Nate is in pain. I can see it in the lines of tension at his eyes and mouth. He’s suffering, and that it’s because of me, makes me feel so guilty, nausea begins to bubble in my belly. But his eyes, they do more damage to my stomach lining than anything. They’re filled with anger, rage, and the most painful part? Hurt. There’s no hatred there. Nothing that screams, ‘You fucking bitch. Look what the fuck you’ve done to me.’ Just pain, hurt, and sorrow.
And I did that.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I do need to be punished. The law isn’t going to do it thanks to my lies, and after years of covering for myself, nobody is going to be aware of Papillon outside of the old staff and clients. No. I’m a loose cannon. And while technically I’m in the middle of nowhere, I can still do damage.
I recognize this trait in myself. I hate it. Loathe it, but there’s no point wasting time despising something that’s as intrinsic to me and my character as the color of my eyes. I just have to be proactive. And if what Nate wants to do to me, whatever it may be, will do away with that sorrow, then how can I say no? After what I’ve done to him, after all my lies and secrets, how can I not give him this? My acquiescence. And my desire to please him, my need to make him happy.
Maybe he sees that. Maybe, as he looks deep into my own eyes, he can sense my contrition because his face softens. His mouth relaxes slightly, the lips flattening out from the earlier pinch, and his gaze is almost reminiscent of the way he once looked at me. Christ, a month seems like a lifetime. After hours, days, weeks of being avoided; of feeling like I’m America’s number one enemy, or at least in the case of one American, to be gazed at by the man I care for is like a gift from above.
I can feel tears welling up in my eyes and while I feel pathetic, like a real dumbass, it’s a testament to how low this man has brought me. To my knees? Perhaps.
What wouldn’t I do to keep him?
The very fact I’m here and not running away from him, facing him after all I’ve done to damage him, speaks louder than a screech. I’m not about to be mindlessly beaten by way of punishment, but I was a fool even contemplating that, of even comparing Nate to Mona’s father. Nate isn’t cruel. He’s a good man, I know that and I have to have faith in him. I don’t know what his intentions are, but whatever they may be, I’ll endure it. For him. Because deep down, I trust him.
Yuck. I sound like a real pansy. Why don’t I just let him mop the floor with me? Inwardly snorting at the idea, I realize I’m not that far gone. I’ll see how it goes and monitor the situation. But Nate will have to totally disrespect me before I give up on us.
As the cart squeals to a halt in front of us, the engine’s din finally dying down, the driver climbs off the mini-SUV-golf cart and yawns around a greeting. He must be a new addition, because I don’t recognize him but Nate does and he smacks him on the arm with his good hand. “Wasn’t sure if you’d still be here by the time I got back, Jason.”
Jason ̶ whoever the hell he is ̶ shakes his head. “Couldn’t just leave without saying bye to you. Sorry to hear about the mugging. That’s some kind of freaky shit going down, but what do you expect going to the big cities?” At Nate’s snort, Jason grins again and turns to me. “You must be Marina. Heard a lot about you.”
I can’t help it. Something inside me always freezes when I meet somebody new. Mona says I’m the Ice Queen incarnate whenever I’m introduced to someone. That’s why it’s weird they think I always hook up with guys. Mona looks upon me as the Oracle of Manhattan. Where sex and men are concerned, at any rate.
“I haven’t heard a lot about you.”
Jason sucks in a breath, then hisses it out. Nate’s chuckle is loud beside me, and I almost jump from that alone. It’s been nearly a month since Nate has found anything amusing. Even in the hospital, he didn’t laugh at his favorite sitcoms.
“Play nice, Marina. This is an old friend.”
I turn toward Nate, knowing I can, as it’s his good side. I’m shocked, but happy, when he raises his arm and hooks it around my shoulder. “You’ve never mentioned him to me.”
“I’m hurt, Nate. Real hurt.” The twang of Texas is redolent in Jason’s voice. The thick brogue would be hard to understand if Lizzie, one of the women on my staff, hadn’t been from the Lone Star State.
“You’re making us sound like lovers, Jase. You’re giving my girl the wrong impression.”
