Sunset Ranch (3 page)

Chapter
Three

“M
ind some company?”

The voice came from behind me as I wandered down the long driveway that night after dinner. The staff meeting was supposed to start any minute, but I couldn't resist the cool allure of the air and the sunset that flung ruby, rose, gold, and lavender across the sky in a lavish array.

I turned around. Stephen was walking up rapidly behind me, a little out of breath. He must have trotted from the main house when he saw me leaving. His face shone faintly with perspiration. He'd changed his shirt into a soft blue button-down, sleeves rolled up. The auburn hair at his temples and around his forehead was damp, as if he'd just washed his face.

“Of course not.” I smiled at him, pushing away the faintest stab of annoyance at being interrupted.

Stephen fell in step beside me. “I found these by the side of the bunkhouse.” He proffered a slightly wilted bouquet of daisies and black-eyed Susans.

“Aw, that's so sweet.” I smiled at him and took the flowers, which were warm from being clutched in his hand. I looked around, but of course I'd have to carry them. I couldn't just lay them down by the side of the road.

“We shouldn't walk too far. Rick doesn't like anyone being late for meetings.” Stephen stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“No, I wasn't going to.” Quietly, I transferred the flowers to my other hand and wiped my free palm on my shorts. The stems were bleeding green juice.

A silence fell between us—a little awkward in a way we hadn't been earlier by the pasture. The only sound was our feet scuffling in the dirt. I heard Stephen swallow with a little click. He cleared his throat, then took his hand out of his pocket. It swung loosely by his side, and I became aware of my hand swinging too—near his. He was going to try to hold my hand; I could sense it. We walked a little further. My hand felt like a piece of meat hanging at the end of my arm. Never had I felt so aware of an ordinary part of my own body.

Then I felt him swipe at my fingers like he was trying to capture an elusive bug, and he caught my hand in his. I tried not to break my pace or look down. Nothing obvious like that. Instead I moistened my lips and stared straight ahead at the end of the driveway, where the gray ribbon of the asphalt was just visible. Stephen's hand was hot and a little sticky—like my four-year-old cousin's. I tried to change my grip, to combat the stickiness.

“Maybe we should turn around,” he said, before I could. We did a sort of awkward about-face, still holding hands, as if we were a drill team. It must have looked absurd to anyone watching from the porch—which I sincerely hoped no one was.

Thankfully, the porch was empty when we arrived back. Stephen let my hand go and I resisted the urge to wipe it on my shorts. “Well . . . thanks for walking with me.” I smiled at him and he beamed back.

“Here.” He opened the door for me and I stepped into the crowded common room. The dusky silent space of the afternoon was transformed now, with the big wagon-wheel lights flicked on, shedding their warm glow over the rows of packed heads. I found a seat beside Dana, stretched my booted feet out in front of me, and admired the effect. I hoped I looked like I'd been born wearing boots, with that slight cowboy swagger. “Who are all these people?” I whispered to Stephen, who sat on her other side.

“Well, you already met Jack. And that's Sandra, his wife.” He pointed to a woman with graying blond hair tied back in a long braid, shuffling a stack of papers at the front of the room. Her face was weathered and wrinkled as if she'd spent many years in the sun and wind.

“Nora and Miguel, the cooks. They're married, too.” The dark-haired couple stood in the kitchen doorway, their arms folded over their stained white aprons.

“Those sandwiches were amazing at dinner.” My mouth was still burning from the peppers. “What did Miguel call them?”

“Tortas. And then there's the wranglers—Todd, Jeremy, and Chris,” Stephen went on.

I eyed the three dusty guys slouched on a bench near the door, holding sweat-creased hats in their hands. Their plaid shirts and Wranglers looked as if they never took them off. “Those are the ones you work with?” I asked Dana.

My roommate grinned. “Yeah, those are my guys right there. Aren't I lucky? You can smell them a mile away.”

Stephen continued. “And the rest are the maids, grounds guys, mowers. And my brother, Rick. He's the head trainer.” A worshipful tone entered his voice as he indicated a larger, older mirror image of himself standing near the boys' staircase. He was different, though. He had a hardness around the mouth and eyes, a kind of inflexibility in his cross-armed stance.

“How much older is he than you?” I whispered.

“Eight years,” Stephen said. Rick must have seen us looking at him, because he met my gaze without changing expression. I smiled back nervously, but the stony set of his face didn't change. “He's the most amazing rider—wait until you see him,” Stephen went on. “Jack always says it's really Rick who runs this place.”

I wondered if that was good.

At the front of the room, Jack cleared his throat. “People, listen up. Let's get started.” He unfolded a pair of half-moon spectacles from his shirt pocket and put them on, then rocked back on his heels. “Welcome to Nickel River. We're going to work hard this summer, provide a pleasant time for our guests, and take excellent care of our stock.”

The door banged open, cutting off Jack in midsentence. Everyone turned to look. Zach stood in the doorway, his black hair falling over his forehead, an apple in one hand. There was a little murmur and rustle through the crowd. My eyes widened. He had a lot of nerve showing up to the first staff meeting late.

Jack harrumphed and stared at Zach deliberately through his glasses.

“Sorry,” Zach said, not sounding the least bit embarrassed. He sat down and crossed his ankle over his knee, cocked his arm over the chair back, and took a large, noisy bite out of the apple.

Jack had resumed talking at the front of the room. “I'd appreciate it if you all would arrive on time for all meetings.”

Dana snickered. Zach looked around and spotted us. He winked and gave us a little sideways grin. Involuntarily, a giggle rose up in my throat, which I tried to squash. I looked away and tried to focus on the front of the room. Sandra was talking now.

