My Sweet Enemy Rancher

by Emma Sutton

  “Really. You know, I’m not a big softy like this usually. But I wouldn’t say all that if I didn’t mean it.”

  A patch of water suddenly jumps to my right, catching my attention and pulling me from the moment. But when I study the surface, I’m shocked when I hear Hattie lay her fishing pole down to my left. When I look back up at her, she’s closing the distance between us. And just like that, she fits herself into my arms for one of the most desperately inviting and tender hugs I’ve ever felt.

  Even in my two years of marriage with my ex, I’d never felt so much emotion and gratitude from a single hug like I do right now.

  Dropping the pole, I wrap my arms around her as secure as I can, inhaling her warmth and scent. She smells like fresh linen and coconut, and I imagine it’s her sunscreen.

  Even in the smothering humidity of the evening, I hold her for a full thirty seconds, not wanting to let her go. One of the buttons of her overalls catches against my shirt pocket, and I reach up, smoothing a hand down the back of her hair, not wanting to lose her. I soak in her touch as rush of electricity flows between us, melding us into one person right here in front of Whipple River.

  If I’m honest, I could let myself stay in her embrace all night through until daybreak. And then, if I didn’t have to go out and work cattle tomorrow, I’d be content to stay here in this hug with her all day long. But when the sound of her fishing pole scraping against the rocks catches our attention, she gasps and pulls away from me, hopping back over to her spot.

  “Did I catch one?” she shrieks. Picking up her pole, she starts reeling, and visually, the line stiffens against her effort. “Oh my gosh, I think I got one!”

  “How ‘bout that?” I laugh as her excitement infiltrates my mood and shifts my heart.

  “What do I do?” she asks, a whole different sort of fizzy energy now orbiting her.

  “So you want to gently pull your pole toward you, give it some slack, and then reel. Once the line goes taut again, you pull the pole toward you, give it some slack, and then reel. It coaxes the fish closer with the intention of him not noticing and fleeing.”

  “Okay,” she says, following my directions without hesitation. “Pull, slack, reel,” she repeats a few times while she rides it out.

  The bubbles on the surface of the river grow closer as we watch the line tracing nearer until it finally reaches the edge of the bank beneath us.

  “What do I do when it comes up?” she whisper-shouts as she shifts to the tips of her toes.

  Quickly reeling my own line in so I can assist Hattie, I abandon my pole on the dry grass. “You just keep it there in the air, and I’ll take care of the rest,” I say, digging in the tackle box before I take over her pole.

  “Oh my gosh, this thing is huge” she squeals as the trout breaks the water and starts flipping against the air.

  “Wow,” I say, truly astonished. Grabbing the dangling fish in my hand, I notice the colors first. “See this red band that separates his green from the gold? Makes me think it’s a Golden Trout. You want to hold him?” I ask as she visibly cringes beside me. I grasp the fish firm as he tries to wriggle his way out of my grip, the scales still feeling wet with river water.

  “No, no way.”

  “Aw, come on,” I beg. “It’ll help you conquer your fear.”

  She shakes her head adamantly and backs away from me. “I hate those things.”

  “Well, what do you want to name him?”

  “Name him?” she asks as if I’d just suggested getting him his own pet leash and taking him home with us so we can watch him grow old together.

  “Yeah, name him. I name every fish I catch.”

  “No, you don’t,” she laughs, her eyes growing wide. “What were your other three fish called? The ones you just caught?”

  “Canfield, Nibbles, and Frank.”

  “Frank,” she snorts. “Who in the world calls a fish Frank?”

  “I do.” I stare with as neutral an expression as I can manage. “Alright, well since you don’t want to name yours,” I tease, “do you at least want a picture with him?”

  Her big blue eyes turn doe-like as if she’s begging me to stop edging her straight into the belly of the beast. But suddenly, she nods. “Yes, but can you hold it?”

  “Who’d you think was gonna hold it?” I chuckle. “Phone’s in the tackle box. Can you grab it?”

