Lost & Found Page 4

  “I might be a guest to you, but my mom thinks of me more as an inmate out here— fulfilling a sentence.”

  “Oh, honey,” Rose said through a sigh. “I know your mom would rather die than show her emotions most days, but I’m as certain as I love my own children that she loves hers, too.” She drew me into a tight hug. I was thankful she couldn’t see my face because I knew my eyes were a little glassy. I felt the familiar burn. I might not have cried in years, but I still remembered how it felt.

  I wasn’t sure if I was approaching the cry zone because we were talking about my mom and her inability to show any positive emotion, or because in a half hour, Rose had shown me more affection and maternal concern than my mother had in five years. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t ready to break my dry spell.

  Guessing I needed or wanted to be alone, Rose gave me one final squeeze before heading for the door. “Neil and I are down on the first floor if you need anything, but I guarantee if you knocked on any of my daughter’s doors, they would cut off their ponytail for an excuse to chat with you. So don’t hesitate to ask one of us if you need something. Okay?” She started to close the door but stopped and waited for my reply.

  “Okay.” I nodded, wondering if when I woke up, the Walker family I’d met today would still be the same. Despite resembling something all too idealistic for my pessimistic outlook, I found myself almost hoping nothing would change. “Thanks again for having me.”

  “Thank you for having us,” she said with a wink before closing the door noiselessly.

  I exhaled. I’d done it. I’d made it across Oregon, some of Washington and Idaho, and into Montana. I’d survived the Greyhound system. I’d met the Walkers, and really, I couldn’t imagine a better family to be “enslaved” to for the summer. Sure, they seemed like hard working, dawn-to-dusk people, but they also seemed fair and good. I’d survived introductions, and I had some time to myself to unpack and unwind.

  I clomped across the room in my combat boots before realizing my feet had been in them for over twelve hours. I kicked them off and wiggled my toes. My black “body bag” was placed on the foot of the bed and almost meticulously centered. The reminder that Jesse had been inside my room only a few minutes ago, lowering my bag onto that bed . . . Well, it did things to my stomach and my body that no red-blooded cowboy should do to my stomach and body.

  Jesse had just been in here . . .

  That explained why the room still smelled like him. Kind of soapy, kind of earthy, and kind of like some other scent I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something familiar, but only vaguely so.

  Musky? Leathery? I couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

  What the . . .

  What the hell was I doing? Contemplating the undertone scent of some tight-pant wearing guy I’d just met? I had to remind myself I was not a boy-crazy, stars-aligned sucker a few times before heading over to my bag. If a fury of unpacking couldn’t do the job of removing Jesse from my mind, I just might have to soak in a tub for a while because there was no way, in my wound up state, I could fall asleep.

  After unzipping my bag, I headed over to the simple wood dresser across from the bed. I slid open the first couple of drawers to confirm they were empty before heading back to my bag, scooping up an armload of clothes, and dropping it into the top drawer. I repeated the process until my bag was empty and the top four drawers were filled to capacity. I had more drawers than clothes, so I never got around to opening the bottom drawer. I slowed down and took my time when I got to my art supplies. I stacked my box of charcoal on top of my sketchbook and centered them on top of the dresser.

  Okay. Unpacking complete. What next?

  I stared at the double-sized bed for a moment. It matched the dresser and nightstand: dark cherry wood, a simple, no-nonsense design. However, what covered the bed was anything but simple. One of the brightest, most colorful quilts in existence blanketed the mattress. It had lots of blue and green squares, some patterned, some textured, and the rest of the squares ranged in color from chocolate brown to scarlet to pale yellow. From the looks of it, the quilt had been washed hundreds of times, but other than the fading and obvious wear to the fabric, it was pristine. There were no rips or dangling threads.

  Great. I was admiring an ancient quilt.

  Yet another What the . . . moment.

