mornings. No more.
Chapter Seventeen
“See you soon?” Rick forced his voice to be steady.
Tina’s gaze fluttered to the ground, to the wilted flower beds, to the road. Anywhere but to him.
“See you soon,” she whispered, and then she was gone.
Rick stood on the Seymours’ porch, watching the dust cloud of her Corolla rise to the pale autumn sky for a long time after she drove out of sight. He stared into the distance as the dust slowly settled again.
He kicked at the dirt and sighed.
Tina. He’d stayed up a long time after she fell asleep, just looking at her, and woke up early to do the same thing. He could run a finger along her back, her eyebrow, her hip again and again and never get tired of it. He could get old happily and even go blind in the other eye, as long as he could still feel her, touch her, sense her at his side.
He’d have thought they’d more than made up for lost time with the number of orgasms they’d both hit, but his fingers still flexed in empty air, wishing for her back. Because there was the high that came with sex, and there was the peace of coming home. He raised his nose to the desert air, sniffed like a dog, then chuckled to himself. Tina definitely brought out the animal in him.
See you soon.
How soon?
His fingers tapped together as he walked, calculating how many of his twenty days he had left.
He turned on his heel and headed inside the Seymour homestead. Stopped in the doorway before going in, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light until he could make out the hands of the grandfather clock and the lines on the black-and-white artwork on the wall. A Picasso print—the one Mrs. Seymour told him about when he was a kid. The wobbly stick figure was Don Quixote, who chased after windmills and did all kinds of other crazy things.
Chasing after windmills,
old Henry would chime in.
Like us running this ranch.
They’d laugh at that, the Seymours, and smile at each other and carry on. They never gave up, not in tough years, not through the droughts, not when outsiders came along with offers that were too good to be true. And he’d do the same. The ranch had a lot of potential. He knew he could get it back on its feet—without resorting to crazy plans like selling water rights or any such nonsense. Why would Tina’s brother think he’d ever do such a thing?
The wind breezed down the empty hallway, prompting a sigh. The only souls left on the ranch were him, old Dale in the bunkhouse, and a couple of ranch hands who came and went. Yesterday, with Tina here, the whole place seemed to have perked up, but today, it was as tired and worn and empty as it had been before.
He turned the corner for the office and came to an abrupt halt.
The door was open, and Dale sat reclined in the chair with his dirty boots propped on Henry Seymour’s oak desk.
“Dale,” Rick gritted out. The soaring updraft that he’d been gliding on suddenly petered out and dropped him in a dusty heap.
Dale barely looked up. Barely acknowledged him there. Lazily turned a page of a ledger before stabbing his cigarette out on a saucer over by the lamp. The delicate saucer that was part of Lucy Seymour’s china set, painted with a pheasant and flowers and grass. There was nothing delicate about the stale smell of tobacco, though, or the stale smell of the ranch foreman.
Rick counted slowly to ten.
“Have a nice sleep-in, boss?” Dale said, tossing him one of those crocodile smiles.
The man might as well have said,
Blowing off work again?
Rick scowled. “Get your feet off Henry’s desk.”
Dale shifted his feet into a more comfortable position. “Your desk, you mean. Boss.” He added the final word a split second after the rest. Trying to push Rick’s buttons, as usual, though it would never work.
“Henry’s desk,” Rick growled back.
“Not sayin’ a man doesn’t deserve a little lie-in, not with company like that.” Dale faked nonchalance, tilting his head in the direction Tina had
Chapter Seventeen
“See you soon?” Rick forced his voice to be steady.
Tina’s gaze fluttered to the ground, to the wilted flower beds, to the road. Anywhere but to him.
“See you soon,” she whispered, and then she was gone.
Rick stood on the Seymours’ porch, watching the dust cloud of her Corolla rise to the pale autumn sky for a long time after she drove out of sight. He stared into the distance as the dust slowly settled again.
He kicked at the dirt and sighed.
Tina. He’d stayed up a long time after she fell asleep, just looking at her, and woke up early to do the same thing. He could run a finger along her back, her eyebrow, her hip again and again and never get tired of it. He could get old happily and even go blind in the other eye, as long as he could still feel her, touch her, sense her at his side.
He’d have thought they’d more than made up for lost time with the number of orgasms they’d both hit, but his fingers still flexed in empty air, wishing for her back. Because there was the high that came with sex, and there was the peace of coming home. He raised his nose to the desert air, sniffed like a dog, then chuckled to himself. Tina definitely brought out the animal in him.
See you soon.
How soon?
His fingers tapped together as he walked, calculating how many of his twenty days he had left.
He turned on his heel and headed inside the Seymour homestead. Stopped in the doorway before going in, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light until he could make out the hands of the grandfather clock and the lines on the black-and-white artwork on the wall. A Picasso print—the one Mrs. Seymour told him about when he was a kid. The wobbly stick figure was Don Quixote, who chased after windmills and did all kinds of other crazy things.
Chasing after windmills,
old Henry would chime in.
Like us running this ranch.
They’d laugh at that, the Seymours, and smile at each other and carry on. They never gave up, not in tough years, not through the droughts, not when outsiders came along with offers that were too good to be true. And he’d do the same. The ranch had a lot of potential. He knew he could get it back on its feet—without resorting to crazy plans like selling water rights or any such nonsense. Why would Tina’s brother think he’d ever do such a thing?
The wind breezed down the empty hallway, prompting a sigh. The only souls left on the ranch were him, old Dale in the bunkhouse, and a couple of ranch hands who came and went. Yesterday, with Tina here, the whole place seemed to have perked up, but today, it was as tired and worn and empty as it had been before.
He turned the corner for the office and came to an abrupt halt.
The door was open, and Dale sat reclined in the chair with his dirty boots propped on Henry Seymour’s oak desk.
“Dale,” Rick gritted out. The soaring updraft that he’d been gliding on suddenly petered out and dropped him in a dusty heap.
Dale barely looked up. Barely acknowledged him there. Lazily turned a page of a ledger before stabbing his cigarette out on a saucer over by the lamp. The delicate saucer that was part of Lucy Seymour’s china set, painted with a pheasant and flowers and grass. There was nothing delicate about the stale smell of tobacco, though, or the stale smell of the ranch foreman.
Rick counted slowly to ten.
“Have a nice sleep-in, boss?” Dale said, tossing him one of those crocodile smiles.
The man might as well have said,
Blowing off work again?
Rick scowled. “Get your feet off Henry’s desk.”
Dale shifted his feet into a more comfortable position. “Your desk, you mean. Boss.” He added the final word a split second after the rest. Trying to push Rick’s buttons, as usual, though it would never work.
“Henry’s desk,” Rick growled back.
“Not sayin’ a man doesn’t deserve a little lie-in, not with company like that.” Dale faked nonchalance, tilting his head in the direction Tina had
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