  She races over to the box and digs for my cell phone, handing it to me as I toss her freed fishing pole aside in the grass.

  “Alright, come over here next to me. I’ll hold it right here in front.”

  She does, but when I open the camera for a quick photo of us, I realize how close she’s standing to me. Pressing her cheek against my shoulder out of what I can only assume is nervousness, she tries to grin. Adorable as it is though, her smile reads like a bushel of panic.

  I snap two quick shots of us before sliding the phone into my back pocket.

  “What are you gonna do with him?”

  “I’ll toss him back like the rest,” I say, beaming at her. Without question, I step closer to the bank of the river as the fish’s mouth starts gulping for air.

  “No, no! Wait!” Hattie suddenly hisses.

  Turning back, I find her right on my tail. It’s not until she reaches her arm out, her hand extending her pointer finger, that I realize she’s going to touch him.

  And so she does. Her face twists up in disgust as she lays a single finger on him. But as she stares closer, her look of resentment melts into something of fascination. “Fine. We can call him Finn.”

  “Finn,” I say, muttering the name as a smile overtakes me. “I like that name. I like that name a lot.”

  “Bye, Finn,” Hattie says just before gently running a finger down his side again just before I toss him back into his home.

  By the time Hattie and I make the quick trek back to the truck, the sun has fully set in the shade of the woods. In total, we’d caught and released nine fish— Canfield, Nibbles, Frank, Dory, Sprite, Blaze, Captain Hook, Bruce, and my personal favorite, Finn.

  When I drive her home and drop her off in front of the lodge, I don’t want to let her go. The sheer amount of joy I’d experienced with her tonight rivals anything I could’ve done with the guys or alone. Our conversation, the hug we’d shared, the slight conquering of her fear of fish. Tonight had unexpectedly injected a certain intensity of pleasure back into my life.

  The porch light to the lodge flickers on, but my truck remains in the dark of the night as I cut the engine. With our windows still open, the fresh air begs us to sit and enjoy each other’s company a few minutes longer.

  “Turns out I had the biggest catch of the night,” I say with a smirk as I lean back in my seat.

  “No way. Most of yours were like this,” she says, holding her hands a few inches apart. “Finn was huge.”

  I nod and chuckle. “He was, I’ll give you that. But I still had the biggest catch.”

  She scowls at me playfully and crosses her arms over her chest. “Which one then?”

  “You, Handful.”

  Her jaw goes slack. Shaking her head, she grins and looks out the window as a few of the dogs, Tavi, Cooper, and Woodford, wrestle in the grass toward the nearby stock pond.

  “Y’all go on,” I shout, not wanting any of them to get carried away and hurt one another.

  The pack breaks up as they wander back up toward the center of the ranch to settle down for the night. For a second, I wonder if Sophie isn’t out there somewhere, prowling around in the dark. Though she could very well be curled up on the deck waiting for me to get home tonight.

  As another summer breeze picks up, I can smell myself, the saltiness of my sweat from a scorching and humid evening spent outside. But I don’t care. I’m here for Hattie, and I can’t be bothered to let that ruin the last of our night together. I just hope she’s not paying that much attention to me.

  “Thanks for everything,” she finally says, her voice sounding sleepy.<
br />
  “You’re mighty welcome. Thank you for coming along.”

  “No, I’m serious, Walker.” She turns to me in the cab, her bare knees now pointing in my direction. “Thank you for spending time with me. For challenging me and helping me conquer my dumb anxiety over the fish. And for being someone I can talk to.”

  Her sweet sentiment puts a strange ball of unpolished emotion in my gut. I almost feel like if I open my mouth to speak, the rawness of my feelings could come racing out. Instead of chancing it, I nod.

  “Thanks for being so good to me,” she finishes.

  Without faltering, I reach over and pull her close into some semblance of the hug we shared down at the river. “You’re worth all of it,” I whisper, not wanting her to ever forget it.

  Her hair smells like a hint of vanilla now, and I find myself growing inebriated by her. By her engaging presence, her overwhelming goodness, her all-around wonder.

