Page 40 of Slow Burn

His words rang somewhere deep within me, filling a place inside me that makes me feel valuable above anything else: being trustworthy, being reliable.

I’ve been standing here staring at Lyla in her transparent t-shirt for longer than is comfortable when she says, “You want to take a picture?”

“No, I…” I stammer. I am not a man that stammers. But Lyla really messes with my head.

“Ok, great.” Her tone is tight, something reserved behind her words. “I was bringing these for Kenny Rogers. Some scraps from your dad’s garden.”

“You don’t need to do that. I give him plenty of hay and pellets. And goats will eat just about anything,” I say, but Lyla is hardly listening.

She’s breezed past me, calling Kenny Rogers’ name like he’s a fucking dog and she’s bringing him cookies.

“They’d chew through concrete if they had the teeth for it. He doesn’t need… treats. And I doubt he knows his name,” I call after her.

Lyla scoffs. “He knows his name.”

She holds out a carrot top like the smell of it will summon him. I have no clue where Kenny Rogers gets off to, or what he does during the day. All I know is that he shows up at dusk, and sleeps curled up next to the barn door. The earth is even dug out a bit in the shape of his body where he lays.

Lyla calls him again, and to my astonishment, I hear the rhythmic clip clop of his small hooves before he rounds the corner and comes into the barn.

“You know, for someone whose livelihood depends on you raising animals, it doesn’t seem as though you like animals all that much,” Lyla says.

“I like animals plenty,” I explain. It's not that I don’t care about my animals, I do. It’s that emotions about them don’t serve me. I have a job to do, responsibilities to take care of. If I let my emotions get in the way nothing would get done.

“You don’t like Kenny Rogers,” she says, patting him between the horns as she feeds him a chunk of half wilted lettuce.

Kenny Rogers freaks me out. His eyes look off in two different directions, you never know what he’s thinking. He’s currently gnawing on the lettuce Lyla just gave him, but his left eye is fixed on me. Unnerving.

“I wouldn’t call myself Kenny Rogers’ biggest fan, no,” I admit. “Kenny Rogers the goat. I like Kenny Rogers the musician just fine.”

“An important distinction.”

I nod.

Lyla dumps the rest of the vegetables in the bowl where I usually put dried pellets for the damn goat. She loops the handle of the basket over her forearm and saunters over to me, standing mere inches away. Her breasts are on full display under her clingy top, and her normally pouty lips are stretched wide in a smile.

“I have a theory, Beck Hollis. The way you talk about this place, the way you care for your family… You may not show it all the time, but I think there’s a softie in there somewhere.” She pokes her index finger into my pec, my heart thundering wildly beneath it. “I’m gonna prove it to you.”

She pushes past me, her shoulder brushing against mine and sending a shiver rippling beneath my skin. But she stops before she reaches the barn door and whirls around. The sun from outside lights her from behind, shadowing her features, but I can see enough to know they’ve softened from the teasing expression she wore earlier.

“I saw that Tessa was here,” she says. Her tone has softened too. “Everything ok?”

I squint up at Lyla from beneath my eyebrows, considering my answer. I didn’t know if I was making the right decision when I broke things off, but now, looking at Lyla, asking me if I’m ok? I can say with certainty I’ll never regret it.

“Yeah,” I say, scuffing the sole of my boot along the concrete.

Lyla nods, curtly. “Well good, I hope you’re both happy.” There’s an edge to her words, a tone I’ve heard before, because I used it with the cowboys the day I caught them talking about Lyla in the barn.

“Jealous?” I ask, out of sheer curiosity that I think might kill me, because her cheeks flush, stained a deep shade of pink.

“No.”

I like teasing Lyla, but her answer and the look on her face makes me think not telling her the truth would be equal to toying with her. And I don’t play games.

“I ended it,” I say. “For good.”

She nods again, but something lights up behind her eyes. It sparkles in the same way hope shimmers behind my rib cage.

“Sorry,” she says,