Jase flips him the bird, then mutters, “Sorry, ma’am.”
Christ, he can show him as many fingers as he wants if Nate considers me his girl. God, I’m out of my depth here.
“There are those nice Southern manners your momma taught you.”
Jase’s face is half in the shadows and half out, but I can still see his grimace. “Hell, don’t remind me. Come on, less of the chat; let’s get back to the ranch. Some of us left our nice, warm beds to be kind to their no-good, ungrateful friends.”
Before either of us can say a word, Jase hauls my luggage and Nate’s on to his shoulders and trawls it back to the cart. Within seconds, the engine is rumbling through the night and Nate is helping me onto the back of the cart. That’s the way it seems to Nate, at least. As it is, I steer him, giving him my support as he settles himself upon the hard cushion of the souped-up golf cart.
The instant our butts hit the seat, Jase takes off. With it, the silk scarf around my throat whips away to only God knows where, and I have to cling to the rail that fences us onto the backseat to keep myself from flying off too. Nate’s arm suddenly tunnels around my waist, and he clings to me. I can’t mistake it for cuddling, not with his threat of earlier still making its way around my synapses. Especially considering the force of his grip.
I lean forward and slam my hand against Jase’s back. “You jackass.” I shout over the motor and with another whack, the idiot comes to a halt. With the engine revving noisily, I screech, “He’s only just made it out of hospital. You can’t tear over the countryside as though he’s fit. He’s still sore, moron.”
At my first words, Jase spun around to face us. Not that we can see much in the pitch black. Although the dim light from the moon provides some illumination. “Sorry, ma’am. I forgot.”
“How the hell can you forget? You were just ribbing him over his injury a few minutes ago.” I turn to Nate and murmur, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll get us there in one piece.” Detaching his hand from around my waist, I hide a grimace at the bruises that will be there in the morning and climb out of the cart. Standing beside the driver’s seat, I grit out, “Get the hell out of my way. I’ll drive us back to the ranch.”
He must have realized I wasn’t in the mood to be messed with, because he slid across the seat to the passenger side without even a murmur.
“Nate will need to lean on you.” Again, he complies and climbs over into the back. Nate’s grunt has my face contorting with rage. “Be careful with him. For fuck’s sake, the man’s been blasted by a bullet. He’s not some goddamn bull in need of whipping.”
As I start the ignition, I can hear a faint murmur, a slight chuckle but I set off, ignoring the pair of them. If I’m mothering Nate, well, who the hell can blame me?
I go at a decent pace, fast enough to get us home in one piece like I promised, but slow enough that every slight hill and bump doesn’t have Nate’s insides jiggling about like Jell-O on a plate.
Driving towards the lights in the distance, the faint twinkling of lamps from the homestead, I aim north and wish the moon was brighter. I can see shadowy cubes, buildings that hadn’t been here on my last visit. My memories of wide-open spaces with few structures taller than one story have gone by the by. I don’t begrudge not being informed about these buildings being constructed, I just mourn their existence. It’s my own fault. I should have been here to make sure nothing happened to the land that didn’t gel with my own plans.
That will all change now. I wouldn’t say Uncle Sam was a zealous leader, but I can’t help but wonder if in the years he’s been guardian, he’s com
e to like the position of power. I hope I won’t have to wrestle the mantel of leader from him. It will be hard enough getting the members of the commune back on my side. They’ll judge me as an outsider for a long time. Even though I’ve lived here longer than I’ve been away. It’s like that at Blue Ridge. Damned if you do.
As it is, my first moments in Montana haven’t been how I’d have imagined. But for all that, it feels good to be home. My stomach has settled. Sound weird? Well, it feels weird. I didn’t realize how much tension was wriggling through me, like worms forcing their way through dirt. My sinuses feel as though they’ve been blasted; no more unclean air. Here, it’s one-hundred percent pure. Delicious. A perfume of its own. In the distance, to mar the cleanliness, I can scent cattle and all the filth that comes with having a herd the size we do, but it’s a smell from my youth and one that doesn’t bother me.
