I’m almost out of the bread and peanut butter I took the other day. I eye the yogurt, thinking I might be able to get away with one more. I reach around and take one from the back. People never notice when you pull from the back.
I get my small notepad and pen from my back pocket and open it to the third page. The list is getting longer by the day. I add to it.
1 cup yogurt
I look at the sleigh bells once more. Then I dare to do something I wouldn’t normally do. I take a bath bomb from the supply closet and run upstairs to guest suite four (the closest one to the attic) and fill the tub. The bells will alert me and give me plenty of time to get upstairs. I can even leave the water in the tub if I have to. I mean, how many times do people really go into bathrooms anyway? Especially in unoccupied hotel rooms.
For the next thirty minutes, I enjoy something I haven’t done in well over two years: a soak in hot water. I think back. Did I ever take baths? It’s funny what becomes a guilty pleasure when life is so different.
I brought clothes into the tub with me. They were in desperate need of washing. I make quick work of laundering, wringing, then hanging them over the side. After, I rest my head against a soft towel and let the bath salts soothe me. I’ll bet there is a lot of dirt and grime coming off me right now. All I’ve been able to manage are quick showers. This is a real treat. I rarely get to wash both my hair and body; it’s usually one or the other. In and out in thirty seconds. It’s all I allow myself. I’ve become very efficient at speedy showers.
I find myself relaxing for the first time in a long while, but that doesn’t mean I let my mind wander. Thinking can be dangerous. Thinking of the past is heartbreaking. Thinking of the future is pointless. I live in this one moment in time. Because if I’ve learned anything over the past years, it’s that these moments are few and far between.
Not wanting to push my luck, I step out of the tub and pull the plug. Drying off, I watch the water swirl down the drain. It leaves a dirty ring. Oh, jeez. I rub it off with the towel, leaving the tub as I found it.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. It’s something I try not to do often. The girl I see is nothing like the woman I’d hoped to grow into. She’s dirty, even though her body has been cleansed. She’s skinny, even though she eats several times a day. She’s pathetic, even though… Well, there is no even though. She’s just pathetic.
My good mood ruined, I gather my wet clothes and take them and the soiled towel with me to the attic. I’ll throw the towel in with the guest laundry the next time people are here.
Sleigh bells ring in the distance. I lie down on my mattress, thinking of my perfect timing. I hear voices. It’s not Black-haired Guy. I peek out the window and smile. It’s the delivery van from a supermarket. Food! Tonight I’ll eat well. Food always gets delivered a day before an event, and I’ve learned the chef is a different person from the food delivery guy, so the chef doesn’t miss jars of this and boxes of that. Oh, I love food delivery day.
I can only hope he doesn’t stay here again tonight. I’ll have to be super careful if he does. I’m light on my feet. Socks, not shoes. Never shoes.
I peel back the foil on the yogurt and try to enjoy my breakfast. Still hungry, I fish a granola bar from my pack. It doesn’t satisfy me either. Crap, I know what this means. I’ll get my period soon, and I’m low on supplies. I’ll have to make another trip to town, but not today. Today I’m finishing the Nicole Snow novel I’ve been immersed in. Thank God for this e-reader. There must be more than a hundred books on it. And I’m pretty sure I go through a book a day. It’s a great way to pass the time.
My eyes close, and I drift off, dreaming of perfectly proportioned alpha males and happy endings—things I can only have in my dreams. Because people like me don’t deserve them.
Chapter Five
Aaron
Squatter. We’ve got a fucking squatter. Or squatters, plural. Who the hell knows?
I dip my roller into the paint and slather it on the wood, my mind not at all on the task at hand. It’s got to be only one. How could multiple people be so quiet? And the amount of food taken could hardly sustain several of them.
Let’s think about this. What exactly am I dealing with here? How long has he been there? A few weeks? A month? I think back to the first time someone mentioned the ghost. Yeah, almost four weeks. How in the hell has a bum been living in the lodge for four weeks without being caught? And where?
Of course—the attic. I haven’t been up there since Dad and I moved the last of those old portraits out of the main hall. That was more than seven years ago. It’s got to be dirty as shit. My eyebrows go up. But there are mattresses, if I recall correctly. I suppose living in a dusty attic is better than sleeping under a bridge. It’ll get hot as hell up there in a month—dude picked the best time of year to become a low-life, criminal, trespassing squatter. Wait, can I even call him a squatter? Maybe it only applies to vacant houses. What do you call someone who lives in an occupied one?
“Something on your mind?”
I jump, startled. Maddox is appraising my work. I’m being anything but efficient. I’ve been painting the same place over and over. “Just tired.”
“Ghostbusting keeping you up at night?” He chuckles.
I contemplate telling him about the uninvited visitor but decide against it. I can deal with it myself. Maddox doesn’t have to know every single thing that happens on the ranch. It is partly mine, however small the part is. “Don’t you have better things to do than stand here, watching me paint? Like maybe pick up a damn brush?”
“I did. Painted the whole east wall.”
“That’s the smallest one.”
“Yeah, well, at least it’s done. I’m taking a break to check on Vivian.” He almost pinches his fingers together, leaving a small space between his thumb and forefinger. “She’s this close to sitting up on her own. Man, she’s growing up fast. Need anything from the house?”
“Coffee.”
“You got it.” He turns to Owen, who’s down a ways on my left. “For you, too?”
“You musta been readin’ my mind, McBride,” Owen says with his heavy southern drawl.
Owen is the ranch manager. He basically runs everything around here. He pays the bills, maintains supplies, and supervises the workers. He recently took over the job from a guy named Matteo, who was the nicest Mexican immigrant you’d ever meet. After thirty years in Texas, twenty-two of them spent here on Devil’s Horn Ranch, Matteo left to go back home to take care of his severely ill mother.
Owen was Matteo’s assistant for eight years. He slipped right into the job without missing a beat. He’s firm but fair. Nice but commanding. He knows Maddox is the “real” boss around here, even though he doesn’t carry the title and has far less experience. The best part about Owen is that he’s not beneath doing the jobs the rest of us do. He’ll clean up a pile of horse shit rather than walk past it. I admire that in a person of authority.
“Andie told me about your ghost,” Owen says, slathering on paint. “You believe in that crap?”