by Joanna Bell
"Oh my God, I think I just ate you out of house and home."
Jack took my plate to the sink, grinning. "That's OK. You've had a rough day, and I'm happy to feed the random women I pull out of floods. Now – come with me."
As Jack led the way through one of the large, dark-wood framed doorways out of the kitchen, he reached back and grabbed my wrist. It was a reassuring gesture, and one I could tell he hadn't really thought about. I noticed it when he flinched just slightly, as if suddenly realizing what he'd done. He didn't let go, though, not when I didn't say anything.
We ended up in another room that felt like something out of a bygone era, a huge sitting room with high ceilings, stately crown molding and furniture that looked both substantial, like it had been there forever, and incredibly dated. The sofas and chairs – and it was a big room so there were a lot of them – were covered in a gaudy pink and green floral pattern, like someone's grandma would have used to decorate her country house in 1960s.
"Wait here," Jack said, guiding me to one of the sofas and disappearing. I sat down and looked around, running my fingers along one of the pillows and watching as a thick layer of dust piled up in front of my nail. It didn't feel like anybody had spent any time sitting on that strange furniture for years.
A few minutes later, Jack returned with a hairbrush in one hand and a bottle in the other.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Detangler. Here," he said, chucking a pillow on the floor at the foot of one of the armchairs. "Sit down. Let's sort out your hair before you go to bed. Don't look so worried, Blaze, I've spent probably hundreds of hours brushing hair before, I'm not going to mess it up."
I sat down on the pillow, stiffening slightly as Jack sat down behind me in the armchair and I felt his legs against my back.
"Is something wrong?"
"Uh, no," I lied. "I just, uh –"
"This is weird, isn't it?" Jack asked, standing back up again. "Shit, yeah, this is weird. Maybe I'm getting all awkward living out here on my own? It's just that I, uh, actually never mind." He offered me the detangler and the brush. "Here, take these. You can use them."
I looked up at him from my spot on the floor. "Are you having a moment, Jack?"
He laughed. "It looks like I am, doesn't it? I used to brush my grandma's hair all the time when I was kid. It was sort of our little routine. Every night before bed she would catch up on her soap operas – she was always too busy during the day to watch them so I would record them for her and while she watched, I would brush her hair. She had a few medical conditions that made it difficult for her to do it herself and she said I was the only one who knew how to do it properly. So, uh, I think I might have underestimated how strange that might seem – to offer to brush your hair. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Jack," I said, before he could leave the room.
"What?"
"I want you to brush my hair. If you don't mind, I mean."
I don't know why I said that. At the time I told myself it was a kindness I was doing for him, because he had a sad look in his eye when he talked about his grandmother. But looking back I think maybe it had to do with a lot more than me trying to be a nice person.
Jack sat down again and I handed the brush and the detangler back.
"This is going to take awhile," he said, lifting up one section of my matted hair.
"I know."
He got to work right away on a very small section. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt at all. There was no painful yanking or snagging.
"You are good at this," I commented sleepily a few minutes later. "Better than my mom used to be."
Jack started on another section. "Grandma Dottie had very long, fragile hair."
"Grandma Dottie?"
"Yeah, short for Dorothy. She died in 2003. We were close."
As the minutes wore on, and my hair slowly began to lay flat again, Jack talked about his grandmother. He told me how she'd answered a classified ad that Blackjack had placed in a number of local newspapers in County Kerry, Ireland.
"Ireland?" I asked.
"Yeah, the McMurtrys are Scots-Irish from way back. Blackjack couldn't be bothered with American girls, got it into his head that they were no good. So he advertised for someone from the old country and 18 year old Dorothy O'Reilly showed up in Montana barely two months later."
"18?!" I asked, incredulous. "She just up and left her country at 18 years old to marry some guy she'd never met before?"
