Today’s set to be another scorcher.
It’s 5.30am, the sky is clear blue, and there’s a rippling haze shimmying across the pastures as I hitch my dungaree straps up my shoulders, easing my way quietly through the back door so as not to wake the cabin’s new residents.
First I tend to the cows, feeding them in their barn before I release them for the day and begin the beautiful task of mucking out the manure. I also set free my newly acquired baby goat, an adoptee I simply couldn’t say no to when I saw that he was in need of a home. He lets out an enthusiastic bleat and then gambols head-first into a bag of feed.
Grain everywhere, I steer him safely into his make-shift pen and then I get back to mucking.
With shit up to my ankles, now seems like the perfect time to address the equally shitty word that’s running a loop around my brain.
Friends.
Friends? Seriously? Who suggests to the guy that they’ve been crushing on their whole life that they should be friends during their one summer of potential romantic opportunity?
Worse still, he didn’t exactly fight me on the issue, making me realise that no matter how pent up I may be feeling, the situation is definitely not that deep to Madden Montgomery. And why should it be? Madden’s hot as hell, built like a tank, and a freaking rockstar for crying out loud. There must be people throwing themselves at him every night when he’s on tour.
Every. Night.
After I lay down some fresh bedding I take my muck-vat out back to the composting heap, killing off about five million brain cells as the smell burns its way through my skull. I pump a gallon of soap onto my hands and start hosing them, all the while watching over the cattle as they lounge in the shady spot created by the shadow of the barn. I make eye contact with my favourite dairy cow hoping that she can offer me a pearl of wisdom.
She slow-blinks her lashes like a Furby, then flaps an ear and looks away.
Thanks Daisy.
Therapy session concluded, I mentally tick off my internal checklist. Morning chores done, next up I intend to go for my morning run through the forest before the weather gets too crazy. I’ve been solid about maintaining my track star fitness since high school and, plus, now that I have company in the house I can’t exactly practice for the Barn Bonanza at home the way that I originally intended to.
Madden is never learning that I can sing. If he thinks that he influenced the biggest passion in my life then that would probably be the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to me. So a warble in the mountains it is.
The only other thing that I need to keep a sharp eye on now is the weather, because rain on a ranch in the summertime is a homesteader’s kiss of death. Personally I love summer rain – it’s atmospheric, refreshing, and crazy sexy – but the hay on the other hand?
Goodbye hundreds of dollars of cattle feed, hello five fields of mulch.
Turning off the tap I wipe my wet hands across the thighs of my dungarees and it’s when I’m beginning to disrobe that I see him.
Madden’s not a big fan of pyjamas and I am more than okay with that arrangement. He’s wearing a pair of loose joggers that are clinging onto his hips for dear life and he’s stretching thickly-muscled arms high up over his head as he walks farther away from me over to the kitchen, giving me nothing but the view of his bare tan back. He drops his arms to his sides and I watch as he flexes his hands. They’re workingman’s hands, enlarged from summer after summer of working with a construction company.
I like them. A lot. And not in a friendly way.
I hide back inside the freshly scooped barn to change from my coveralls back into my shorts, returning them to their peg, and then after a frenzied attempt to smooth the frizz at the top of my hair I begin to make my way back to the cabin.
As soon as I open the back door I can hear that Kaleb’s up too. I try not to be too bitter about that as the kitchen comes into view.
When I step over the entryway to the room there’s some good news and some bad news.
The good news is that not only is Madden not a big fan of pyjamas, he also doesn’t seem to be a big fan of underwear. He’s leaning against the sink as he downs a glass of water, his free hand skimming the waistband of his pants like it’s contemplating a journey down under. Join the club. When he catches me looking the faint trace of a smile line appears in the hollow of his cheek, and he runs his free palm up from his muscled abdomen to his swollen pecks. Who am I to deprive him of such mutually beneficial attention? I let my eyes wander to where he’s giving me the show, nibbling at my lip as I fantasise about how warm and solid he would feel pressed up against me.
The loud rustle of a cereal carton brings me back to the bad news.
“Morning,” Kaleb says groggily, twisting his body halfway so that he can pull me into a possessive side-squeeze. Thankfully Kaleb is a fan of both pyjamas and underwear. Sadly he is also a fan of my fucking cereal.
The last of my Teddy Grahams fall mercilessly to their doom, meeting their sorry end inside Kaleb’s breakfast bowl.
