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That woman had already been stomping around in Phoebe’s broken head this morning, after she’d gotten a call from the Oklahoma Humane Society, which had working relationships of one sort or another with most if not all foster and rescue organizations in the state. Becca, her contact at OKHS, had called to ask if she’d had some contact with ... yep, one Lydia Copperman.
The uberbitch really was on a mission to make trouble for her. Becca had told her that Copperman wanted Ragamuffin Ranch struck from their list of grant-eligible groups.
Phoebe had been forthright with Becca, describing the brief scene in detail and trying to be as clear-headed and dispassionate as possible. Luckily, Lydia Copperman’s reputation preceded her among the larger charities in the state, and that reputation was one of complaints and demands. Becca and her colleagues had taken this complaint and demand with a grain.
However, Becca suggested that the uberbitch would likely keep looking for satisfaction, so Phoebe should be proactive and get in contact with any organization she needed to keep on her side.
Welp. The state of her patron roster indicated that the time to be proactive had already passed. She was going to have to make calls to various administrators explaining the situation, expressing regret (that she was sort of truly feeling now) at her brusque reaction, and so on. Damage control, before she lost everything over an impulsive reaction to wealthy entitlement.
Somebody was going to want her to apologize to the uberbitch at some point, she could feel it. And that would fucking suck. She wasn’t sure she could manage it.
Now a migraine was no longer threatening but burgeoning. Unable to process any of her feelings or fears, Phoebe let it all switch off. If she tried to contend with this right now, she’d lose her shit, and she had shit to do. Living beings who needed her, no matter the state of her bank accounts.
As she pushed the desk chair in, she saw that the old granny-square throw was wadded up in the seat of Vin’s recliner, and a spray of newspaper—Vin liked an actual paper—lay on the floor between the recliner and the wall. She folded up the throw and draped it over the back of his chair, gathered up the papers and set them on the coffee table ... and then fell sideways into cleaning the whole room. Her brain filled with white noise and her body became Rosie the Robot, a task-oriented machine.
When Vin wrapped a hand around her arm and yanked her back to awareness, the room reeked of Pledge and she was pushing the ancient Kirby vacuum over the area rug.
According to the clock on the mantelpiece, she’d lost forty-five minutes.
That happened sometimes, especially when her brain had been running around like Gremlin, trying to herd a rogue thought into a pen where it would be safe and out of her way.
Vin knew that. So he stood frowning at her and asked, “You okay?”
“Sure,” she said, which was both true and false, as Vin knew.
He shaped his mouth into a skeptical twist. “I had to grab you to pull you out. What’s happenin’ in there? This about that call this morning? That woman trying to fuck with us?”
“Yeah, I guess,” she told Vin.
But she was about half lying. Despite the potential disaster the woman could create, Phoebe didn’t think it was Lydia Copperman that her mind-Gremlin was trying to keep out of her way. Despite the legitimate worry and fear the problem warranted, she felt sure she’d figure out a way to deal with whatever that woman tried to throw at her, if for no other reason than the need to rescue large animals was greater than the capacity of the large-animal rescues in the state. Ragamuffin Ranch was necessary. Phoebe was maybe a rarer and more important resource than a rich uberbitch. Copperman could fuck with her, she could make life difficult, she could make things uncomfortable, but in the end, Phoebe didn’t really fear ruin. Just a mountain of hassle she didn’t have time for and awkward apologies she wouldn’t really mean.
No, the thought trying to break free today was Duncan.
It completely pissed her off. He was just a guy. She’d had sex with him a few times. Big whoop. Why had she been hurt this morning, when he’d as good as told her he wouldn’t be reaching out again? She was not somebody who got all fluttery and clingy over any guy. This one didn’t want to get something started with her? That was fine—no, it was good. He was a Brazen Bull, and she didn’t need that kind of drama in her life. Also he lived an hour away. While sixty-something miles wasn’t exactly long distance, it wasn’t convenient, either.
Still, she was hurt and depressed. She’d asked if he’d call or text, and he’d done that guy thing where he’d sat there and said nothing. Obviously he’d been trying to cook up some smarmy fiction that would ‘let her down easy’ or just be an outright lie.
Asshole.
It shouldn’t matter, but it did. She’d liked him. They’d had two really great nights together—he’d spent two whole nights with her (well, one and three-quarters), and actually sleeping with a guy was not a thing she did. But the sex with him had been really great. He was incredibly attentive and sweet; he’d really noticed her responses and adjusted accordingly. Definitely on her best-of list. Maybe all the way at number one. And she’d felt cozy and safe sleeping in his arms.
Plus, he’d repeatedly gone out of his way—literally and figuratively—to help her out. He’d saved her from huge trouble, in fact. Twice within a week.
That was the problem, really. He wasn’t an asshole. Biker gang notwithstanding, he was a legitimately good guy. He simply wasn’t looking for a relationship, and he’d seen, as she had, that any move forward would lead them into relationship territory. She’d been interested in making that move; he had not.
He wasn’t as into her as she was into him. It stung.
So he was stuck in her head, and she had no way to pry him out of there. Except her mind-Gremlin, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. Her therapist had ‘assured’ her these occasional ‘hyperfocus’ episodes were about her PTSD, not her brain injury (though the PTSD was about the brain injury, so tomayto, tomahto). Apparently it was considered better to be a little bit crazy than a little bit dented.
Vin took the vacuum from her. His stump had healed sufficiently that he had his leg on again and was fully mobile. “I’ll finish this after lunch. Inside the house is my job, and I’m back on the job. And lunch is ready, anyway.”
That was the arrangement of their weird little family: Vin’s prosthetic was some distance from ‘top of the line,’ and he had some brain damage and muscle weakness that affected his coordination as well. He could walk and work on the ranch’s uneven terrain for only an hour or two in relative comfort, and if he pushed it too far, could end up with a sore like the one that was just healing—or worse, he could fall. But he was a great cook, having been raised in a Creole restaurant-owning family in Louisiana. So he took on the inside jobs, cooking and cleaning and such. He also threw some of his disability benefit into the household accounts to help keep the bills paid.
Margot worked in town and made the most actual income, so she covered most of the monthly bills. Phoebe provided the place to live and paid for the care of the animals. Everybody covered their own personal expenses. They were one of the various versions of a Gen Z family, trying to make it work in a world where all the systems supporting home, labor, and health were broken.
Just then Gremlin trotted into the room. They’d installed doggie doors in the side and back doors, so he came and went at will during the day. Gremlin also got lunch when they did. He was a working dog, and though his herds were small, he got his cardio in every day and needed plenty of calories.
Lunch was his favorite because he got real meat and vegetables rather than kibble.
