Page 8 of Melt the Ice

He doesn’t get frustrated with my lack of knowledge. He doesn’t treat my questions as an inconvenience like my father would. He simply answers them, making sure I fully understand before moving on.

By the time we get back to the stables, it’s hotter than the devil's armpit. Dust flies through the air, sticking to the thin layer of sweat coating my skin as I pull the feed bag across the floor. My body hurts in places I didn’t know it could. I’m going to need to soak in Epsom salt for days after this.

The cowboy hat that hangs on the wall grabs my attention. It’s Lucas’s. He used to never take it off. I smile despite the memory that comes to life at the sight. “I promise, Lettie Girl, I’ll always protect the ranch when you’re not here. This is our home, I’ll love it forever because it’s part of you. And you are my whole world.” He wraps his pinky around mine, kissing my nose, before I run from the back house to Nana’s because the car my dad sent to pick me up at the end of the summer is here.

A horse snorts behind me, loud enough to make me yelp. “What’s it with you guys? I’m trying to feed you, and you’re throwin’ a damn hissy fit?” I mutter a curse before I toss the shovel against the wall.

It falls to the floor with a responding clank, right as the horse in question snorts. Mockery, if I’ve ever heard it.

“Well, excussssse me,” I drawl, hands flying wildly through the air. “God gave you four legs and a pea brain, feed yourself, then,” I say to the solid black horse currently looking at me with wary eyes

Miller’s laugh cuts through the tension, pulling a small smile from me. I reach out, scratching the culprit under his chin. “That’s Lucas’s horse.” Should have freaking known. “Named him Jack.”

“Like Captain Jack?” I ask, moving my hand up to his ears.

I turn to the side when Miller doesn’t immediately answer and see his eyes glimmer, that soft brown that’s always reminded me of home, growing a little brighter as he tries to smother a laugh. “Aye,” he says.

My eyes widen, filling with unexpected tears for the second time today over the next memory that flashes to life.

“Ahh, come on, Lettie Girl. Draw me a sparrow, please.” He’s asked for so many drawings this summer, says he wants to decorate his room with them.

“I don’t have any paper,” I whisper. He pulls out two Sharpies, black and light blue, then pulls up the leg of his shorts.

“You can draw it on me.” He smiles.

I nod, getting to work while we watch Captain Jack Sparrow fight all Davy Jones’s men on TV. When I’m done, he smiles. “Aye. It’s perfect, Lettie Girl.”

Damn it, what is happening to me?

“You okay?” Miller asks from just outside the run.

I nod. There’s no point in trying to hide my tears from him. He’s wiped plenty of them from both of our faces over the years.

“Come on then, I made lunch.” He holds up a blue and white cooler, tipping his head at the door.

I stare at the cloud of dust his boots send into the air as he climbs the rungs of the fence surrounding the horse corral. I follow suit as he hands me a sandwich. Warmth floods me as I look at it, ham, cheddar cheese, and butter, the same way I used to make it when I was a kid. “You remembered?” I ask in awe.

He hands over a paper napkin, “You’re a hard one to forget. ‘Specially when you’d throw a fit if there was anything else on it.”

I swat him lightly on the arm. “I’ve since expanded my palate.”

“Well, s’cuse me then. Let me know your preferences, I’ll do better next time, Boss.” He salutes while trying to smother a smile.

My eyes roll. “You’re not gonna let me off easy, are you?”

“No. Your Nana would have kicked my ass if I did.” I take a bite, buying myself some time.

“She’d be happy you finally came back.” There’s the line I didn’t know I needed. The anchor that ties me to this place, that tells me I made a good decision.

“Ms. Operations, it’d be nice if you could take over the books. I’m not a paperwork guy. I need my hands dirty.”

I snort. I’m not a paperwork person either, yet that seems to be all I do these days.

He looks off in the direction of the withering sunflowers, scratching his beard before letting out a soft snort. “You know, your Nana always used to tell me, ‘you’re about as useful as a screen door on a submarine when it comes to numbers.’”

My laugh takes me by surprise as it bursts from my chest. She always had the most outlandish sayings, yet they always hit the mark. It’s then that I realize his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, burns mar his skin, swirling in a way that tells you he’s survived more than he’s let on. But now that I really think about it, I don’t know how he got them. I don’t know much about his life before he showed up here one summer.

I wonder what a younger Miller could have done to get burns of that degree. He must notice my inquiring eyes because he pulls them back down. “Should have died that day.” That's all he says as he buttons the cuffs.