In the background, I can hear the two men shouting at each other over the motor. They might as well be whispering for all I can hear. The engine must be keeping everyone awake. Another sin to rest at my door. Not only have we landed here, we’ve spent an age torturing the commune with the sounds of a whistling, screeching, rumbling motor. And people here take this time of the day seriously. You’ve the folk who sleep religiously from daybreak to dawn. They’ll be pissed at my disturbing their nightly rest. And then, there are those who work through the night and whose concentration I’ll be breaking. But it can’t be helped. I won’t let Nate suffer anymore. Unlike his friend, that is.
Christ knows who this Jase is. He can’t be an itinerant worker, because the commune doesn’t have any. Save the housekeeper and her husband, the rest of the ranch’s population are all members of the brain squad.
By the time we reach the homestead, my ears are rattling with the hideous sound of the engine, and the blessed peace, that hits soon afterward, is heaven-sent. I crawl over the seat, missing the stick shift by a few inches, and climb out on Nate’s side. Placing an arm through his, I tell him without words that I’m here to help. He tenses his arm in silent thanks and with a great huff of breath and a grunt of pain, he climbs out and stands at my side. I can just make out the beads of sweat on his brow and the weather isn’t the cause of it. It might still be hot in Chicago, but not over here. The faint breeze eddying around the ranch is chilly, and if anything, I’m more likely to shiver than sweat.
His pain makes me wince, but I say nothing, help him over to the porch steps, and leave his jackass of a friend to get the luggage. I can just make out the façade of the homestead and notice it hasn’t changed since my last visit. It’s still a mildewy shade of green with cream detailing around the windows and matching shutters pinned back to the wall.
There is no way I’m living somewhere that makes moldy cheese look attractive. Getting some new paint is definitely on the To-Do list. But apart from that, it’s as well kept as ever. No squeaking boards as we climb the four, wide steps to the verandah that wraps around the whole house. From the light hanging over the door, I can see a swing chair and a sofa at one side and a low table with two armchairs on the other. Sam’s taste for interior decoration hasn’t improved. Well, call me a snob, but mine has. This place hasn’t changed since my Granddaddy was the guardian here. And I was six when he died.
The door wings its way open, and I spot Uncle Sam for the first time in four years. We chat over the phone, talk about the ranch and any major changes he wants to implement, usually under Nate’s advice to call, but it’s strange to note how the years have passed, and I haven’t been here to see it. His hair is pure white now, with shots of silver. His belly is round and his shoulders are stooped. A goatee, silvery-white like his hair, surrounds his mouth and those sparkling blue eyes of his are as filled with mischief as they were when I was a kid.
He’s always looked like Santa Claus, but with his hair so stridently white, he looks it even more. Although I doubt St. Nick would be wearing a ratty flannel shirt and thermals to answer the door.
Safe to say, Uncle Sam doesn’t stand on ceremony.
“’Bout time you got here, girl.”
“’Bout time you lost some weight, St. Nick.”
Sam looks smug and pats his belly. “Coming on mighty nice now, isn’t it? The Santa costume fits me perfectly. Was a little too baggy round the waist, but now it’s real comfy come the holiday season.”
I roll my eyes. “Haven’t you read the latest statistics on obesity in this country?”
“Haven’t you read the latest statistics on eating disorders? Hell, girl. You look like you need a dozen hamburgers.”
At Sam’s snort of disgust at my lack of rotundness, Nate shakes his head. “Sorry to break up the welcome party, but I really need to sit down.”
“Oh, shit,” I mutter under my breath and curse myself for having forgotten Nate’s precarious state of health. Just because they discharged him, doesn’t mean to say he doesn’t need a checkup in a few days or that he’s one-hundred percent better. I think the only reason they did is because Blue Ridge has its own on-site hospital and two doctors. “Move out of the way, Santa.”
Sam quickly does as bid, his pleasure in my caustic greeting evident in the wide smile on his face, even though there’s definite concern for Nate written into the glittering blue gaze.
We’ve always had a weird rapport, Sam and I. I’m just glad time and distance haven’t changed that.
