Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Izzy
The first hour was awkward at times, curiosity getting the best of the both of us with a few stolen glances in each other’s direction.
We each splayed out on opposite ends of the couch.
Him, with the fuzzy buffalo plaid blanket draped over his body.
Me, cuddled up with the light gray knitted one.
Him, with his legs stretched out along the entire length of his side of the sectional.
Me, with my knees curled up toward my chest.
The storm outside is as black as the cast iron skillet sitting on the stove now.
I like the ominous darkness, though. There’s something therapeutic about it.
The lamp in the corner of the living room still provides enough light for reading, and the flames from the fire flicker and dance, casting little bursts of lustrous shadows on the ceiling.
I enjoyed the silent readathon until now. The main character’s husband just died in my book—not even a few chapters in. Well, he technically disappeared for an extended period of time and never returned home. But I think I know what that means. Gone was as good as dead in the Old West, I learned.
With a soft sigh, I let the open book fall forward on my chest. I turn my head, leaning back and resting my cheek on the pillow that’s propped up on the armrest of the couch behind me.
Ledger seems unfazed, keeping his focus on the book in his hand. His breaths are slow and even. He clenches his jaw every so often, but his posture is relaxed. One arm behind his head. One knee bent, and one straight.
My nonchalant side-eyeing has turned into full-on staring.
I squint, slowly assessing him while trying to narrow in on what it is that makes him so handsome.
It’s the angle to his jaw, I think. Maybe his broad shoulders or heavy-set brows?
When he removes the hand that was behind his head, turns the page in his book, then lifts it back to his head to run it through his hair, I have my answer. The hair for sure.
It’s a deep chocolate brown. Wavy but not curly. Long—maybe too long. Full, and slightly disheveled.
My eyes slam shut.
This man is a stranger, not a Marlboro Man poster to lust over.
Go back to your damn book and stop checking him out.
Ignoring my inner thoughts, a reckless idea sparks. I don’t have enough time to wonder if it’ll anger him as I slowly reach my hand down to the floor.
The closest luggage is right at the foot of the couch, within easy reach. There are tens of thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment packed in here, but I grab the disposable camera tucked in the side pocket. I keep several of them with me on my travels.
Unlike the modern ones with settings, screens, and memory cards .
. . every photo on a disposable camera counts.
There’s something magical about the snap and click, followed by no instant preview.
The curiosity of waiting to see your shots is my favorite part, though.
No matter how grainy or blurry some turn out, there’s always a few special ones in the mix that feel less like a fleeting moment in time and more like a meaningful keepsake.
As quietly as I can, I bring the camera up to my face, lining up my vision through the tiny lens. I silently thank myself for always winding it up before I put it away in case I want to grab it and take a picture as quickly as possible.
He’s still reading, and based on his unchanged body language, he hasn’t noticed what I’m doing.
I take the opportunity to tilt the camera up a notch.
With a less detailed shot in mind, I position the dark outline of his body in the bottom third of the frame, showing off the low-lit bookshelf behind him.
I hold my breath.
Click.
Instead of whipping his head in my direction, he takes his time raising an eyebrow and looking over at me without turning his face.
I lower the camera and roll my lips into my mouth.
He already knows the answer, but he asks anyway. “Did you just take a picture?”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“Maybe . . . yes. Sorry, I should have asked. You just looked—”
“It’s okay.”
Is it? My lips part, willing my brain to come up with a better explanation for my moment of insanity, but Ledger’s expression doesn’t give away any sort of irritation toward me.
A soft whir as the film inside the camera automatically winds forward fills the silence between us while I wait for his reaction. After a minute, he turns his book upside down, places it on the back of the couch, and turns to his side, one fist propping up the side of his head.
“Why do you have so many of those?” His eyes flick down to my open bag.
“They’re for work. I’m a photographer.”
He nods, then tilts his head curiously. “A professional with a disposable camera?”
I smile and shrug, turning it over in my hand. “High-tech gear is nice. Most of the time, it’s what I use. I’m not pulling this thing out at big-time shoots or anything,” I laugh. “But it’s simple and spontaneous. Reminds me of why I fell in love with taking pictures in the first place.”
“What kind of photographer are you?”
“Is this a game of twenty questions? I think it’s my turn if that’s the case,” I tease.
“There are rules?”
“Yes. One question per turn and no follow ups.”
He huffs with amusement. “Fine. Just answer the question first.”
“I do editorial photography, mostly. I’m freelance. I scout a lot while I travel, and take jobs as they come. I usually try to elevate the direction I’m given with a nature background. Something that feels less posed, more natural.”
