This place is amazing. The intricate woodwork on the stairway spindles alone is a testament to how well the place is maintained. There are ornate area rugs in each room. Books line the walls of the library. Someone even took the time to organize them alphabetically by author name.
The large front porch has six rocking chairs. I sink into the cushions of one and imagine myself relaxing out here with a cold lemonade at sunset. Maybe something stronger. I glance at the rocker next to me and picture Aaron. I think of his black hair and how it looks good even when it’s messy and matted from his cowboy hat. His inviting smile isn’t judgmental in the least. I frown and get up. It would be judgmental if he knew me.
Back inside, I tour the guest rooms. Incredible photos hang on the walls. Each room has a different set, and I get the idea they’re all pictures of the ranch. In one room, the series of photos depicts individual parts of a horse: a hoof, a mane, a muzzle. In another, a stable door, tack, an empty stall, and the Devil’s Horn Ranch brand. Another has different photos of riding trails.
I’ve never been into horses, but these pictures make me want to learn about them and the ranch.
Someone clears their throat. I’m startled, and I feel the urge to run. Then I realize I don’t have to.
“My dad took those,” Aaron says.
“All of them?”
“He’s a photographer,” he says proudly.
I swallow. It must be nice to have a relationship with a parent. “He’s very talented. These are breathtaking.”
“Thanks. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit his eye for beauty—well, in scenery anyway.” His gaze travels across my face, and my cheeks heat. “Looks like you’ve already taken the tour. Are there any questions?”
I walk around the guest bed and pull up the duvet. Andie was right. Aaron does not know how to make a proper bed. I quickly straighten the flat sheet and replace the duvet. Then I plump the pillows and place a decorative throw from one of the chairs on the bed.
Aaron stands back and watches. I see the smile, and it makes me smile back. I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve done that.
“Wow,” he says.
“It’s all about the pillows.”
“Not what I meant, but yeah, the bed looks great.” He’s still looking at me. I wait to feel uncomfortable. I’m used to being invisible. For years, nobody noticed me, and those who did, I didn’t want to. But the feeling never comes.
Do I want him to notice me?
“Why don’t you give me the rundown?” I say.
“It’s not too complicated, and you don’t have to do anything until tomorrow. Everything’s clean and ready for guests—unless you want to do the pillow thing in the other guest rooms. Your job is to make beds and clean bathrooms when the guests are out for their morning excursions. Only change the sheets if they are clearly dirty, otherwise just switch them out between guests. The mattress pads, too.” His nose turns up. “It’s disgusting when hotels don’t wash the mattress pads.”
“Change the mattress pads. Got it.”
“There’s a large commercial washer and dryer in the laundry room near the kitchen, along with a smaller one for single loads of sheets or clothes. You can use that one for your personal stuff, too. You have the run of the place when the guests aren’t here. Feel free to use what you want. Play pool. Enjoy the grounds. Even ride a horse if you want.”
“I’ve never ridden one.”
His head tilts. “Are you from Texas?”
“Yes. And no. But mostly yes.”
“That’s not cryptic at all.” He laughs but doesn’t pry, which I appreciate. “I’ll teach you how to ride if you want.”
“I probably shouldn’t with my foot.”
“Later then. The invitation stands.”
“What else do I have to do?”
“The guests are shuttled from the airport and usually arrive between noon and three. Lora Belmont is my events planner. She greets them most times. She also has another job, so when there are conflicts, I do it. She’ll show them to their rooms, give them the schedule of events, and tell them how things work. Basically they can treat the lodge like home during their stay. Grab a drink from the fridge when they need one, get an extra towel from the supply closet—you know, like you did.”
I flush, still not believing I did those things and ended up with a job.
“You’re not their servant or their butler. If they have an issue, they’ll call Lora or me. If a guest becomes unruly or belligerent toward you, call me.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me give you my number.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
He sighs. “I thought as much. I didn’t see one when you gave me a tour of the attic.” He pulls a phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “It’s been programmed with every number you might need.”
I wave it off. “I don’t take—”
“Handouts. I know. But as an employee, you have to be able to get in touch with me. What if a pipe bursts, and the lodge floods? Or the washing machine stops working right before guests arrive. This is business, not personal. Okay?”
I reluctantly take it and set it on the table. It’s not just a phone. It’s an iPhone. “Exactly what is your job here? Caretaker of the lodge? It seems like there’s more to it.”
“There is. You could say I’m part owner of the ranch.” He chuckles. “A very small part.”
“What does that mean?”
“My uncle owns this place. He inherited it eight years ago when his mom died. Damn—that was a lot of drama. If you’re ever bored and want to hear a good story, ask me about it. Anyway, Gavin, my uncle, is Maddox’s dad.”
“Maddox?”
“Andie’s husband. Maddox is Gavin’s proxy, I’d guess you call him. He’s the one who lives in the big house and signs all the paychecks. He’s part owner, too, only he has a bigger part. My uncle made a deal with him back then, the same one he made with me. For every year he works at Devil’s Horn Ranch, he gets one percent ownership. On his next anniversary, he’ll own eight percent.”
“How much do you own?”
He looks embarrassed. “One. But don’t laugh. I do a hell of a lot for that. I work my ass off because with one percent ownership comes one percent of the bills. This is a big place—lots of moving parts—but one day, it’ll all be worth it.”
“I wasn’t laughing. One percent of something is a hell of a lot better than zero percent of nothing.” He looks guilty, so I add, “Don’t feel sorry for me, Aaron.”
“I don’t. Well, maybe I do a little. It’s kind of hard not to. You’re young and living out of a backpack and sleeping on fifty-year-old mattresses. God knows where you slept before. But that’s all behind you now. I promise I’ll try and stop feeling sorry for you. How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-three, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” Lie. Ever since I saw him chopping wood, I’ve wondered about him. Dreamt about him. What’s his story? Has he ever been in love? Is he a hermit living in the woods? Is he running from something, or living his dream? “There is something I was wondering about, though. Why do you live in a cabin all the way out here when there are so many other places to live on the main part of the ranch?”