"Sure did," Jack replied softly. "She said in her head America was this land of Fourth of July parties and Cadillacs and sunshine. Some small town in Ireland couldn't compete with that – not in the mind of an adventurous teenager, anyway. They went to the courthouse less than a day after she arrived, and my uncle Jerry was born 9 months later."
We were quiet for a few minutes as I thought about what it would have been like for me, at 18, to move to another country and marry a man I'd never met before. I had to admit, it's not something I would ever have considered – even as an impulsive teenager.
"What do you think of that? Would you have done something like that?" Jack asked, echoing my own thoughts.
I shook my head. "No way. But I grew up in a big city with a lot of friends and supportive parents. There was nothing to run away from."
"You're lucky," Jack said, in a tone that almost sounded sad. I was trying to figure out how to ask him about that sadness when he suddenly put the brush down on the sofa and patted my shoulders. "There. Done. Now you don't have to sleep on that mess."
I found that I did not want to get up. I liked it on the floor in front of Jack, leaning back against his legs. I liked the way it sent a little thrill through my body when he put his big, heavy hands on my shoulders. We both stayed where we were for a few moments, hesitating. The back of my neck prickled a little with anticipation as I thought about how easy it would be for him to lean down and press his lips against my bare skin...
"Thank you!" I said – a little too cheerily – as I got to my feet. "That would have taken me forever."
Jack was still sitting on the sofa with a somewhat faraway look in his eyes. When I asked him if he was OK he jerked his head towards me, like he'd been thinking of something else entirely. "What? Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Probably time to hit the hay, though."
After spending the entire day – after the dramatic rescue – in a state of almost overwhelming fatigue, I suddenly didn't feel tired at all. I was buzzing – not that it mattered. The fact that Jack McMurtry was seriously, jaw-clenchingly hot didn't matter, either. He was right. We both needed to go to bed. Separately.
After he told me which bedroom I was to sleep in and I handed over my mud-encrusted clothes to be washed, we parted at the bottom of the stairs, mumbling our goodnights the way you do when you're scared that the inappropriate thing you really want is written all over your face.
I dreamed of Ireland that night. Or what my brain managed to cobble together from various movies and books as 'Ireland,' seeing as I'd never actually visited the country. I was looking for something, walking over endless green hills and getting increasingly anxious at not finding it. When I woke up in the morning, I couldn't remember what – or who – it was that I'd been looking for.
Chapter Five
Jack
I woke up as usual at 4:30 a.m., without an alarm. Ever since the other McMurtrys had scattered to the four winds, leaving me alone with Old Blackjack, I'd been up at dawn every day. The cattle out on the range needed checking a few times a week but my grandfather's small herd of rare Irish Moiled cattle – too precious to risk to wolves and disease on the open range – needed to be fed, watered and let out into their fenced pasture daily. Those beasts were the only creatures, human or animal, that Blackjack showed any interest in towards the end of his life. One of the very last things he did before passing was to seek reassurance from me that I wouldn't have them slaughtered or sell them off. A ballsy move, I now thought, given the financial mess he must have known
he was leaving me in.
I got dressed in the blessed coolness of the morning air as it floated sweetly in through the open windows and walked sleepily to the kitchen for a lukewarm mug of instant coffee before heading out. I didn't forget Blaze Wilson was asleep upstairs – in fact there was little else on my mind, even as I pretended to be occupied with thoughts of livestock and chores. Had she slept well? Did she wake up in the night in pain from the cuts and bruises? I thought back to the previous night, brushing her long, thick hair – so unlike Grandma Dottie's – and winced with embarrassment when a distinct sensation of tightness in my pants came to my attention.
Yes, that's right, Jack. That's just like you, actually. Fall for the woman actively trying to ruin you.
I ignored my hard-on, determined not to give in to it, and got on with things. The Moileds were all right as rain, huffing with anticipation in their stalls as I hauled bales of hay for their breakfast. I reached into the stall of my favorite cow, Daisy – the matriarch – and scratched her big, soft ears as she munched. And then as soon as I caught myself wondering whether or not Blaze would be interested in seeing them, I nipped that bullcrap in the bud and went back to the house, my stomach rumbling with hunger.
