting at the desk, head down and arm painfully curled around a piece of college-ruled paper, writing me a letter.
Me. Bea Thompson. Of all people.
My heart thumped as my awareness grew. I needed to listen for the water cutting off. Looking at things in plain sight could hardly be considered snooping, but I still didn’t want to be caught.
I moved to his dresser. The items—a bottle of cologne, deodorant, and chapstick—sat just like his Dollar General offering on the console of the semi our first morning together. Labels forward-facing, in a perfect row, even spaces between them.
I held my breath. Once I confirmed the water was still running, I snatched the cologne and pulled the cap. My eyes rolled back in my head when I gave it a sniff test. I definitely hadn’t been around when he was wearing this—would’ve noticed. Carefully, I placed it back.
I walked back toward the door, past the large mirror, which I noticed had a few wallet-sized pictures in the bottom left hand corner. I leaned forward to look.
What I saw nearly took me to the floor.
A small arrangement of six pictures were taped there. All of them selfies.
A young man with Tag—surely Cooper. They had the same eyes. A young woman with long blonde hair hugging Tag—maybe Randi? A picture of Tag with a gigantic grin as he cuddled a swaddled baby. Another of Tag and Tillie. Then Tag leaning over a hospital bed with an elderly woman on it—obviously Gran. Finally, another of him with a man I didn’t recognize. Tag was a child in that picture.
A tiny scrap of paper with Tag’s handwriting was carefully hung over the pictures.
“Souls that make up mine.”
But the thing that caused tears to stream down my face wasn’t the pictures or Tag’s beautiful words.
It was the pick.
The yellow Fender guitar pick.
Mine .
Tucked into the corner of the mirror frame, peeking out amid the pictures of his loved ones.
It was the one I’d lost when I climbed into the hayloft that night.
American Pie, Sprinkles, the pick, the hug we shared, the things he said. Pieces of our conversations and his letters snapped into place like puzzle pieces. Maybe I could chock up some of the other things as happenstance or coincidences—like the dots on Sprinkles’ back—but the pick was years of evidence that I meant something to Tag. He said as much in the barnyard two days ago, but the proof before my eyes hit me harder than any words could.
“We jumped straight from friends to a hell of a lot more than friends, Bea. ”
My heart spiraled. There was an obvious conclusion here, but I didn’t know how to face it. Once I let myself believe something so wonderful, would I ever be the same?
I wouldn’t. I knew I wouldn’t.
Because hadn’t a part of my soul wanted it—hoped for it—all along?
Did…did Tag… love me?
It was too wonderful to even comprehend. I’d never consciously compared my dates to Scribbs, but more than a few times I’d wished I could find the deep connection I had with Scribbs with someone in my real life.
What if we…
A glass of ice water poured over my enthusiasm. My brain had been oh-so-conveniently trying to forget what Tag had said. He didn’t want a relationship. He didn’t want a family . He claimed he would never be more for anyone.
If I wasn’t in Tag’s room, I would melt in despair.
Suddenly, the shower clicked off. Adrenaline raced through my veins and I leapt out to the hallway like a gazelle. I padded toward my room as quiet as I could amid the racing of my heart and my shaking limbs.
I flopped onto my bed, in a state of shock, and stared at the ceiling fan for a long time.
But I didn’t see the pull strings swaying side to side or see the blades zipping into a blur overhead.
I saw the tender shrine Tag made for the souls he loved.
I saw a man with a heart so damn big he didn’t know what to do with it.
If a picture said a thousand words, stitched together they wrote an entire story. In that moment, Tag’s story was as visible and tangible to me as my own skin. And the truth was there on full display—he didn’t want to be alone.
I’d always understood his hurt was deep. Flashes of known history raced through my mind. Everything he’d told me about himself, Cooper, his childhood, his mother, and the scarring neglect. And I wondered about his rain story.
“I’ll never be more for anyone.”
I quietly cried into my pillow for him.
Why, Tag? Why?