At first, his only response is a wrinkle in his forehead as he thinks about what I said. Sharing things about myself feels different knowing Ledger has no preconceived notions of me. We’re oblivious to each other’s pasts, dreams, fears . . . There’s nothing to prove.
“Damn. So . . . you like the outdoors, then?”
I do my best to playfully scowl, realizing he skipped my turn to ask a question again.
His eyes linger over me and his jaw clenches like he’s about to savor every syllable out of my mouth.
I don’t know why that is, but my heart skips with a subtle thrill wondering if it’s because he can’t suppress his interest.
“Oh, absolutely,” I answer. “By the way, I saw a hat on your dresser. From the Badlands? I’d love to go there someday.
Was it a tough hike? I mean, I’ve done Angel’s Landing, so I’m sure I could still do it even if it were challenging.
But I don’t usually take my heavy camera gear with me on the harder ones. ”
He stares at me. Bewildered, almost. I tilt my head, waiting for his answer and wondering if I said something off-putting or that he didn’t like.
His voice is low once he finally speaks. “You hike.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, like he’s repeating something he thinks he already knows but wants to make sure he heard me correctly. I nod and he chuckles, shaking his head.
Maybe he thinks that’s dumb, but if he has a hat from a hiking trail, that’s unlikely. More probable is the possibility that he likes that about me, which sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering beneath my rib cage.
He looks over to the window, watching the snow fall for a moment. I’m tempted to take more pictures of him, but I hold back. I don’t want to make things weird.
I copy his movements as he sighs and retrieves his book, putting it back in his line of vision. I might take it as a bad sign that he doesn’t have much to say, but I have a feeling that’s just his personality and not an intentional move.
He’s calm, steady, and quiet on the outside. But I think his thoughts swirl around his head loudly, and the energy around him is filled to the brim with pent-up emotion. I can only imagine what it’d be like to strip it all down and see how he is with no safeguard in place.
The spine creaks as I open the book to my saved spot. The tips of my fingers hover over the weathered and thin pages. My eyes scan over the words, trying to find the exact place I left off. I’ve been distracted while reading, and I flip back toward the beginning to recount the events so far.
“He died alone, as men in the West often did,” I read out loud.
In my peripheral, Ledger lifts his head to look at me.
The passage in the book makes my chest ache. This man met his end with his family completely unaware that they should be in a state of mourning. They thought he’d be back soon. He was dead, and worse . . . alone.
“You didn’t tell me it would be this sad,” I admit, finally looking up to meet his gaze.
“It’s part of the genre. It wouldn’t be so inspiring if there wasn’t tragedy mixed in.”
“Are you mansplaining the lore of western novels to me?”
His lips part, and I can see his urge to backtrack written all over his expression. “Oh. No, I just think—”
“I’m kidding,” I admit with a smirk. “I know what you mean. But if the widow doesn’t get a happy ending, we have beef.”
Ledger’s eyes soften at the edge like he knows something I don’t. He’s probably read this multiple times and knows damn well how it’s going to end.
I grip the book tighter, loving the feeling of holding something old instead of new.
Something someone else had enjoyed before me.
There’s an energy to reading a book like this.
Like the emotions of every reader before me seeped into each page and remain there for every future reader to feel along with them.
I want to know what happens next, and I want to know exactly why Ledger loves it enough to recommend it to me. Is there another character that he resonates with? Or does he see parts of himself in the unlucky cowboy in the first act?
Unable to quiet my thoughts for long enough to absorb any words on the page, I shut the book, holding my place with my index finger and thumb.
“Do you live alone?”
He adjusts his upper body, twisting so that he’s lying on his back again, this time placing the book on his chest with both hands behind his head. He might be relaxed, or he might be wishing I’d shut the hell up, I can’t put my finger on which.
“Yeah. For a couple years now.”
If he doesn’t want to talk about himself or his life, I understand.
I don’t want to jump into some detailed conversation if he doesn’t want to.
It doesn’t stop the wheels from spinning in my head, though.
Does he like living alone? Does he wish he didn’t?
Does he spend a lot of time here or is he usually out and about?
It’s second nature for me to want to learn about people everywhere I go. But my curiosity with Ledger feels more urgent. Desperate, even.
I don’t push the topic, and he doesn’t offer any additional explanation.
After I return to the book, I realize soon that Conagher is very much a love story.
I read on as long as I can, until my eyes start to blink slower and the bend of my wrist loses its ability to hold the book upright.
With the howling storm outside, the comforting fire, and a stranger reading his book ten feet away, I finally drift off to sleep.
Dreaming of the lonely drifter and the woman he swore to protect.