  Someone needed a bath, and fast. Snatching my shower bag from the dresser, I had to rummage around the drawers before I could wrestle out a pair of my pajamas. After opening the bedroom door, I scanned the hallway before hurrying toward the bathroom. It was across from Clementine’s bedroom and it was empty, which was probably an unlikely thing in a family of three girls. I heard some commotion downstairs and guessed everyone was probably about to sit down for dinner. A family like the Walkers probably still did that sort of thing: sit-down dinners complete with conversation and home-cooked food.

  Once I’d tucked myself away inside the bathroom, I cranked on the tub faucet and tested the water. In an old house like theirs, I expected the water to take a half hour to get hot, but it was warm almost right away. After taking my time undressing, I dumped in a capful of lilac bubble bath I found hanging out in a basket beside the claw-foot tub, made sure there was an available and clean towel nearby, and eased my way into the steaming bath.

  Before long, all thoughts of a J named cowboy had drifted away. Along with the rest of any and all thoughts of everything else.

  I don’t know how long I was passed out in the tub, but it was long enough for the water to get chilly. I had to blink a few times to clear my head before I remembered where I was and whose bathtub I was in.

  Just when I remembered I was at the Walkers, turning into a popsicle in their claw-foot tub, I heard footsteps down the hall. They got closer and had the distinct tap-clack sound of a pair of boots. At Willow Springs Ranch, it could only mean cowboy boots.

  I sucked in a breath, afraid to make a sound. I didn’t need to see the owner of those boots tap-clacking closer to know who wore them. I could . . . feel him.

  Damn. For once, I was on the same wavelength as the rest of my polo-shirt and jean-skirt wearing peers: I was certifiable.

  I didn’t have a chance to wonder at how messed up the wiring in my head was because those tap-clacking boots came to a sudden stop. Right outside the goddamned bathroom door I was naked in a tub behind.

  What should I do? Yell at him to get lost? Leap out and cinch that towel around me as fast as I could? Make an appointment with the nearest clinical psychologist to have my head examined?

  All were tempting solutions, especially the last gem, but what did I do instead?

  I scooted down in the tub, clamped my lips shut, and hoped he’d keep moving.

  After a good ten seconds of cowering inside a cold bath not even daring to take a breath, the boot steps restarted down the rest of the hall, down the stairs, and who knows from there.

  “Real smooth, Rowen,” I said under my breath, thumping the drain release lever with my big toe. “What were you worried he was going to do? Break down the door, tear off his clothes, and make hot, passionate cowboy love to you?”

  After verbally flogging myself a little longer, I shrugged into my old sweats and warned my subconscious, who obviously had a closet fantasy for rough and rugged types, that if she didn’t behave, I’d medicate her into obedience.

  I stalled for a few more minutes by tidying up the bathroom a bit before twisting the doorknob open. I scanned the hall, up and down, twice before literally tip-toeing down the hall. Despite it being almost dark outside, a bunch of noise was still coming from the first floor.

  I didn’t notice the plate sealed up with plastic wrap until I was a few steps from my bedroom door. It looked to be some slab of beef, accompanied by au gratin potatoes, green beans, and a dinner roll, complete with a knife and fork on top of the plastic wrap. Resting on top of the silverware was a folded piece of paper.

  I gazed down the hall again, half expecting to see Jesse leaning against t
he wall and watching me with that smile of his. I exhaled when I found it still empty. I grabbed the plate and note and ducked inside my room, trying to close the door as noiselessly as Rose. Apparently she had the gift, or years of experience, because that darn door creaked and groaned so loudly I worried the entire house would hear it.

  After setting the plate on top of the dresser with my shower bag, I leaned into the door for support and opened the note. My heart raced before I read one word.

  My turn to ask a question.

  I swallowed. I hadn’t realized our game of question and answer would go on past the truck ride. If Jesse assumed it would carry on the rest of the summer, I was in trouble. Opening up wasn’t exactly a strong point for me.

  Shaking it off, or at least trying, I finished reading the note:

  Are you seeing anyone? And before you get all literal on me, you know what I mean. Do you have a boyfriend?

