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Shaking my head, I back off once more before heading back to the house because there are chores to be done. But as the morning progresses, I continue to find little excuses to sneak back into the barn. I need more nails, and more wire too. Miss Bethy needs fresh water in her bucket. Each time, I sneak a peek at the man sleeping in the barn stall, wondering what could have brought him here.
Around noon, I decide it’s perfectly reasonable to see if the stranger is awake and to bring him some lunch if so. I heat up some leftover soup and tear off a chunk of homemade bread to serve along with it. Carefully, I set everything on the tray that had been used by my beloved Pa during his final few weeks, when I had to take him meals in bed.
Don’t think about all that. The past is past.
Squaring my shoulders, I push open the screen door and make my way across the yard toward the barn. The sun beating down overhead makes it hard to see into the dark shadows by the stalls, so I set the meal down on a bucket near the entryway. As I do, so I hear the telltale signs of someone struggling to sit up.The man’s awake.
“Mister?” I call out, my normally steady voice stammers.
“Ma’am.” The masculine voice is hoarse, but powerful.
“Oh good, you’re awake!” I say in my most chipper voice, hoping to hide my nerves. I approach the back of the barn and see that the man is now sitting up again, his eyes alert if tired. Even in the dim light, I can tell they are a piercing shade of blue. The kind of blue that could look as friendly as the summer sky one moment and as ominous as an icy lake the next.
You’re staring again, Darcy. Embarrassed, I search for something to say. “I brought you some lunch, if you’d care for it.” I gesture helplessly.
He grunts. “I’d be mighty grateful for some food.” The man tries to stand, pushing off the hard ground with his arms, but it’s shaky. Quickly, I sweep in to help him, but too late. As he rises, the blanket slips off, revealing his exposed manhood.
“Oh!” The sound is involuntary, and I blush tomato red at the sight of him.
“What the hell happened to my pants?” He looks down, shock registering on his handsome face.
Scurrying to grab the blanket and wrap it around his naked form, I keep my face turned away as I answer him. “I had to cut them off with the shears. You have an awful bad gash in your leg.” I gesture toward the deep cut, keeping my eyes averted.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He reaches to pull the horse blanket more tightly around him, much to my relief and disappointment. The stranger is tall, which had been hard to tell when he was lying down before. But he easily stands several inches above me, his height only adding to his already massive figure.
Carefully, I help the man hobble to the front of the barn, where it’s brighter and the aroma of hot soup fills the musty air. Together, we sit on the plank bench, and I place the tray between us, wanting a little distance from this strange man who turned up out of nowhere.
“I know it’s weird to eat hot soup when it’s warm out.” I venture, trying to make small talk to calm my nerves. “But Pa always said when you’re unwell, no matter the illness, soup is the cure.”
The man takes a tentative sip. “It’s delicious.” He smiles at me and I feel my insides go to mush. “How long have I been out?” he asks between sips of the steaming broth.
“Oh well, I found you a few hours ago,” I try to sound relaxed. “And I’m guessing since I didn’t see you yesterday, you probably got here some time last night?”
“Okay, I guess that was last night then. I stumbled in here, once that storm started kicking up.” His deep voice is resonant and I do my best to focus on his words, but I’m distracted by his proximity. Although he looks tired and somewhat pale, it’s easy to see that when fully healthy, this is a man to be feared and admired.
We sit in silence for a few moments, the man eating his soup and me trying to control my unexpected lust.
After a beat, the man speaks again. “Well I guess, first things first: thank you.” I look into his brilliant blue eyes and see genuine gratitude in them. “That gash was nasty and by the time I realized it needed attention, I wasn’t in a good state to take care of it.” His voice is deep and smooth, the kind of voice that commands a room and reminds me of caramel sauce being dripped over ice cream.
“Of course, I’m happy I could help,” I manage to stutter. Handing him some bread, I steady my own voice to ask, “So what happened exactly? How’d you get here, to my farm? I have a gate and everything…”
The man laughs, a hearty, throaty sound that makes my whole body shiver.Like an angel playing a harpwas how Pa would’ve described it.
“It was my damned horse. He bucked me clear off and I must have landed on some branches or something. The horse ran off and I found my way here.” He looks around the old barn. “I’m grateful I found shelter because that was a hell of a storm last night. Not the kind you’d want to be caught outside in.”
I nod in agreement. “But what brought you out this way? There’s nothin’ much around these parts for miles. Just farmland.”
“I’m a traveling ranch-hand,” the man responds in a smooth tone. “I was headed through town looking for work, and on my way to offer my services to some of the ranchers out thisaway when I got bucked.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. It’s only my place for miles around. Of course, there are the McLaughlins, but they’ve got an army of laborers to help them.” A hint of bitterness sneaks into my voice, and I try catch myself. “Glad you seem to be feeling better. Sorry about your horse.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a wild stallion running around these parts, have you?” he asks in an amused voice. I shake my head.
“No, nothing. Storm probably spooked him off. Plus, the perimeter fencing’s still up, even if everything else looks a little rundown.”
The man nods and starts eating again. He’s not ill mannered like I would have expected a ranch hand to be. He doesn’t slurp or wipe his face with his sleeve. In fact, the strange cowboy actually uses his napkin, and takes slow, thoughtful sips of the broth, his gaze contemplative. How interesting.He doesn’t seem like a threat.
The bowl of soup now polished off, I ask him, “Would you like some more? There’s plenty on the stove.”
