The Rancher's Untamed Heart (19 page)

He nodded. "Silly words, but I guess they'll do. Even I am not old-fashioned enough to call you my 'best dame.'"

“I suppose I should call my mother and tell her I have a new boyfriend,” I said, rolling my eyes. “She calls me every week to see if I’m finally dating someone again, but I usually dodge her calls. You’d probably never do something like that.”

"What happens when you talk to her?" he asked.

"She tells me about everything I'm doing wrong with my life and tries to convince me to marry the next guy I meet so my eggs don't dry up," I said, laughing a little bitterly.

"That doesn't sound pleasant at all," he said. "No big mystery why you aren't desperate to be around her."

"I thought you were all about family," I said, before I could help myself.

"I am. I'm not an idiot, though. Not all families are good, and you can't tie yourself to one that doesn't treat you right. Brandon's lived in that cabin, off-and-on, since he was fifteen, you know. My parents fixed it up for him, it used to just be a shack," Clint said.

That was definitely new information.

"Brandon's family wasn't good?" I asked.

"Brandon's family wanted him to be something he wasn't. I'm sure you can imagine," Clint said. "He was almost the perfect son, rodeo rider, good at sports, dutiful, respectful - but he wouldn't date girls and give them grandchildren, so they wouldn't get off his back about going to hell and being a real man."

"Ouch," I murmured.

"That didn't sit too well with my folks, even my father," Clint said. "Before Brandon told us he was queer, my father wasn't real accepting about that sort of thing. After he figured out about Brandon, though, he told us a few years later that, sure, it made him uncomfortable, but Brandon was the same good kid that he'd always been, so my father guessed that he should just make his peace with it real quick, and he did."

"Sounds like a loving man," I said. "Your father, I mean, not anyone in Brandon's family."

"He was," Clint said, simply. "He wasn't afraid to change his mind."

“What about your mother?” I asked. “What did she think of Brandon’s announcement?”

Clint laughed.

“She insists that she knew before he did, and she might be right. She was a good woman, old-fashioned, but like my father, she loved Brandon and she decided that if Brandon was queer, being queer couldn’t be all that bad,” he said. “That’s about how simple it was, for her. Even before he was a teenager, he spent more time on our ranch than with his own family. My parents bought me bunk beds, and Brandon always had the top bunk.”

“Sounds like they loved Brandon,” I said.

"They sure did. So, don't think that because I love my family, I think everybody should sit meek as a doormat and let their families run all over them," Clint said.

"That's good to hear," I said. "I don't want to disappoint you."

"Never," Clint said, and chuckled.

"What about that time I told you that football was a blood sport with the blood taken out, and the only point to watching it was men in tight pants?" I asked.

"I'm choosing to block that conversation out of my mind," Clint said, sounding almost prim. After a few glasses of wine, Will and I had ended up picking apart the rules of football and why we thought it was a silly sport, while Clint and Brandon got grumpier and grumpier and finally left to 'check the fences' at eleven o'clock at night.

I didn't doze the rest of the ride in the truck. The warm ball of happiness in my belly kept me awake.

Monday morning, the last scraps of that ball of warmth and joy from the weekend vanished.

I stared at Herman, who had again claimed the client seat in my office. This time, though, he'd shut the door.

"I'm not sure about that, sir," I said, quietly.

"It's not a big deal," he insisted.

I hesitated.

"It might not be to you," I said, very carefully, "But I'm not sure that it isn't a big deal to me."

Herman leaned forward, frowning at me. "I thought you were a team player, Naomi. I'd be really disappointed to find out that that weren't the case."

"Well, sir," I said, carefully, "I'm not trying to be inconvenient, but this is not something I am comfortable with."

He rolled his eyes at me and pursed his lips. "I have done the inspection, I don't need to waste your time, mine, or theirs, with a second inspection. All I need you to do is sign this."

"If I sign this, I will be swearing that I have personally witnessed and inspected this, and that's not true," I told him, not enjoying the feeling of being bullied.

"Everyone but you does this all the time," he insisted. "Sarah went out with me, but she forgot to sign the paperwork, and she can't do it on maternity leave."

