She nods, the excitement all over her face.
I start with the most obvious question. “What does Darby know about caring for animals?”
“I trained cutting horses most of my life,” Darby answers. Taking off his reading glasses, he places them on the table. “Trained four Open Futurity Champions and three Open Derby Champions. My ex-wife got the property in the divorce, but I still give a clinic or two a year.”
I do a piss-poor job of keeping the shock off my face. “Wow. So… why would you want to work here?”
He glances at Mona, a soft smile lifting his silver mustache. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Oh,” is the best I can do. I suddenly feel like I’m intruding in a private moment. “Okay… maybe we can talk about it some more later.”
Mona nods. “We’ll see you at lunch.”
Chapter 9
“I’m all yours. Where do you want me?” Aidan asks, his voice filtering into the barn.
Man, those are some loaded words. I glance over the top of the stall I’m cleaning and find him standing in the center aisle dressed in board shorts and flip flops. No shirt again. He smiles. Although it’s half-hearted and doesn’t reach his eyes.
Hallelujah. A breakthrough. I’m just happy he’s here. It’s almost sick the satisfaction I get from seeing him. Progress is a big thing with me. It’s a part of the rescue process I love most; seeing the animals get better. Hopefully we’ve turned a corner and can continue for the next month as friendly acquaintances with a common goal.
“The stalls get stripped today,” I inform him, “grab a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow.” I eyeball his outfit, my expression clearly indicating that his attire is inappropriate for the job at hand. “You should probably change out of those flip flops unless you want to get crap between your pedicured toes.”
He wiggles them and deadpans, “I’m glad you noticed. Never trust a man who doesn’t believe in pedicures.”
I make no attempt hide the eye roll. “Thanks for the life hack.”
He shrugs. “Happy to help.”
Taking my suggestion for a change, he leaves and returns a few minutes later wearing his work boots and pushing the wheelbarrow I left outside the barn. Still no shirt, though. I will give him props for not needing to be led by the hand to the wheelbarrow. This is how low my standards are for him.
“We pick the poop and wet shaving out of the stall and place it in the wheelbarrow for disposal. Try to scoop as little of the clean shaving as you can,” I demonstrate as I explain. “Bedding is expensive. The wheelbarrow gets dumped in the big containers out back. We compost it and use it as fertilizer over the fields later.”
“I got this, Tweetie. I did a western a few years ago and the director made the cast live on a working ranch for a month. This ain’t my first stall cleaning job.”
Oh, right. It’s gotten to the point that I’ve forgotten he’s a world class actor and a movie star. To me, he’s Aidan, the nuisance who lives on the property. Then it dawns on me…
“Tweetie?”
“Blue bird. Twitter. Tweetie.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. This I will not abide.
“Try and stop me.” His lips curve up into a textbook movie villain smile.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laughter wins.
Together, we make quick work of the stalls. It cuts my time by two-thirds. Amazing what a little help can do. Maybe having Darby give me a hand a few days a week wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
Aidan has an almost bottomless abundance of energy when he focuses. I now understand why he’s so successful and why he’s been working consistently for the past decade. With his help, I finish feeding the animals their grain for lunch, throw hay to the ones living in the large pasture, and still have time to repair a few loose boards in the fence.
The Mustang drives up while we’re in the middle of this task, and even though I do a really good job of hiding my interest––I find a nail head in the post that needs to be pounded in a little deeper so it doesn’t injure any of the animals––I can’t stop staring.
Shane gets out of the driver’s side wearing a white linen shirt with a vest over it, dark jeans, and his usual aviator sunglasses, and grabs a couple of grocery bags out of the trunk. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ. You know it’s time to seek help when the simple act of a man exiting a car kickstarts your sex drive.
From the attire, I figure he must’ve been meeting someone because he’s usually in a t-shirt and basketball shorts when he’s home working. This is how low I’ve sunk. I know what the man prefers in loungewear.
“You want some popcorn to go with that show you can’t stop watching?” I hear Aidan say, his voice edged in humor.
My head whips around, my skin the color of hot chili peppers. I’m ready to deny everything and anything at all costs. “Umm, what?”
“You’re going with denial?” His face is the very picture of mischief. “Bold move, Baldwin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He points to the screwdriver I’m holding. “That’s not a hammer.”
Shane spots us standing side by side along the fence, his gaze bouncing between me and Aidan. His expression is one that can only be described as coldly furious. What the heck is his problem?
It has not escaped me that Shane and Aidan have not been seen together since they both arrived. At least not since Aidan decided to use the water through as a personal bidet and his brother had to tuck him in.
Shane walks inside and I turn to his brother.
“What was that about?”
Aidan looks off into the distance. “We came into the world like brother and brother,” he recites with the gravitas it’s due. I’m almost tempted to take a picture of him. He can go from playful to thoughtful in a nanosecond. From clownish to noble in even less time. I’m getting whiplash being around him. “And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.” Then he gives me a blank stare which I rightfully return. “Shakespeare,” he adds.
“I know,” I reply in a casual tone and pick up a nail out of the box, placing the head between my lips.
It’s a lie. I am flat-out lying. I don’t know. But I’m not about to be patronized by a man who goes to a salon for highlights.
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, shut up and hand me that hammer.”
He laughs and a smile sneaks onto my face. The look on Shane’s face has its hooks in me, though. “Hey, Aidan…”
“Yeah,” he says, grabbing the hammer while he hands me the end of the board to hold in place.
“Maybe you could, I dunno, help your brother out with his career? Have you considered that it’s hard for him because you’re so accomplished and successful and he’s still struggling?”
He’s about to start hammering the nail into the board but suddenly stops. He turns to me looking completely bewildered. “Struggling? What do you mean struggling?”
“Struggling as in the textbook definition: trying to make a living as a writer.”