“Santa?” Nate asks as he grunts down the hall to the lounge.
“Yeah. Standing joke,” I wheeze, grunting myself at hauling Nate’s not inconsiderable weight twenty feet down the corridor. By the time we make it, sweat is beading on my brow and Nate has started to shiver a little. I’m relieved to see the fire has been laid and flames lick the hearth, but not as relieved as I am to help Nate down onto the sofa. With a huff, I lift his legs onto the seat and stand back, twisting my waist a little to ease the cramp that came from the awkward hold I had on him.
Stepping back, I survey his gray face and whisper, “Do you need some meds?”
“Yeah. Do you know where they are?”
Unable to help it, I snort. “I packed your cases, so yeah, I know where they are. Jase is bringing the bags in, so I’ll go and get you them.”
“Boy doesn’t need drugs. Needs a good whiff of Scotch.”
“Not with the pills he’s on, Sam.”
“Ha. My Scotch will blow the cockles away. Needs that more than some damned drugs. Never did trust doctors. Nate, if you’re a wise man, and I know you’re on the way to being one, you’ll ignore the docs and do as your good pal Sam says.”
Nate grunts. “I’d love to take you up on your advice, old pal, but I need the high more than I need the low. Get the pill, Marina.”
As I walk out of the room, shooting an ‘I told you so’ look at Sam, to which he sticks out his tongue, I overhear my Uncle saying, “Didn’t take you for a pussy, boy.”
“Try getting shot and then judge him,” I call out and hear the pair of them laugh as I stride down the hall. Another part of the house that hasn’t changed.
A thick northwestern style rug runs down the center of the vestibule adding a rich red to the otherwise dour room. To the left of the door, there’s a coat stand loaded with different jackets and hats, even though we have a mudroom to store the crap. That is to say, we did. I doubt things have changed that much, though.
On the right, there’s a dresser. The lower cupboards are filled with more crap, if memory serves, and the drawers contain thousands of keys—some of which are defunct and some of which might open the family vault. On the back wall, there is a pair of antlers, stripped down to bone, but all throughout the house, there are more displays of my family’s appalling taste in taxidermy. Blame my Granddaddy for that.
At the front door, Jase is cradling his Stetson. He looks at me and scowls down at the floor. “Sorry about before, ma’am.”
“It isn’t me you have to apologize to,” I bite out, still pissed at his thoughtlessness. I unbend enough to say, “
Thanks for bringing the bags in.”
He nods and is about to turn around, when Nate calls out, “You be nice to him, Marina.”
“I’ve been polite,” I yell back.
“Christ, she’s probably flayed his skin by now. Get your skinny butt back in here, girl.”
“Personally, I think it’s a rather nice butt,” Jase mutters, tacking on, “Ma’am,” when I glare at him.
“Who are you, anyway?” I ask, bending down to grab the small vanity case in which I stored Nate’s brown paper bag of medicine and a small bottle of water.
“Just here for the season, ma’am. Your Uncle was having some problems with the stock and needed my help.”
“Why you in particular?”
“I’m the best at what I do.”
“And what is that?”
“Horse breeding.”
“Horse breeding?” My voice is no way near calm. A shriek would have been better than the sound escaping my mouth.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But we don’t have any horses to breed. We buy them in from Janicowicz’s over in Billings.”
He snorts. “Did you miss the new stables on the way in?”
“The pitch black might have had something to do with me not spotting a second set of bloody stables.” My teeth grind down. “Since when are we breeding horses?” I call out and dead silence is my answer. My eyes want to twitch; in fact, they’re on the brink of crossing, when I mutter, “You’d better get your ass in there.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Move it.”
Slamming the door when he moves past me, I stalk down the corridor and into the lounge. “What the hell are we doing with horses?” I grit out, simultaneously handing Nate his meds and the water bottle.
Nate and Sam share a look. “Now, look here, Marina,” my Uncle starts.
“No, I won’t look here, Sam. What the hell did you think you were doing? Why didn’t you consult me on this?”
Sinfully Mastered: Naughty Nookie Page 12