She went back to Los Angeles and the ongoing drama-drenched production of being herself. Where she stayed until the drama literally drowned her.
Our father kept the ranch to use as an escape from his sorrow and, later, as a movie set. It was the backdrop to what turned out to be his two highest-grossing films.
His four sons were sent there for two months in the summers to learn how to “be a man.” A skill taught to us not byour father but by the ranch manager, a stereotypically-leathery, gruff cowboy named Hank Calloway.
Hank had managed the farm for the previous owners, and his father had managed the ranch for the owners before that. When Hank died last spring, his daughter Mia stepped up to the role.
We all wondered if a city girl was up to the job.
I remember meeting Mia a few times when we were kids, when she was a pig-tailed nine-year-old tomboy, but her parents divorced when she was very young and she and her two older sisters spent most of the year with her mother, in Seattle or Portland or one of those rain-soaked Pacific Northwest cities that has nothing to do with ranches.
Once Mia took over, it was Rhett—always the one of us who loved the ranch the most—who decided to spend some time there and check up on the new manager to make sure she knew what the hell she was doing.
If Rhett’s descriptions are any judge, she doesn’t. And if that’s true, the logical thing to do would be to politely let her go. It’s getting clearer by the day that Rhett’s holding back from doing that and now I know why.
I understand the feeling better than I did yesterday.
“So what’s your plan?” he asks. “Did you get this mystery girl’s number?”
“No. But I know where she works. She’s a bartender and she has another shift tonight.”
Another chuckle. “Not your usual type, then. Fuck, I would love to be a fly on that bar’s wall tonight.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve got your hands full, bro. Maybeyou should concentrate on your own love life and stop worrying about mine.”
“Holy shit. Did my cynical-to-his-bones brother just uses theLword?”
“I was speaking metaphorically. Have fun wrangling the ranch manager. I’m hanging up on you now.”
“Wait, you didn’t even tell me her na?—”
“Goodbye, Rhett.” I end the call.
The textured brick walls catch the morning sun and the amber glow of the lamplight from a lamp that’s still on. Outside the open balcony door, the sunrise inks the sky in a gaudy lavender-to-orange radiance above the roofline, like it’s trying to match the showy vibe of the city itself and the street music already getting underway.
There’s a light tap on the door. I make sure my towel is more securely wrapped around my waist and open the door.
A young waitress is standing there with a wheeled tray, loaded with coffee, juice, platters of fruit, and powdered beignets.
Her face goes bright red. “Uh, Mr. Wilder? Your b-b-breakfast.”
“Thank you.” I open the door wider so she can wheel in the cart as I fish in my jacket pocket, hung over a chair, for a hundred-dollar bill, which I hand to the waitress.
She averts her eyes and stutters a thank you before hurrying out of the room.
I realize only after I close the door behind her that I’m still wet from my shower and it can’t be helped: the towel doesn’t entirely hide the fact that I’m still suffering from the effects ofthe little red-headed goddess that turned me down last night. My cock is thick and doesn’t care if everyone knows it.Fuck it.
At the thought of Amelie, I feel an unfamiliar jangle of nerves.
What if she doesn’t show up tonight? What if I can’t find her?
But the terror at the thought is laced with uncut hope. I’m a man afraid of very little. I’m also a man with considerable resources.
Amelie is an unusual name. The Hotel Thibodeaux must have a staff list. I already know who the manager is. Now all I need to do is find out who owns it.
I start googling.
The first headline grabs my attention.