  So much for keeping the questions in the non-personal realm. Only because I knew if I didn’t write my answer down right away, I never would, I went over to my purse to dig a pen out. I didn’t stop to wonder why Jesse wanted to know if I was seeing someone. I didn’t pause to wonder what he’d think when he read my answer. I had all night to overanalyze the hell out of his question. Right then, I just needed to get my response down on paper.

  Uncapping the pen with my teeth, I scribbled down my reply.

  No. I’m not seeing anyone at this very moment, but that’s not to say that might change the next moment.

  Flipping the note around, I scribbled down my question because it was my turn:

  My turn. Are you seeing someone? And before you get all vague on me, you know what I mean. A special girl, boy, or cow in your life?

  After inhaling the dinner roll, I slipped the piece of paper underneath my door. I knew he’d come back to check for it. Then I finally crawled into bed.

  I’d finally fallen asleep before I heard those boots make their return journey.

  I ignored the first knock on my door. It was still dark, and I was so sleep confused, maybe I’d imagined the knock. I’d almost convinced myself of that when another knock sounded; it was a bit louder.

  “Rowen?” came a soft, girl’s voice. One of the older sisters, though I couldn’t make out who.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mom told me to come and wake you up.”

  I didn’t know what time it was, but I didn’t need to. It was dark outside. It wasn’t time to get up unless there was an emergency.

  “Why?” I asked, sitting up on my elbows in bed.

  “It’s breakfast time,” she said. “If you need to use the bathroom, it’s free. We’re all done using it.”

  Before I could reply, assuming I could work up a reply in the midst of my shock, whichever sister had roused me in the middle of the night for breakfast started heading back down the hall.

  Reaching in the general vicinity of the nightstand, I fumbled around until I found my cell phone. My eyes bulged when I saw the time. Four fifteen a.m. I usually went to bed at that hour; I’d never once gotten up so early.

  Was it some kind of sick prank? In my world, it might have been, but in the Walkers’ world, I knew it wasn’t. From the breakfast smells creeping into my bedroom, I guessed breakfast was just minutes away.

  I groaned as I sat up. After crawling into bed, I hadn’t fallen asleep as fast as I thought I would. I don’t know when I fell asleep exactly, but the last time I’d checked my phone, it was a little past midnight. My mind couldn’t stop over and under-analyzing Jesse’s question. Did he ask if I was with someone because he was curious? Did he ask because he wanted to ask me out? Did he ask because he wanted me to think he wanted to ask me out? Or did he ask just because he knew I’d be up half the night over-thinking the hell out of it?

  From what I knew of Jesse, the last option was the most likely.

  On top of the overanalyzing, the scent I found waiting for me when I crawled under the blankets kept me up too. That Jesse smell that clung to the air inside the room was about a hundred times more potent when I crawled into bed. It was like he’d laid down on my bed after dropping my bag off and rolled around on the sheets, quilt, and pillows. Trying to fall asleep while every inhalation seemed as if my nose was pressed into his neck, while trying to figure out some cryptic question, was not easy.

  As evidenced by how difficult it was for me to crawl out of bed. I took about a minute to throw the covers off, then another minute before I could swing my legs over the side. By then, there was just enough of a sliver of sunrise to cast a gentle glow throughout the room so I didn’t need to turn on the bedside light.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, I made it to the dresser. I pulled out the first couple of things my hands fell on. A few minutes later, I opened the door and immediately inspected the ground where I’d slid my reply to Jesse. It was gone. Either he’d come back for it, one of his sisters wound up with it, or a little mouse ran off with it. I decided to do something out-of-character and think positively. The right person had wound up with it. Whoever that was . . .

  While I lumbered down the hall, I plaited my mass of hair into a side braid. I made a quick stop over in the bathroom to apply a couple coats of mascara, slick on some dark lipstick, and pop in my dark contacts. Normally, I didn’t leave my bedroom without a full face of makeup, but I didn’t want to press my luck. It had been a while since my wake-up call, and I didn’t want Rose to have to come looking for me.

  As I clomped down the stairs in my staple combat boots, I already smelled breakfast, and not the poured-into-a-bowl-with-a-little-milk kind. It was the kind of breakfast that sizzled in skillets.

