by Gemma Weir
“Hey Daddy, I’m home,” I call out as I pad toward the kitchen.
“Hey sweetie, how was work?” he calls out, his old gravelly voice surrounding me in a warm embrace without him even being in the same room.
“Long. Owen didn’t bother to turn up again, so I worked the whole day on my own,” I tell him, pulling a mixing bowl from the cupboard. Grabbing the ingredients for an easy corn bread from the pantry, I pull my mom’s apron from the back of the door and slide it on over my clothes.
“That kid wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it hit him in the head,” Dad grouses as he joins me in the kitchen, sliding into a seat at the worn wooden table to chat to me while I cook, just like he did every day with my mom.
Working quickly, I turn on the stove, greasing a pan and pushing it to the side while I mix together the bread batter, doing it all with practiced hands, just like Mom taught me to.
“You should quit that good for nothing job and go to college, your mom’s gone and there’s nothing holding you here,” Dad says, scolding me softly.
“Nothing except you and my home,” I say rolling of my eyes.
“I’m an old man, but I’m more than capable of looking after myself,” he growls.
“Well maybe I like looking after you,” I tell him with a wink, setting the bowl to the side as I grab some chicken out of the freezer ready to prep tomorrow’s dinner.
“I could just get take out,” Dad laughs.
“You hate take out,” I laugh.
“I hate you looking after me even more.”
“Oh, close your mouth, old man,” I snap. “I’m not just cooking for you, I have to eat too, and right now I need to get this corn bread in the oven so I can go take a shower while it cooks,” I say, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his weather-worn cheek.
“I love you, Bonbon,” he rasps, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me in for a hug.
“Love you too, Daddy.”
Five minutes later the cornbread is cooking, and I’m stepping into my bedroom and closing the door behind me. My room is a strange mix of childish and grown up. My favourite ragdoll is still on the shelves, next to my winner’s trophy for the third-grade talent show I sang in. But alongside it are a selection of very adult romance novels, that I’m sure would make half the rowdy guys in the bunkhouse blush if they read them.
My tiny twin bed is gone, replaced with a full that’s pushed up against the wall, the comforter a pretty duck-egg blue that clashes with the pink walls my mom and I painted for my twelfth birthday that I haven’t ever got around to changing.
My bathroom is a jack and jill that connects with the room that was Caleb’s before he moved out, but as we’ve never lived in the same house it’s always just been mine, as the bottles of products, hairbrushes, and makeup can attest.
In everyday life I’m organized and tidy, in my personal space I’m a bit of a slob, so the bed’s unmade, the bathroom in need of a clean, my clothes strewn haphazardly where I’ve thrown them toward the hamper and missed.
I add tidying up and doing some laundry to my to do list as I strip out of my jeans and work t-shirt and fling them toward the other clothes. Turning on my shower I step under the warm stream of water, sighing as the heat instantly relieves some of the exhaustion in my muscles. With mechanical movements I wash my body, then shampoo and condition my hair, reluctantly turning off the water and stepping from the shower once I’m finished.
Drying myself quickly, I wrap my hair up in a towel and turn to glance at myself in the mirror. I take a moment to assess. I look like my mom, dark hair, dark eyes, and creamy skin that goes red the moment I’m out in the sun. My friend Cora calls me petite, but I think that’s just a nice way of saying short. I don’t hate the way I look though; I’m fit and reasonably slim with enough curves to look like a girl, but not enough to look like I eat more of the pastries than sell them at work. Pulling on a long-sleeve t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, I pause only long enough to slide my feet into my warm fluffy slippers as I head back toward the kitchen.
Dad’s still at the table and Caleb has joined him, bottles of beer in front of them both as they talk about cows and grazing. Ignoring my brother, I check on the cornbread, pleased to find it perfectly cooked. Grabbing some bowls, I ladle chili into two of them, sliding one in front of Dad and offering the other to Caleb.
“No thanks, I already ate,” he says dismissively, barely glancing at me.