She wasn't up. I looked at my watch – 7:30 – she'd probably be asleep for hours, still. I poured some oats into a saucepan, added water, set it on the stove to cook and then gazed out the window at the sky as it began to turn from the early-dawn pink to the bright, clear blue of day. The previous evening almost felt like a dream. Had I really talked to Blaze Wilson about my family for over an hour? I didn't talk to anyone about my family. I didn't even talk to my family about my family. I hadn't cried, either. I'm not sure I'd ever really thought about Grandma Dottie since her death and not cried. It was the main reason I tried not to think about her – so I didn't transform instantly into the wailing, lost little boy I'd been all those years ago, when she died.
Goddamnit. Just thinking about thinking about my grandmother was causing a lump to rise in my throat. I might even have shed a tear had the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway not interrupted me. I blinked hard and took a deep breath, forcing a smile onto my face when Blaze walked in.
And oh, Jesus, she looked absolutely adorable with her hair all sexily mussed up and the pajamas I'd lent her all rumpled.
"You should still be asleep," I said gruffly, eager to conceal any errant emotion that might be showing on my face.
"I know. I think I'm just not used to sleeping in a new place. Plus there was all this... mooing."
The way Blaze said the word 'mooing' made it sound like she might be skeptical of the fact that yes, that is the sound that cattle make.
"Yep," I said, "that's what they do. Especially when they reckon I might be late with their breakfast, even if that's not something that's ever happened. They keep me on my toes."
Blaze cocked an eyebrow at me, like she couldn't believe what I was saying.
"What?" I said. "Do I have something in my teeth?"
"You actually have... cows?" She asked, as if it was the most incredible thing she'd ever heard of.
"Yes, I have cows," I confirmed. "Some of them are out on the range, getting nice and fat, but Blackjack's purebreds are in a pasture just over yonder." I indicated west with a tilt of my head.
"So you're a cow... boy?"
"As much as anyone can be a cowboy these days – it's not like I'm driving a hundred thousand head through four states or anything, but I do have round 'em up every now and again if they need medicating or branding or whatnot. You look pretty impressed."
As soon as I said that Blaze looked away, affecting a coolness it was too late to pretend she felt. "Oh, no – it's just interesting is all."
"Uh-huh. You want some oatmeal?"
"Sure."
She sat down at the kitchen table and watched me intently, although I didn't give her any reason to think I'd noticed. Finally, when I'd sprinkled brown sugar on the steaming bowls of oats, she narrowed her eyes at me. "You're such a – I don't know, you're so..." she trailed off.
"So what?" I asked, setting her bowl down in front of her with a clank and handing her a spoon. "Wonderful? Intelligent? Handsome? That's what all the ladies say, Bla –"
"Self-sufficient," she cut in, finally having found the right word.
I scooped up a big spoonful of oatmeal and blew on it to cool it off. "Self-sufficient, huh? That's not very glamorous now, is it?"
Blaze shrugged. "I don't know, you might be surprised by how many men I know who seem completely unable to take care of themselves. It's a wonder most of them made it to 25 without starving to death or wandering into traffic."
I caught her eye. "You sound like you're talking about someone in particular."
She pressed her lips – her soft, pink lips that I was having difficulty keeping my eyes off – together and averted her eyes. "Nooo..."
"Oh come on," I cajoled. "And if you don't want to talk, why don't you get your shoes on and walk out to the north end of the property with me to check the fencing with me? Maybe the mood will strike and you can tell me all about the useless man you're dating."
"I'm not –" Blaze said quickly, before cutting herself off. "Um. My shoes? OK. I'm not going to get caught in another flood, am I?"
