A fresh wave of tears strangled his throat and stung his eyes. Tears of gratitude for the support, but also of frustration for having to rely on other people’s charity at all.
“Shawn?” Wes approached with the charger in one hand and a pair of boxers in his other, his blue eyes wide. “Are you okay? You are perfectly safe here, I promise.”
“I know.” Shawn blinked hard against those damned tears, not afraid of his hosts in the least. “I’m just...not used to having people around who’ll have my back in a crisis. It’s a little overwhelming.”
“Oh, honey.” Wes slung an arm around his shoulders. “You ever need anything, you can come to me or Mack. Definitely to Miles.”
“Thanks.” He carefully extricated himself from beneath Wes’s arm, not much of a casual toucher. “I won’t keep you from your, uh, evening. Thank you again, Wes. I mean it.”
Wes’s eyebrows furrowed briefly. “You’re welcome. Sleep tight.”
“You, too.”
Shawn didn’t realize until after Wes left the room how his actions could have been interpreted by Wes: a half-naked gay man side-hugging Shawn, and Shawn not wanting to be hugged. Crap. He hadn’t meant to insult his host, but Shawn had never come out to anyone at the ghost town. Despite so many other queer people working there, it was no one’s business. He was also too tired to try and explain himself tonight.
After a brief stint in the bathroom, where he changed into the boxers Wes had given him, Shawn slid beneath cool, fresh sheets. Stretched out on all sides on the queen-size mattress like a kid making a snow angel, happy to be in a real bed for a change. He closed his eyes and pretended this was his bed, in his own home, a safe place of his own. Not a one-night thing before he’d go back to sleeping in his car tomorrow.
For one night only, Shawn Matthews allowed himself to dream.
* * *
One of Robin Butler’s favorite things about living in the last cabin on cabin row was the sunrises. His small porch angled to the east, his view not blocked by the main house like so many other employee cabins at Clean Slate Ranch. He leaned against the cabin’s exterior wall, seated on the built-in bench, legs stretched out in front of him, and he watched the sun rise on the world.
The dark blue sky lightened with stripes of purple and red that melted into brighter orange and finally yellow. He snapped a photo just as the first rounded peak of the sun hit the horizon. The sky above the sun paled to its usual shade of blue, and Robin smiled at the lovely sight. Even on cloudy mornings, he loved knowing the sun had risen on another day. Another day on the second chance he’d been given to live.
He pulled his vape out of his jeans pocket and took a few drags. Sure, the thing wasn’t much healthier than actual cigarettes, but Robin didn’t like smelling like cig smoke around the tourists or horses. And he only used it in the morning as part of his sunrise ritual—or on the rare occasion a social situation worked his nerves too much.
At least his constant battle with insomnia was good for watching the sunrise.
Robin posted the sunrise photo to his Instagram account, something he’d created a few years ago as a way to honor Xander and his love of sunrises. He only had a few dozen followers, because he only posted once a day, but it was enough to do the familiar morning task. Every morning for the last two and a half years.
Didn’t matter where he was, be it out in the wilds on an overnight camping trip with guests, or stumbling out of bed to get to the window after a hookup in the city. He captured each and every sunrise for Xander.
A strange thumping noise came from the cabin next door, and Robin strained to listen. The ranch’s den mother, Patrice, lived in that cabin, as she had done for as long as Robin had worked here. She cooked three meals a day for both guests and staff, and she was a mother figure to many of them.
Robin stood and took a few steps closer to her cabin. She was an early riser, too, and watching her leave her own cabin in the morning to start up breakfast at the guesthouse was another familiar part of Robin’s ritual. About five feet of space stood between each small cabin, and Robin crossed it to stand on Patrice’s porch. That thumping was a constant noise now. And louder.
He took a chance and knocked. The thumping got even louder, and he swore he heard her shouting. With his heart in his throat, Robin turned the knob, grateful she didn’t lock her door, either. Most of them didn’t, because the staff at Clean Slate was a family who trusted each other.
“Help me, please!” Patrice’s shout chilled him to the bone as he raced through the small living space to the bedroom area beyond. The bathroom door was open and spilled out yellow light. Patrice was on the tile floor, a bath towel draped awkwardly over her middle, while she held her right arm tight to her heaving chest.
“Oh, thank God.” She started sobbing, and Robin grabbed another towel to wrap around her damp shoulders.
“What happened?” Robin brushed a tear from her cheek, unnerved at the way her collarbone was already bruising.
“So stupid, I can’t believe I did it. I slipped and fell, and it all happened so fast. My right shoulder hit the side of the sink, and I felt something snap. It hurts something fierce, and I couldn’t seem to get up. Started kicking the wall, hoping someone heard.”
“I heard you. Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
“Lord, no, that’ll just disturb the guests and get folks gossiping. Can you go wake Judson? Maybe the two of you can help me up and drive me to the hospital. Just don’t make a fuss. Especially to Arthur, he doesn’t need the stress.”
Leave it to Patrice to be lying on the floor, half-naked with a possibly broken collarbone, and she didn’t want them to fuss. Not liking her on the cold floor, Robin pulled the blanket off her bed and got her a bit more comfortable, before he took off for the back door of the main house.
He’d never been upstairs, so he didn’t know which room belonged to ranch foreman Judson Marvel. Judson and Patrice had both worked for Arthur Garrett for decades, and the older trio had a unique bond. Arthur was also still recovering from a massive heart attack a few months ago, so no one wanted to stress him out. Robin paused in the downstairs kitchen and called Judson’s cell. He heard it ringing somewhere upstairs.
“Robin, morning,” Judson said in his familiar, gravelly voice. “Somethin’ wrong?”
“I need you. Patrice fell in her bathroom and I need help getting her up and to the hospital.”
“Shit, let me throw some pants on and I’ll be right down.”
“Don’t tell Arthur yet.”
“Won’t, that’s a promise.”
Judson hung up and was downstairs in under a minute. Slipped on a pair of boots from the small row by the door, his sun-worn face a study of worry. “You say she fell in the bathroom?” he asked on their way out the door.