Inhaling patiently, I pull the bowl to my spot on the table, tip the bread out onto a board and cut it into chunks, burning my fingers in my haste to grab a piece and dip it into my chili.
“Sit down, you’ll give yourself indigestion eating like that,” Caleb snips.
“I’m fine, just hungry,” I say quietly, moving to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of beer for myself before I take my seat at Caleb’s side and start to eat.
“Beer?” Caleb questions derisively.
“Yep, I’m twenty-one and having a beer with my dinner,” I tell him, not even glancing in his direction.
“You let her drink beer?” Caleb asks my dad, as if I’m a ten-year-old who’s stolen a bottle and drinking it out the back.
“She’s an adult, she can handle a couple of beers if she wants them,” Dad tells him, pulling his bowl of chili towards himself and spooning some into his mouth. “Bonbon, I think your chili might actually be better than your mama’s was,” he praises.
“Thank you, but we both know it pales in comparison with hers,” I say, dipping my bread into the thick, spicy sauce.
“I need to get going, I promised Olly I’d take him out for a drive tonight, he’s got his driver’s ed test tomorrow,” Caleb says, pushing back from the table.
“Night,” I mutter, lifting my gaze and finding his disapproving eyes looking between me and the solitary bottle of beer in front of me.
“Make sure you don’t have more than one if you’ve got to work in the morning,” he chides, patting Dad on the shoulder as he passes him and leaves.
Biting my lip to hold in the scathing obscenities I’m desperate to shout at my stupid judgmental brother, I inhale sharply.
“He means well,” Dad says quietly.
“Sure he does,” I reply as calmly as I can muster.
“He just forgets you’re not a child.”
“He forgets he’s my brother,” I say sharply, lifting my beer to my lips and taking a pull of the cold, crisp liquid.
Dad makes a sound of agreement, although the words never actually cross his lips. Then we fall into our normal, comfortable silence as we both finish our dinner. “I need to get to bed, I’m opening up again tomorrow,” I say, taking our empty bowls and loading them into the dishwasher I insisted we had installed in the kitchen back when Mom first got sick.
“You work too hard,” he says.
“You can never work too hard,” I tell him, parroting the expression I’ve heard him say a thousand times in my lifetime, as I turn and smile to him over my shoulder.
“Good night, Bonbon.”
“Night Dad,” I say, blowing him a kiss as I make my way back toward my bedroom where I fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
It feels like a minute later that my alarm is buzzing and chirruping next to my head. Reaching over, I grab my cell and silence it, only to be woke again by the second alarm that I have set for five minutes after the first. Blinking my eyes open I glance to the window, hating that it’s still dark as I drag my tired body from beneath my warm sheets and pad into the bathroom.
The bathroom light seems to amplify the dark circles beneath my eyes, and I look away as I wash my face and brush my teeth. Grabbing my hairbrush, I tease out all the knots and then twist my hair back into two braids. It’s not exactly my most sophisticated look, but it’ll keep my hair out of my face all day while I’m working.
I don’t bother with makeup, just rubbing a little lip balm over my lips as I head back into my bedroom and toward my closet. I yawn as I p
ull out a pair of ripped skinny jeans and a Wake Up and Go Go t-shirt. The black t-shirt is a men’s small, shapeless, and extremely unflattering, especially due to the fact that the words Go and Go seem to rest conspicuously on my tits, making it seem like my nipples are poking out of the circle in the letter O.
Pulling on fresh underwear, I dress, grab my cell, and make my way out into the quiet house. The clock in the kitchen says four forty-five am, and in the next half an hour the ranch will be alive with everyone starting work for the day, but for the minute, it’s just me and few moments of silence.
Just like I knew he would, my dad took what was left of the chili over to the bunkhouse and then washed the pot and left it ready to use, so I make quick work of throwing the raw ingredients in for a batch of creamy chicken casserole that will be cooked and ready to eat for dinner tonight.