  We hug for a few seconds more until I pull my head back and try to get a look at her sunrise eyes in the dark.

  She stares at me wearing a slight pout.

  My soul tells me to kiss her. I feel the desire as powerful as a lightning storm in the dead heat of a summer night. Every place in my body aches with wanting to grow closer to her. But it’s only our first date, and if I make the move, I don’t know that she’ll approve of that quite so fast. Instead, I wind my fingers around the back of her neck and press my forehead to hers.

  She closes her eyes and a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

  Following suit, I shut my eyes and breathe in her proximity. “No matter what,” I finally say, my voice scratchy and low with a certain shade of yearning. “Everything’s gonna turn out alright.”

  She nods ever-so-slightly and brings her soft hand up to my cheek, placing her hot fingers along my jaw.

  But before I can tell her goodnight, the front door of the lodge swings open. The screen door slams against its frame and causes Hattie to jolt away from me.

  Two figures plop down in rocking chairs until they spot my truck— one of them howling at the moon like a wolf in some sort of teasing jeer.

  Completely embarrassed, Hattie opens the truck door and slides out, causing the truck light to spill gold down the front of me. As she shuts the door behind her, she quickly waves at me through the window. “Goodnight,” she grins.

  “Night, Handful,” I say with a tip of my hat. “Sleep tight.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Hattie

  Eliza and Georgia both sit across from me at the fire pit as the stars twinkle above us in the sky. The scent of honeysuckle and lilac flirt on the Thursday night breeze, bringing us relief from the heat of the day. In the pitch-black darkness of the night, I hold my mandolin on my lap, my fingers sore from working the strings.

  I’d not been able to erase Walker from my mind the entire day. In fact, when I’d gotten to the stable this morning, I found a bright pink sticky note next to the ropes in the tack room that read, “Thinking of you and Finn today,” written in Walker’s slanted handwriting. And it’s as if I’d won some kind of lottery getting to know the real, tender side of Walker. An incredibly strong feeling of peace of mind had rooted itself in my soul.

  “So, I may have heard something,” Georgia says, her words pulling me from my inner giddiness. She grins sly as a Red Fox.

  “Hm?”

  Eliza turns toward her and widens her eyes with a quick shake of her head like she’s trying to keep something from getting to me.

  “Shush,” Georgia says, batting a hand at Eliza. “It’s fine. She can tell us. We’re her besties, after all.”

  “Alright,” I moan. “What is it,” I say with a roll of my eyes, obviously hot on the trail about what they’re hinting.

  “A little birdie told us you may have been spending time with a certain ranch hand,” she giggles.

  Eliza falls into her own fit of amusement but quickly covers her mouth in an attempt to compose herself. She drinks from the can she holds between her knees.

  I shrug and try to fight a smile. “Maybe.”

  “Care to share?”

  Plucking the E string on the mandolin, I study the orange and yellow flames in the pit a few feet from us. Embers rise on the heat and form temporary stars of their own before burning out into nothingness. “There’s not a whole lot to say. I’ve been spending some time with Walker.” I try hard to keep myself from blushing.

  “That’s all it is? Or are you two dating?”

  Clearing the catch in my throat, I sway my head. “I mean, I guess we are, but that’s all. It’s not serious.”

  “You mean it’s not serious yet.” Georgia waggles her eyebrows at me.

  I can’t help but find the humor in their overly-concerned interest.

  “You totally have a crush on him,” Eliza says, grabbing my wrist. “I could tell from the moment he came to the stable last week.”

  “Fine,” I shrug, feeling the warmth rise in my cheeks. “I really like him. But we’re taking things slow, so there’s nothing to share yet.”

  “Have you kissed?” Georgia whispers.

  Rolling my eyes and turning away from their gaze, I stare at the flames and fight a laugh that tickles my lips. “No.”

  “Okay, well at least you’re not holding out on us. When’s it gonna be?”

  “I don’t know, guys. We’ve literally just seen each other a few times so far. Only one official date. But if anything progresses, I’ll probably let you know.”