I nodded, slowly. Sarah had mentioned going out on a few inspections with Herman. She said that his fieldwork was a little slow, but still thorough and accurate. I would trust Sarah.

Did I trust Herman?

The form he’d asked me to put the wrong date on had left a bad taste in my mouth. If it weren’t for that, I’d maybe feel a little differently, but I wasn’t sure about his integrity any more.

I tried not to sigh. I didn't want to give him any more ammunition to dislike me, and even if he rolled his eyes dismissively, I didn't want to appear rude in return.

With a little pang, I thought about Clint. He would have no doubts about this - he would tell Herman Banks to shove it and walk out the door.

Maybe I wasn't as good a person as my boyfriend - boyfriend! - but I knew I didn't want to disappoint Clint or lose my job.

Even with all of my fear, sitting across from my boss and trying to say no to him, thinking of Clint as my boyfriend gave me a little thrill.

I was so gone.

I realized that Herman was sitting there, eyebrows raised, tapping his fingers expectantly against the arm of the chair.

“Would you please leave them on my desk, sir?” I asked.

I wasn’t sure what to do, still. Clint said that no job was worth your honor, but I didn’t know if I agreed. I had worked for years to get this far as a young woman in a lousy economy, and I didn’t want to throw it all away.

Maybe Herman was right, maybe everyone did this.

I needed more time.

Herman grinned that politician’s grin at me again. He stood up and placed the folder carefully on my desk.

“Thank you, Naomi. This is an excellent move for your career,” he said, continuing to grin as he stuck his hand out across the desk at me.

I held me own out and he shook it, briskly. His handshake was a little too tight, and I made myself not wince or pull away. I didn’t want him to think of me as completely weak.

For the rest of the week, I avoided Clint’s calls.  Finally, on Thursday, I picked up.

“I was beginning to think you had changed your number and moved town,” he said, in a tone that was clearly meant to be teasing, but had an undercurrent of concern.

I winced. I didn’t mean to make him worry.

“I’m sorry, Clint,” I said. “It’s been a rough week at work.”

He paused.

“Mad at me?” he asked, gruffly.

I shook my head and then remembered that I was on the phone. “No, not mad. Just… tired,” I said, straightening the bills on my counter.

He grunted.

“I think I need a weekend to myself,” I said. “There’s a list of stuff I’ve been meaning to get done around here.”

There was no answer on the line for a minute.

“Would you like to get lunch on Saturday?” he asked.

“I don’t think I have time,” I said.

“All right,” he replied, sounding resigned.

I opened my mouth to take it back, and then shut it again. That wouldn't really help anything.

"Well, good night," Clint said. His voice was cool, and he hung up immediately.

I slipped the cell phone into the pocket of my work trousers. The fabric caught on a hangnail and I pulled my hands out, inspecting my nails and trying not to think about that phone call. It didn’t work. All I saw when I looked at my hands was Clint’s body underneath them, Clint’s hands holding them… Clint.

Blinking fiercely, I went to the bathroom for a set of nail clippers.

That night, I tossed and turned alone in my bed before finally succumbing to the grief and fear that I had been bottling up.

The tears came in a great rush, and I sobbed, at first only once, but the grief came out in a great flood and I clung to my pillow like I had when I was a little girl and let the tears come freely.

When I stopped crying, I was shaky and sad, but I finally slept.

That night, I dreamed of Clint, and of Herman Banks, and of stacks of paperwork hunting me down on Clint's ranch. As ridiculous as it seemed, even in my dream, it was very frightening. That paperwork was a real threat, and I couldn't really figure out what to do about it.

Finally, Clint ran up to me and pulled me away from it, lighting the whole stack on fire with a box of matches he yanked out of his pocket.

Once the forms were on fire, my fear vanished and I woke up.

I checked my phone, and my alarm was due to go off in fifteen minutes. Not worth going back to sleep. I got out of bed and stretched, adjusting my short cotton shorts and tank top.

It was awful telling Clint that I didn't want to see him, and crying myself to sleep, and having a ridiculous nightmare, but it left me feeling better than I had in a week.

I knew what I had to do now. I had to light that damn paperwork on fire.

Not literally. Probably.