Turning on the oven to preheat, I unload the clean dishes from the dishwasher, throw together a couple of batches of banana muffins, and slide them in to cook as I fill the coffee pot and set it to brew. The guys who live in the bunkhouse have a full kitchen, but the foreman and head ranch hands usually come in to meet with Caleb and Dad most mornings, so I always make sure there’s something Dad can offer them to eat when I’m at work.
Living on a ranch my entire life, getting up early is the norm and even if my alarm hadn’t jolted me awake, I’d still have woken up at this time, always having gotten up with the birds. The moment the coffee pot is half full, I lift it out the way and quickly slide my mug under the stream of hot, black coffee, swapping it back for the jug when it’s full.
Grabbing the creamer from the refrigerator, I splash some into my coffee then slide it back into the door shelf. Picking up the Greek yoghurt, I close the refrigerator as I spin around taking down a bowl and the packet of granola from the shelf.
Spooning some yoghurt into my bowl, I sprinkle some granola over the top, then add a handful of fresh blueberries.
“You need a proper breakfast, not that new age hippie crap,” Dad says as he shuffles into the kitchen, lifting a mug from the hooks and filling his cup from the freshly brewed pot.
He always looks old and frail first thing in the morning, when his joints are still stiff and his steps stilted, and it’s times like this that I remember he’s not as young as he was. He was nearly thirty when he and Mom had Caleb, over fifty when they had me, and now in his seventies, the agony of losing my mom shows in every line and wince of pain.
“I have banana muffins in the oven, but there’s bacon and eggs in the refrigerator if you want a hot breakfast,” I tell him sweetly, ignoring his barb about my own food choices.
“What time are you working till today?” he asks me, sliding into his chair at the table across from me.
“Till three, Marnie’s on the rota today,” I tell him, between mouthfuls.
“You should quit, it’s not like you need to work, you do so much around here we could pay you a full-time wage,” he suggests.
“I need a real job, not one you created for me because I’m your daughter,” I tell him.
“It would be a real job, you could work with Caleb, you know as much about this ranch as he does.”
I scoff loudly. “And I’m sure Caleb would be just over the moon with that.” Shoveling my last spoonful of breakfast into my mouth, I swill out the bowl and spoon and slide them into the dishwasher, then grab a cloth and pull the muffins from the oven before I head into the hall.
I can hear my dad muttering in the kitchen, but I ignore him, sliding my feet into my sneakers and pulling on my jacket and purse before heading back into the kitchen. Turning the muffins onto a cooling rack, I press a kiss to my dad’s cheek before I leave the house, climb into my car, and head back down the mountain.
By the time the lights of town come into view, my mug of coffee is empty and I feel almost awake and ready to face the day. This early, Main Street where Wake Up and Go Go is situated, is almost empty, so I easily slide my car into the spot right outside the store.
Just like he does every day, Beau Barnett parks his truck next to my car before I get a chance to open my car door, his silent presence almost overwhelming when he’s so close. Even after eight years, I still turn into the blushing, gawping teenager I was the first time I realized I had a serious crush on the oh-so-perfect Beau. You’d think by now, at twenty-one, I’d be worldly and mature enough to at least talk to him, but no, apart from polite small talk, I freeze whenever he’s near me.
“Good morning,” I tell him, my voice so bright I’m almost shouting at him.
“Morning,” he growls, his brow low, his eyes dark and sultry as he follows me to the door, waiting for me to unlock it, then pushing it open as I step inside and turn on the lights.
“Take a seat, I’ll get the machine turned on to heat up,” I tell him, just like I do every day. Sometimes I wonder if he sits and chats with Phil or Owen, or Marnie if they open up instead of me, but it’d be odd for me to ask them about him without making it obvious that I’m obsessed with the oldest Barnett brother.
As I go about switching on the coffee machine and getting everything else set up for the morning, I covertly watch Beau from the corner of my eye. He’s dressed in work trousers, the kind that have reflective orange patches half way up the leg, and a gray, thermal, long-sleeved shirt that hugs his thick, muscular chest and toned waist. His hair is disheveled and just a little too long, so it hangs sexily in his eyes, and his beard is full and thick. I feel a tiny whine fall from my lips as I just stare at him.
