But there’s a stubbornness in me, a contentiousness, that wants to see that horse rebel. I hate to see it broken.
I force myself to sit down at the kitchen table again, to return to the endless rows of data in my purchase agreement spreadsheet. There’s a couple of numbers that aren’t adding up in the deposit column, and I’m trying to figure out which figures are causing the discrepancy.
I’ve always been good at spotting patterns, especially in numbers. I wouldn’t like to admit this out loud, but I have a burning passion for Excel spreadsheets. I love the formulas, the neat tables of data, the way that the cells can be manipulated to provide answers to all sorts of questions.
Finally, I spot the issue that’s disrupting my perfect structure.
There are two properties with almost the same name—one is listed as Benloch Commercial Lot 29, and the other as Benloch Commercial Lt 29. At first I think it’s just a typo, but then I see there really is a purchase agreement for both, and two separate wire transfers for the payments.
It’s odd. We had to purchase almost a hundred properties for the South Shore Development. Still, I’m surprised that two had such similar names. Especially with a numerical signifier at the end. I’ll have to get the original documents from the office to see if this is accurate.
I send a quick email to Lucy, asking her to scan the documents and send them to me.
With that done, I find myself wandering back to the window again to check on Raylan’s progress.
The horse has finally slowed down its gallop. It’s trotting around the pen now, clearly exhausted. It still holds its head high, though. And I see that Raylan is only gripping the rope loosely, letting the horse think that it has control of its own motion.
It doesn’t, though. It’s trapped in that pen. And it couldn’t throw Raylan off no matter how hard it tried. It’s broken, whether it knows it or not.
I shift, pressing my hand into the small of my back. I’m going to be sore tomorrow when I wake up. All that riding around today will catch up with me.
Bo comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing an oversized man’s shirt—probably a hand-me-down from Raylan or Grady. Her black hair is in a loose plait. I can’t help noticing how beautiful she is. She has Raylan’s striking, wolfish features, but in feminine form. Her eyes are narrow and slightly tilted up at the outer corners, her lips fuller.
“That laptop work for you?” she asks.
“It did. Thank you.”
She acknowledges the thanks with a nod. “You going to the dance tonight?” she says.
She has an abrupt way of speaking, without any of Raylan’s laid-back charm. She seems impatient, like the rest of the world is moving too slowly for her.
I understand that. I often feel like people are thinking and speaking at half-speed. It’s a constant struggle to maintain the appearance of patience.
“I don’t know,” I say. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
“You can borrow clothes,” Bo tells me. “I know you don’t have any. Raylan said your whole apartment burned up.”
There’s a hint of sympathy in her tone. Not much, but enough to prove that Bo isn’t totally unfeeling. She’s certainly been generous with her clothes and toiletries. I get the impression she doesn’t give a shit about “stuff,” but I still appreciate it. It’s hard for me to accept kindness. I wouldn’t be able to stand it, if she made a big deal out of the favor.
“Thank you,” I say again. “I know this whole thing is weird. Us showing up here.”
Bo shrugs. “Raylan likes trouble. He always has.”
“Is that why he didn’t stay here?” I ask her. “It wasn’t enough adventure for him?”
Bo narrows her eyes at me, looking me up and down like she’s analyzing the motive behind my question.
“He had his reasons for leaving,” she says at last.
Then she turns abruptly and leaves the kitchen.
I feel like I offended her, but I have no idea how. Or maybe she wasn’t offended—she just didn’t want to leave space for any more questions.
I look out the window again, my eyes irresistibly drawn back to Raylan.
I feel a pull toward him unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
I don’t know what the fuck happened between us down by the river. I’ve never felt anything like that. I was completely out of control. And usually I hate that sensation. Hate it more than anything.
But in this particular instance . . .
It was almost worth the trade. Giving up my sense of security and dignity, in return for the most transcendent sexual experience of my life.
I’ve never felt pleasure like that.
I can feel my face flaming, just remembering it.
I don’t understand how it happened. I’ve never been so wildly attracted to someone. Never felt my body respond like that . . .
And now I want to shut it off again. I want to turn it off like a faucet, because I don’t know where this will take me. I don’t know what will happen if I give in to that impulse again.
I want to leave and go back to Chicago.
I’m overwhelmed by Raylan’s ranch, his family, his personal life. Overwhelmed by seeing him here in his element, where he’s most comfortable, most himself.
He’s at his most powerful here, and I’m at my most confused and off-kilter. I don’t have any of the trappings of my normal life—my clothes, my routine, my career, my own family. Those are the core elements of my identity. What am I, stripped down to nothing and brought to this strange place?
Raylan and I missed lunch when we were riding around all morning. I made myself a sandwich while I was working, but he stayed out in the pen, probably getting hungrier by the minute.
He spends so long with the horse that he almost misses dinner, too.
I’m alone in the kitchen with Celia when she starts the evening meal. I’m working away on Bo’s laptop, but I feel guilty watching her peel potatoes and chop carrots, knowing I’ll be eating the food when it’s finished. Especially considering she’s doing all this work with a clunky boot on her right foot.
“Can I help?” I ask her.
“No need,” she says. “You’re already working.”
Her tone is genuine—she’s not trying to nudge me into offering again. But I close the laptop and stand up anyway, feeling like I should contribute, since I’m staying in her house, wearing her daughter’s clothes, and eating her food.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” I tell her honestly. “But I’d like to help.”
“Do onions make you cry?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Try cutting these up,” she says.
She gives me a couple of yellow onions, plus a worn cutting board and a large chef’s knife that has clearly been sharpened again and again over time. The blade is honed to fragile thinness.
I take the counter space next to her, and I try cutting and peeling the onions.
I can tell I’m wasting too much—it’s hard to get the skin off, without taking a ring or two off the onion as well. Then my pieces are all different shapes and sizes, not uniform like when I’ve seen Raylan do this. I try to use the grip on the knife that he showed me, and the rocking motion. That helps a little.