Kaleb crunches up the cardboard carton and then throws it across the floor so that he can chuck it in the recycling chute later. Feels like a fitting metaphor for my dreams and desires. I look at the last of the teddies and then flash my eyes up to Madden, my cheeks warming in embarrassment at my own childishness. His empty water glass is now on the counter and his head is cocked to the side in interest as he tries to work out what’s going on inside my mind.
When he peers across to Kaleb’s bowl his eye twitches.
I take a quick glance in the cupboard and note how all that’s left in there is a sack of oats and a box of bran. It’s my own damn fault for forgetting to buy cereal at the store yesterday. I deserve to starve.
I move from Kaleb’s grasp as he takes the milk out of the fridge and then drowns the remaining teddies in it. I walk to the back of the room and flick on the kettle, hoping that I can tranquilise myself with herbal tea.
“Is that cereal hers, man?”
My head whips over my shoulder, eyes wide as I take in Madden’s stance. Six four when barefoot, and his fists folded beneath his biceps.
Wow. His biceps.
Kaleb takes a spoonful and nods absentmindedly, crunching his way through their tiny bear bones. Madden cracks his neck and then meets my eyes. I have no idea what message he’s trying to transmit to me but it is definitely not getting through. I don’t have a chance to mouth anything over to him though as he rolls his shoulders, claps Kaleb on the back, and then trudges his way up to the bathroom.
Positioned behind Kaleb I allow myself to watch Madden as he walks off, appraising how heavy his gait is. It just looks so… encumbered.
Kaleb pulls me back to the present.
“I’m heading out for an hour, so Mad’s gonna watch over everything whilst I’m gone.”
My brain short circuits as I try to understand what Kaleb just said.
Did he just say what I think he just said? Madden’s going to “watch over” everything?
Uh, what?
“Huh?” I ask, eyebrow cocked.
He waves a hand between us as if he’s brushing away his previous sentence. I should hope so. “Let me rephrase – Mad’s gonna watch over you whilst I’m gone.”
Somehow that sentence managed to get worse the second time around.
“Kaleb.” I say his name like a peace offering. “I don’t need anyone to watch over me. I appreciate how fragile you seem to think that I am, but mom and dad don’t babysit me when they’re here.”
“But mom and dad aren’t here,” he counters.
“O-kaaaay,” I begin. “But it’s 6am and the sun’s beating down like it’s nobody’s business. You think a coyote’s gonna stop by right now?”
“It’s not just coyotes,” he says simply.
Does this dude have an answer for everything?
“Then what?” I ask. “The daily psycho with a machine gun?”
“Yeah.” Slam. His bowl rattles in the sink. “Not every small towner’s a nice guy, Kit. And having this much land? You know that we’ve got enemies. Now stop being so stubborn and do as I say.”
My irises turn red.
“Do as you say?” I’m laughing now, and not in a good way. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not Papa, Kaleb.”
I’m about to start comparing him to various twentieth century dictators when Madden reappears, hair dripping wet from his quick shower and a towel slung around his neck. Water droplets glitter as they trickle over his swollen shoulders, dazzling me as they catch in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window.
He must have left his jeans in the bathroom last night because he’s slipping the tongue of his belt into the holder as he calmly asks, “Everything alright?”
I almost sigh in relief. Now it is.
Kaleb cracks his jaw and then gives Madden a conspiratorial look, as if I’m some kind of criminal. “Keep an eye on her whilst I’m gone?” he asks, shaking his head like I’ve just got on his last nerve.
Stay in Kaleb’s good books, I tell myself. Think about the Fender.
But then to my absolute horror Madden replies, “Sure.”
My eyes flash to him, his deep authoritative voice settling low in my belly, and I part my lips, desperate to protest. He avoids my gaze, a displeasured look on his face, and then he turns around and walks back to the guest room.
Kaleb storms past me, heading upstairs so that he can freshen up before he goes on his mysterious “I’ll be gone for one hour” adventure. When I hear his door slam shut I understand that this conversation is over.
I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and begin aggressively peeling it.
“Narcissistic, misogynistic Neanderthals.”
I’m muttering to myself like a crazy person. Which is accurate. I take a violent bite of my banana and begin stomping up the stairs myself.
Think about the guitar, all that matters is the guitar.
But still.
Fuck Kaleb, and fuck Madden. Okay, “fuck Madden” in a slightly different way, but fuck him too nonetheless. They both think that I’m that incapable? That I really am a damsel in distress?
Whatever. As soon as Kaleb’s gone for the morning I’m going to do whatever the hell I want.
And no-one is going to stop me.