  “Good. Because we don’t want to lose you to one of the ranchies without at least knowing what’s going on,” Eliza says, her voice hitting a note of suspicion.

  “You won’t lose me at all. I’m here for good.”

  “Promise?” Georgia asks, sticking her pinkies out to both of us.

  “Promise,” I say, hooking my own pinkies to theirs in our secret handshake Georgia invented for us ages ago when I first arrived on the ranch.

  “Alright. Well, speaking of promises, I need to go call Jared. He’s finally back from Kentucky so I’m supposed to see him this weekend.”

  “That sounds fun,” I lilt, happy to finally turn the attention away from my love life.

  “Yeah, you know what else is fun?” Georgia asks as she stands and joins Eliza on their stroll back to the lodge.

  “What?”

  “Kissing,” she calls out over her shoulder.

  I fall into a fresh wave of laughter as my two best friends on the ranch disappear down the path to our lodge. Holding my mandolin against my stomach and pressing my sore fingers to the strings on the fret, I pick something slow and rich with my right hand, a song I used to listen to on repeat when I was in college called “Little Lights” by Punch Brothers. Playing the song messy but in its entirety, I fall into the melody of the sweet and gentle tune until I hear something far-off on my third time through it.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” the voice says from the dark behind me. Turning, I swear it sounds like Mason. But as the figure traces closer and is finally licked by firelight, I find Walker joining me, his boots scrounging up the newly mown grass. “I mean it. You’re great at that.”

  “Far from it,” I laugh, knowing I’m not anything close to being decent. “But thank you. I’ve just casually played.”

  “For how long?”

  Jogging my brain, I try to count backward but the years all rush together. “Since college. About seven or eight years now probably.”

  Walker sits next to me, taking the round tree stump on which Georgia had just been sitting. “Well, I’m impressed. Did you take lessons?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Hell, Handful. You’re amazing then.”

  You’re amazing, I want to tell him. But I can’t find the audacity to actually say it.

  He takes his hat off and drops it into the grass, running his big hands through his wavy hair in some attempt to fluff and make it look less flat. He’s so wide that his right shoulder nearly touch
es mine from his spot next to me.

  When I catch him watching me as I conclude the song at a crawling pace, I’m suddenly self-conscious about my leisurely bedtime fashion— an old pair of flannel pajama pants I’d chopped into sleep shorts, a white tank top, and bare feet.

  “What are you doing all the way out here?” I ask, knowing his cottage is a good mile and half back behind Mary Jo’s house.

  “Thought I’d get some fresh air,” he says, a smile threatening his lips. “And a walk.”

  I nod. “Me too. Minus the walk.”

  “Hard to believe you have the fire all to yourself under a Wyoming sky like this.”

  “Yeah,” I breathe looking up at the stars again. Growing tired, I stretch and reach upward. “You actually just missed Eliza and Georgia,” I say, hoping he won’t ask for details about their visit.

  “Did I? Well, ain’t that something. Lucky for me, I didn’t come out here to see them,” he grins.

  My brow falls as I try to piece together what he means.

  “Truth is, I came this way because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he says, extending his hand out in front of me, flat and palm facing up.

  Startled at him craving my touch, my throat goes dry. I can’t take his hand tonight. Not here. “Really?” I croak.

  “Really.”

  Turning his gaze to me, he smiles small.

  As much as I want to hold his hand, I can’t bring myself to do it out in the open like this. Taking the mandolin with my other hand, I set it on the empty seat next to me. Turning my knees closer to him, I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s coming from the way of the lodge.

  “I keep thinking. What’s Handful doing right now?” he whispers, his lips dry but begging for my attention.

  Though I can’t hold his hand, I need to feel him. Slowly reaching over the few inches to where he sits, I latch my fingers around his strong forearm. His body hair is soft but noticeable under my touch. I continue to watch his lips as the reflection of fire kisses them.

  “What’s Handful thinking about right now?” he says low and slow, enunciating every word so I can feel the power behind each one. “Am I on her mind like she’s on mine?”