“Is that poisoned?” I ask.
“Tony was . . . a lot more relaxed than you about certain . . . rules about having kids out on his property.”
If he makes my face twitch one more time, I might be the person who makes all those old wives’ tales come true when it gets stuck. That last one hurt. Who knew a cheek muscle could cramp like that?
I turn around and pick up the sledgehammer again. I’m so over people who like the rules only when they’re convenient. “Thank you for dinner. Junie will appreciate it.”
“It’s for you too.”
“Thank you. Not hungry.”
“Maisey—”
“I get it. You can’t let Junie on the soccer team. I can’t let you have kids out here until I get the right liability insurance. We don’t like each other. You’re trying to be nice because you still rent Uncle Tony’s gatehouse, and you’re going to be one of my kid’s teachers, and we’ll have to see each other regularly. Trust me, I can nice your ass off. Got a lot of experience being pleasant around people I don’t like. You won’t even know if I paint your face on a wall that I take out with a sledgehammer again, okay?”
“We can find some middle ground here.”
“Can we? Are you capable of that? Because so far, the only message I’ve gotten from you is that I’m a huge inconvenience ruining your life, and you know what? I have enough of that from my teenager. I don’t need it from a grown-ass man too.”
All my frustration fuels my next swing into the stable wall.
“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to the kids on the soccer team about June trying out to rotate in every once in a while,” Flint says.
“I’m not—ungh—threatening—oof—or bribing—ermph—you to get my daughter—aarrrrggghhh—on the damn soccer—umph—team.” I drop the sledgehammer and hunch over, looking for my breath as I swing a quick glance around the dilapidated barn, wondering how this must look to Flint.
First seven stalls weren’t this hard to take out.
But swinging a sledgehammer for an hour will take it out of a girl. Especially after hauling out all the random other crap that needed to go into a dumpster.
Might be time for a real break.
“You have water out here?” Flint asks.
The irritated edge is gone from his voice, replaced with something I’d call concern if he were anyone else in town.
I wave to my empty water bottle. “I’m fine.”
Little black dots choose that moment to dance in my vision.
Crap.
I am not fine.
The dots pass after one more deep breath, but Flint Jackson is once again frowning at me. He grabs a three-legged stool from a pile of broken boards and barn scrap that I haven’t gotten to the dumpster yet, flips it so he can sit on it, and digs into his quilted bag.
Quilted.
What bachelor has a quilted bag? And it’s not bold, masculine colors. Those quilt squares are soft pinks and blues and yellows, with flowery patterns.
At least, I think they are.
The light isn’t the best in here, even before the dots in my vision.
He rises and crosses half the barn to stand next to me, a can of sparkling water in his hand. “Drink.”
“Thank you.”
I’m so tired of being mad at myself.
Drink more, Maisey. Between the elevation and the lack of humidity out here, you know you need it. You’ve studied how to handle wildlife, so put it into action and quit freaking out every time you see even a chipmunk move. Don’t go wandering outside at dusk. See previous reminder about wildlife.
It’s what I repeat to myself over and over every day.
Yet here I am, halfway across the property from the house at dusk, dehydrated and standing next to a wild animal that I should know how to handle, but who’s not acting at all like I expect him to.
And if he could please quit rubbing his hands down his thighs and highlighting just how solid they are, I’d appreciate that greatly.
The last thing I want is to have to ask him if he has another can of water because his body makes my mouth go drier than the Wyoming summer.
“I always thought you didn’t come because you thought you were too good for Tony,” he mutters.
It’s a really good thing I’m not holding that sledgehammer now. “That’s a lovely thing to think about someone you’ve never met.”
He shakes his head. “I miss him. He was—if I could’ve picked my own father, I would’ve picked Tony. And you showing up now is bringing up old memories that are good but that hurt, too, because they remind me that he’s not here anymore.”
I watch him, not sure what to say.
This almost sounds like an apology, and I’m sorry I thought you were old isn’t an appropriate response.
“When I moved back here to Hell’s Bells six years ago, Tony took me in like one of his other strays. I was in a rough spot. Bad breakup. Lost my job over it. But Tony set me up in the gatehouse and would have me up to his place for a beer after school to shoot the shit and watch the sun set. It was . . . nice to have a friend without expectations.”
“I’m sure he enjoyed that.”
I don’t mean to sound sad.
But he’s right.
Uncle Tony was a good person, and I didn’t see him nearly enough in his last years. I took him for granted.
And I miss him too.
“He was really proud of you and that stupid show,” Flint says.
I hide my face’s reaction by taking another drink. I don’t think I’ve actually grieved him. I’ve been too busy. Or maybe I feel like I don’t have the right.
Not the way everyone here does.
He was part of this community.
And I’m just the lucky person who hung out a few weeks for a couple of summers twenty years ago, inherited his ranch, let it sit for a year, and is now changing everything up.
“He never told you?” he asks.
I slide a look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Are you treating me like one of your students?”
“I’m trying to treat you like a human being who’s doing the best you can, just like the rest of us are.”
“Why?”
“Because, like you said, I rent your gatehouse. I’m one of June’s teachers. We’ll see each other regularly. I’m the closest thing you have when you hit the wrong wall and take down the barn, and—”
That’s it.
I straighten and glare at him. “Let’s get one thing crystal clear. You know nothing about who I am and what I’m capable of if you’re judging me on what you saw on that television show. Understood?”
He blinks fast and takes a half step back. “I—”
“You think I’m a worthless airhead who doesn’t know the difference between an impact driver and a roof shingle.”
He visibly gulps, then casts a covert glance at my sledgehammer.
“Yes, I do know what that’s technically called, too,” I inform him, “but I call it the hand of justice, and I can swing it like a mofo.”
If he takes one more step back, he’ll fall into the hay trough, and you know what?
I’m freaking here for it.
“Did you—” He stops and clears his throat. “Did you just say mofo?”