“The comfort of our guests is our number one concern,” she was saying in a soft voice. “We expect all of the summer help to look neat and presentable and be ready to help any guest at any time. You will be on time to meals, and under no circumstances are you to ride or take the horses anywhere without permission from myself, Jack, or Rick. In addition—” She held up a cell phone. “You might as well say good-bye to these for the summer. We barely get reception.”

I slid my phone from my fleece pocket and glanced down at it quickly. Sandra was right. Zero bars.

“There is no Wi-Fi either,” Sandra went on. “We have a dial-up connection in the main office. Any personal e-mails received for the staff will be printed out and distributed.”

A few guffaws went up around the room. I sighed.

“It's not too bad,” Stephen murmured next to me. His breath tickled my ear deliciously. “You get used to it.”

Sandra handed out a daily schedule; then Rick stepped to the front of the room. “Listen up now. I've got your work assignments.” He had a clipped way of speaking, as if he were biting off the end of each word. “Wranglers will be out every day with the herd, getting the guests mounted, making sure they don't kill themselves, driving the wagon, leading the trail rides. Summer hands will be doing horse care—mucking stalls, grooming, tacking up, filling the water tanks.”

“I guess that's me,” I whispered to Stephen.

“And me,” he said. “Rick said we're short in our section, so I'm supposed to fill in.”

My heart gave a little leap. “That's nice.” I tried not to betray the cartwheels happening in my stomach. Visions of sunset watching on the pasture fence and trail rides up into the foothills swam in front of my eyes. Stephen was riding a black horse; I was on a white one. We rode side by side, and Stephen reached out and took my hand as the wind blew through our hair. . . . 

“And Zach,” Stephen went on.

The horses crumbled into dust.

“We're supposed to work together.”

I resisted the urge to groan aloud.

The meeting concluded, and everyone rose from their seats. Jack, Sandra, and Rick strolled toward what must be their own residence, a large cabin set away from the other buildings. Nora and Miguel disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Come on.” Dana grabbed my arm, her eyes sparkling. “We can't go to bed yet! We're going to have a fire out back. We have to celebrate our first night here.”

I followed her out into the vast, black mountain night. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of pine. I zipped my fleece up to my neck, glad I'd thought to bring it even though it was June. The grass rustled in the darkness, and the mountains were black shapes in the far distance.

A few people were already gathered around a metal ring set far back from the bunkhouse.

“Everyone pick up some kindling.” Jeremy waved his arms in our direction. I scavenged along the ground as I walked. A big shrub to my right had some dead branches under it. I diverted over to it. “Going this way!” I called to Dana, who was headed to the left.

I stooped to pick up a good-sized branch with some kind of pine needles on it. The wood twisted in my hands and I felt the jab of a splinter sliding under my fingernail.

“Ow!” I dropped all my wood and squeezed my index finger in my other fingers briefly, then stuck the finger in my mouth.

“What's wrong?” a voice asked from the darkness.

I caught my breath and whirled around. Zach was standing behind me, some long sticks clutched in one hand.

“Nothing. Splinter.”

He put his hand out and bent his head close. “I can't see it.” He slid his phone from his pocket and by its ghostly light examined the dark shard caught just under the quick of my nail. I waited, trying not to be affected by the feel of his warm fingers around mine and his breath on my palm.

“There's a first aid kit in the house, isn't there? I'm sure it has tweezers.” I started to withdraw my fingers, but he held on.

“No, look, I can get it out for you.”

“How?”

Before I could move, he raised my finger to his mouth. At the touch of his lips, electricity shot straight through me. I inhaled sharply. He must have known the effect his touch had on me, because a little smile quirked the corners of his mouth. He grasped the tiny end of the splinter with his teeth and gave a quick tug.

“Here you go.” He released my hand and removed the wood from the tip of his tongue.

I patted my hair, more to give my hands a task than for any other reason. “Thanks,” I managed.

“No problem.”

My heart had finally slowed to a normal rhythm by the time I settled on the rough, dry grass back at the campfire ring. Dana sat cross-legged beside me, and on the opposite side Zach slouched against a log. Jeremy put a handful of twigs in the fire pit and struck a match.

The twigs flared up, and the newspaper at the bottom curled into a glowing ball. Jeremy fed thin sticks into the fire one by one, until finally he propped three big split logs over the fire. Pine pitch popped, sending little flares of sparks into the night.

I leaned back against a rock, snuggling my hands in my pockets and crossing my legs. The fire toasted my face, while the cool air pressed at my back. The rough grass scratched the underside of my jeans. “So he said he was going to take this colt out, and he got this saddle and put it on backwards . . . ,” Dana was saying to the girl on her other side. Someone handed me a bag of marshmallows. I took two and broke off a long stick from the pile by the fire.

One of the logs cracked and fell into the coals, shooting up sparks. I threaded my marshmallows on the stick and held them just above the flames. I watched them puff up, slightly hypnotized by the dancing fire.

“Chloe, where's your guitar?” Dana said. “Play for us!”

“Oh God, I'm not good. I know like two songs,” I said.

“Go get it—we'll pass it around.”

I rose from the circle and tramped through the house and upstairs, returning a minute later with my Gibson. I opened the case and tuned the guitar up. “Okay, here's my one song.” I fumbled through “If I Had a Hammer,” which my guitar teacher had taught me right before I left. Everyone clapped when I was through.

“Here, I'll play something,” Stephen volunteered, and I gratefully passed the instrument over to him.

He arranged himself cross-legged and strummed a few chords. The sound was small in the vast night, but he looked very cute with a guitar in his hands.

“Michael, row your boat ashore, Hallelujah . . . ,”
Stephen sang in a reedy tenor.