Page 11 of The Cowboy and the Stray

It was the kind of man I tried to be.

5. TESS

The second morning after the wreck, I woke with pain threaded through every inch of my body. Multicolored bruises painted my skin, muscles screaming as I pushed myself upright. But I refused to be dead weight. No matter how much it hurt, I was going to find a way to help out and earn my keep. No one's going to call me a freeloader. At least my knee swelling was way down, and the pain nearly gone from it. I'd pissed it off but not truly injured it.

I made the bed first, smoothing the quilt with hands that trembled slightly. The mindless actions settled me, the neat corners and tidy lines a small triumph to start the day. The guest room was simple but welcoming, with faded floral curtains and the braided rag rug. Someone had taken the time to make it cozy. I could do my part to keep it that way. Small wins. Stack enough of them, and maybe I wouldn’t fall apart.

In the bathroom, I turned the shower as hot as I could stand, letting the water pound some of the ache from my muscles. Dirt and grime swirled down the drain as I scrubbed, wishing my troubles could wash away so easily. If only trauma rinsed off with shampoo.

Damn, I should've taken this shower before I crashed back out yesterday. But I'd slept most of the day and all night. Midge had come up a couple of times to check on me, brought me some soup and Aspirin.

I dried off carefully, cataloging each scrape and bruise. Battle scars. I'd earned each one. Trophy collection from the world’s worst choices.

I pulled on my last set of clean clothes, wincing as I slid my arms through the t-shirt. The soft fabric felt like sandpaper against my raw skin, but I gritted my teeth and pulled it on anyway. One foot in front of the other. That's all I had to do. Fake it till you can stand upright.

Downstairs, the house sat in stillness, the quiet broken only by the distant whinny of a horse and the creak of the porch swing in the breeze. I wondered what time everyone else had risen. Before dawn, most likely. This family didn't do idle. And here I was, the limp and late stray in the hallway.

In the kitchen, Midge stood at the stove, her iron-gray braid swinging as she worked. She glanced up when I stepped through the doorway, her sharp eyes missing nothing as she scanned me head to toe. I resisted the urge to shrink under her assessing stare.

"Morning," I murmured. "Can I help with anything?"

Midge jerked her chin toward a pile of towels on the counter, faded but clean. "After you eat, fold those," she said. "And sit before you fall down. You look like something the cat dragged in."

It wasn't said unkindly. For all her bluntness, there was concern in the set of her mouth. I did as I was told, perching on a chair to keep my bruised ribs from screaming. She set a sandwich in front of me. I took a bite without even looking to see what it was. Sausage and egg. Oh, man, it was freaking good.

When I finished, I rinsed my plate off in the sink and got to the towels. The methodical folding was soothing, each towel creased and stacked just so. The routine was something to hang onto as my world spun off its axis. Control what you can. Keep folding.

As I folded, my mind wandered to the giant houses I used to clean for cash. I'd hated every minute of it, the endless cycle of other people's messes. Of feeling jealous of all the things they had, that they took completely for granted. Throw pillows worth more than the cash I have on me.

But now, in this warm kitchen with sunlight slanting across the hardwood, those chores didn't seem quite so terrible. There was an odd sort of freedom in the mindless tasks, a certain satisfaction in restoring order to small corners of chaos. Like maybe I could fix myself if I just cleaned hard enough.

"Be back in a bit," Midge said when I was halfway done with the towels. "You take it easy." She stepped out the back door, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I didn't stay seated for long. The itch to keep moving, to make myself useful, had me on my feet the moment the towels were folded. I started on the baseboards, filling the bucket I found next to the door, I crouched to scrub at the scuffs with single-minded focus. My body objected, but I shut out the pain. I had to earn my place. Had to contribute. Earn your oxygen. Every breath costs something.

Back in my house cleaning days, I used to lose myself in the repetitive motions. Sweep, mop, scrub, repeat. It kept my hands busy and my mind numb. I'd needed that numbness then, a way to shut out the gnawing loneliness. I wasn't sure what I needed now. But falling into the old rhythms was better than sitting still with my thoughts. Sitting meant thinking. Thinking meant feeling.

Nope.

I was so focused on a particularly stubborn mark that I didn't notice the boy until he spoke. "You're doing it wrong," he said. "You have to go in circles, not lines."

I startled, nearly knocking over the bucket of soapy water. The boy watched me, unperturbed, his head tilted slightly to the side. He had a serious face for someone so young, with dark hair and clear gray eyes that seemed to see straight through me. Terrifying. Miniature judge of souls.

"Sorry." I righted the bucket. "I didn't see you there."

He shrugged. "I'm quiet. Mom says I move like a ghost." He paused, considering. "I don't think she means it as a good thing. I’m Noah."

I didn't quite know what to say to that. The boy stepped closer, peering at my work. "Can I help? I like things to be clean. Especially the corners."

I hesitated. I wasn't used to being around kids. But there was something about this boy, a kind of old-soul understanding that made me nod. "Sure. Grab a rag." What could possibly go wrong with a kid and a bucket of soapy water?

We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the boy focusing on the corners just as he'd said. He had a methodical way of moving, precise and deliberate. It reminded me a bit of myself.

"I’m Tess. What do you like to do for fun?" I asked, more to break the quiet than out of real curiosity.

He thought about it for a moment, his small hands never stopping their circles. "I like patterns," he said eventually. "And knives. But mostly patterns."

I blinked. "You're an intense kid, anyone ever tell you that?"