In one way, it felt very natural to have another person around. When I was a kid, Sweetgrass Ranch was constantly bustling with people and activity. Some of the activities continued but the people were long gone – all except me. But in another way it was surreal, because Blaze wasn't a member of my family – she wasn't even a stranger or a neutral party. She was an IRS agent and we both knew it, even if we were each doing our level best not to mention it.
"Wow," she said softly when we were out in the field behind the house, headed up to the back. "It's so pretty. I didn't think it was so pretty out here."
"Really?" I asked, surprised. "Montana is known as a beautiful state, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I guess I'm just not a country person, you know? It's so weird that I was caught in that flood yesterday, because I never – and I mean never – go hiking. I'm that girl who wouldn't go camping if you paid me. Give me a 5 star hotel any day. But it is nice out here, this morning. So quiet."
It was quiet, the stillness of the morning having not yet dissipated. We walked together, the only sound our steps on the dry grass.
"So," Blaze said as we got to the back field and walked along the fence line. "Do you live out here alone, then? I mean, uh, you don't have any, uh –"
"You can just ask if I have a girlfriend," I said, teasing her. It felt like I'd known Blaze for a long time – but I hadn't. I certainly hadn't known her long enough to realize her propensity to overreact when teased.
"No!" She snapped. "No! I was not asking if you had a girlfriend. I was just – I was asking in a professional capacity."
It was bullshit, and I knew it, but just the fact of her bringing it up – her 'professional capacity – had the effect of throwing cold water over the vibe we had going. I didn't respond. In fact I suddenly found myself feeling quite angry. What the fuck was I even doing, flirting like some besotted schoolboy when this was the woman who was probably going to be responsible for my financial ruin? It's not like it was some minor thing we could both overlook, a fondness for avocado on my part when she didn't care for them or something like that.
"What's up?" Blaze asked a few minutes later, noticing I hadn't said a word.
"What do you think is up?" I asked, keeping my gaze focused on the fencing. "I was just thinking I don't know what the hell we're doing, pretending we're just two strangers who met at the grocery store or something. It's stupid."
She waited a beat before responding, but when she did her voice was quite firm. "You invited me to spend the night, Jack."
"Yeah, I did. And now I don't have a single goddamned clue why." I turned to face her and she stopped, looking back at me. "You're here to ruin me," I said. "Not metaphorically or po
etically, but for real, in the real world. And I'm all googly-eyed because you have a cute ass and I like the way you touch your nose with your finger when you're thinking. Women are right about men, you know. We're fucking morons."
"I don't touch my nose with my –"
"Yes you do. I noticed it within five minutes of you showing up on my porch. It's not a touch, it's more like a little brushing motion. There – you almost just did it again!"
"No I didn't!"
I forced my breath out between my teeth. "Maybe you didn't. But it doesn't matter anyway, does it? After we've finished looking at this fence I'll drive you back to your motel. No point in ruining both our days, is there? This isn't going to end well, Blaze Wilson. And it's going to end even less well if we get all cutesy with each other."
For a second there I thought she was going to say something back – I actually wanted her to, I wanted to hear her mount a coherent defense – but instead she just set her jaw and nodded.
I finished checking the fence around the back field, we walked back to the house, and then I drove Blaze to her hotel room in silence. About halfway there, when the manure smell filled the cab of the truck again, she simply covered her face with her freshly laundered t-shirt, gagged once or twice and managed to hold her breakfast down. It took some effort not to comment on how impressive that was. Hell, I got sick after eating marzipan once when I was 6 and I still can't even smell the stuff without wanting to puke.
When I pulled into a parking spot outside the dingy little motel, Blaze looked over at me. I saw her doing it out of the corner of my eye as I steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.
"I still need paperwork from you, Jack. Anything you can find. I don't have to come over again, you could just send it to the D.C. office. I can give you the address. You do have to send it though. If you don't –"
"What?" I barked. "What if I don't? In the past twenty-four hours I've saved your life, given you a bed to sleep in, fed you, laundered your clothes and spent an hour brushing creek debris out of your hair. And your goodbye is basically a threat?"