  Even though I hadn’t had the whole tour of the Walkers’ place, the kitchen was easy enough to find. If my nose couldn’t have found its way there, my ears could have. Voices that were way too perky for so early in the morning jabbered about something.

  I paused inside the doorway of the kitchen and waited. Rose and the three girls scurried around the large kitchen like someone was cracking a whip behind them. One dug around in the fridge, another scrambled a ginormous skillet of eggs, Rose filled a pitcher with orange juice, and Clementine set the longest table I’d ever seen. I did a quick count of the place settings. Twenty. They must be, literally, feeding the entire village.

  Everyone was so busy with their tasks no one noticed me right away. Toeing the linoleum, I cleared my throat.

  “Good morning,” I said, even though that time was generally more good night for me.

  “Rowen!” Rose called out as she handed the pitcher of juice off to Lily. “How did you sleep last night?”

  If I went with the truth, her next question might have to do with what had kept me up. Since admitting to Rose her son was responsible for keeping my mind reeling last night, I decided to answer with a simple, “Good.”

  “You got the dinner plate I sent Jesse up with?” she asked, making her way to me. Today she was wearing a sleeveless, button-down blouse, jeans, boots, and some ornate silver and turquoise jewelry.

  “Oh, I got it.” Along with a vexing little note with a vexing little question. “Looks like you’re about to feed an army. What can I do to help?” I was there to work, Rose and I both knew that, but maybe if I made it seem like I was offering, working would seem less like indentured servitude.

  “What, this little breakfast?” she replied, lifting a shoulder. “Around here, this is an everyday, three times a day, sort of thing. When it gets real interesting is when we host a meal with the hands and their families or significant others. Now that, that’s feeding an army. This is just a simple breakfast.”

  My mouth fell open a bit. “You do this every day?”

  “Six months out of the year, three meals a day,” Rose replied. “The other six months we only cook for our family and maybe a couple others.”

  Insane.

  “Every day as in Monday to Friday, right?” Fifteen meals for twenty people a week? There had to be some sort of
international award for that.

  Rose laughed. “Honey, the day cattle only need tending to Monday to Friday is the day I’m booking a vacation to Hawaii.”

  Oh my God. They did it seven days a week. Every single day. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. My mouth dropped a bit further.

  “Do you have a magic wand or something?” I asked because, really. How could four women, well, one woman and three girls, prepare three hot meals a day, seven days a week, for twenty people if some kind of magic wasn’t involved?

  “I wish. I live by a philosophy that’s served me well for over two decades of ranch life—organized chaos,” she said with a wink. “That’s our marching theme around here.”

  Emphasis on the chaos part.

  “Got it,” I said, practically wincing as Hyacinth diced up a potato like she had mad ninja skills. I kept waiting for the bloody top of a finger to roll onto the floor. “I’m not the best cook in the world, and it’s better I don’t handle anything sharp, but I’m pretty sure I can set a table without breaking anything or pour drinks without spilling. Better not give me anything hot in case I spill it on somebody”—super, I was rambling on like an idiot—“but just point me where you want me, and I’ll do my best not to turn your breakfast into disorganized chaos.”

  “Mom!” Clementine shouted. “They’re coming!”

  “Plate up the food, girls, and go ahead and get it out on the table,” Rose said, all calm and cool. “I’ve got to talk with Rowen for just a couple minutes.” Placing her arm behind my back, Rose steered me through the kitchen, entryway, and living room. We wound up across the house in what looked to be a mini-Laundromat. Four washers, four dryers, an arsenal of detergent, stain remover, and dryer sheets, and an island in the center of the room that I guessed was for folding or sorting or something.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Rowen, because I like you. I really, really like you, and despite my own blah attire, I’m a supporter of women having the right to wear whatever the heck they want to,” Rose began, keeping her arm tight around my back the whole time. “Just not when I’ve got a dozen young men coming and going out of my kitchen several times a day. These are good boys we have working for us, but they’re still boys who don’t always do their thinking with their brains,” Rose said, followed up by an exaggerated clearing of her throat.