In my mind, if I could just speak to him, he’d instantly see past the age gap, my insignificance, and general awkwardness, and fall head over heels in love with me. I’ve lost count of how many daydreams I’ve had about finding the courage to sexily strut over to him and sit down in his lap. To feel his strong arms band tightly around my waist and hold me to him, while his fingers cup my cheek and he kisses me like I’m the most important thing in the world to him.
Of course, in reality, Beau has the pick of every available woman in town. He is Rockhead Point’s most eligible bachelor, and the town’s women are just lining up to take their shot with him. Last week I heard he took Amber Hammond out for a drink, she’s beautiful, thin with fake boobs that are persistently perky and always playing peek-a-boo from her top.
Apparently, he’s never had a serious girlfriend, or at least not since high school when he was hot and heavy with Mary-Ann Wilkes. She still lives in town and is married to one of Beau’s friends, they have six kids and she teaches fourth grade at the school, so I doubt he’s still pining for her.
The Barnett brother’s relationship status is a constant source of gossip for the townsfolk of Rockhead Point, and once a week on a Monday morning I hear all about it when Gladys, Sylvie, and Jane Gladstone all congregate in the coffee shop for their weekly catch up. The sisters are all in their sixties, but nothing happens in this town that they don’t know about and they loudly share their gossip titbits over coffee and cake.
“Black coffee?” I call to Beau once the machine is to temperature.
“Please,” he answers, not lifting his gaze from the cell phone in his hands.
Sighing wistfully, I make his drink and deliver it to his table, opening my mouth to speak, then slamming it shut when he doesn’t even lift his head to acknowledge my appearance at his side. Here I am, silently lusting over the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and he can’t even find enough manners to lift his head and thank me for bringing him his coffee.
Without a word, I slide his cup onto his table and silently walk back to the counter. Phil has a fresh order of pastries delivered to the shop each morning, but if it’s quiet I sometimes throw a few batches of muffins into the oven. So, ignoring Beau’s oblivious presence, I head into the kitchen and whip up four batches of muffins, one Blueberry, one corn, one chocolate chip, and one of my famous snickerdoodle muffins that the customers always seem to go mad for. The ding of the bell signals the door being opened, and I rush
to the front of the store just in time to watch Beau’s massive form retreating down the street to his truck and spot his ten-dollar bill waiting on the counter.
The rest of my day passes in a blur, a coach load of tourists all arrived desperate for caffeine and snacks at a little after ten, and the rest of the day seemed to be just as hectic. Before I know it, it’s three in the afternoon and I’m ready to get home and maybe take a soak in my tub, but Marnie is mysteriously absent.
Grabbing my cell from my pocket I click into my messages and find one from Owen.
Owen – Marnie is sick, I need you to stay till close.
Muttering profanities beneath my breath I type out a reply.
Me – I stayed till close yesterday and Monday, my shift ends in five minutes, if you want me to stay, I want double time for the rest of the day.
Teeth gritted, I watch as the three dots blink on, then off again as I wait for a reply.
Owen – Time and a half.
Me – Double time or I’m kicking everyone out and closing up for the day.
Owen – Fine double time.
Me – Nice doing business with you.
Smiling wryly, I slide my cell back into my pocket and get back to work.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around I’m regretting my decision to stay till close, no matter how much money I’ve earned. My living expenses are low living with my dad, but my car is old and before the worst of the winter weather hits us, I’d like to be able to buy myself something a little more reliable. My dad would buy me a new car if I’d let him, but it’s important to me to stand on my own two feet wherever I can. Plus, Caleb already treats me like a child, if he finds out Dad’s bought me a car, I’ll never hear the last of it.
With fall in full bloom, the town’s had a steady flow of tourists here to see the picturesque mountain views and glorious sight of the trees all in fall color. In a couple of months’ time, the winter sports tourists will descend upon the town, and every other customer will be carrying brand new ski’s and expensive snow gear that they just bought.