Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  My outfit surely isn’t helping matters, seeing as I look like I just stepped out of a men’s magazine from the 1950s. I’m wearing a vintage shirtwaist dress in mint-green gingham and a pair of nude heels, with a full face of cosmetics to complete the look: dark cat-eye makeup, pink blush, and candy-apple lips. The dress has been altered with a higher hemline, ensuring that in those shots where I have one foot perched atop a wooden crate, the retro-style garter belt and stockings underneath are on display.

  And, unlike most photo shoots I’ve been a part of, there’s not one stitch of camo pattern to be found anywhere. In fact, nothing about this piece for an Austin lifestyle magazine is what I’m used to.

  To begin with, it doesn’t really have anything to do with me—it has to do with my brother and his furniture company. When the magazine’s creative team approached Trey and his business partner, Ryan, about featuring AustinMade in their annual fall design issue, good ol’ Kukla and Ollie immediately offered my house—and me—as perfect fits for the vintage-industrial-meets-rough-tough-Texas concept they had in mind. But since my house is essentially a living showroom for Trey’s work and I have experience hamming it up in front of a camera, I couldn’t very well act as if the idea came out of left field.

  Now, speaking of my publicity-and-camera-shy brother, it seems he’s managed to make himself scarce yet again. I glance about the backyard where we’ve been shooting, looking for the messy blond hair covered by a backward Rangers ball cap that I know so well. Nothing but lighting equipment, assorted piles of gear, and a bunch of strangers scurrying about, so I head inside through the opened slider doors, striding past the setup for our next shot.

  The Sunday supper scene, as the silver fox calls it, features the dining room table Trey gave me as a housewarming gift. The table is unforgivingly industrial and unapologetically big, large enough to seat twelve comfortably. The top is made out of reclaimed Greenheart boxcar planks, which sit atop a pair of antique French iron lathe bases. The centerpiece of today’s tablescape is a very fake roasted suckling pig, with a very cliché red apple stuffed in its mouth. Another assistant busily works to polish a set of comically oversized carving tools, setting them near a vintage bumblebee-patterned apron that’s draped over the back of a chair. I’m pretty sure that when I don that apron, grab those carving tools, and pretend to get after that fake pig, I’m going to look like a deranged trophy wife.

  I give up a sigh and round the corner into my kitchen, where I finally find my brother. Mostly because I nearly stumble right over him. Trey’s plopped himself on the floor like a little kid hiding out from the big, bad world, his long legs outstretched to span the width of my galley kitchen.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I grumble. “Use a chair, you ruffian.”

  Trey glances up from his sketch pad, bends his knees to tuck them up toward his chest, and offers up his impossible-to-stay-mad-at grin. Lucinda’s “Little Angel, Little Brother” kicks on over the speakers, just another reason for me to do nothing but jab him playfully in the shin with the pointy toe of my high heel.

  He tosses a withering look at my shoes. “Those look dangerous.”

  “They’re Jimmy Choos.”

  “Gesundheit,” he deadpans, his eyes already back on the sketch pad.

  My phone vibrates on the countertop. When I spy the preview window, a smile immediately breaks across my face.

  A new text from Braden. With a picture. Even better.

  I hop up on the countertop and try to keep my giddiness at bay, or at the very least, any sign of it off my face. I’m in Trey’s sightline, and his disturbing ability to read people means he picks up even the faintest hint of shifting energies around him. So if I’m over here bubbling away like a shook-up can of RC, the kid will notice.

  Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to keep my cool. Not when Braden and I are officially in a texting relationship. Up until our phone call last week, I couldn’t have claimed our communication was much more than one-sided, but since then he’s become positively chatty. From scouting reports in the area I plan to hunt, to pictures of his dog, the man is certainly holding up his side of the conversation. The only thing I haven’t received is a picture of him, which I’d love to have—if only to confirm that my memory of his rugged form is as first-rate as what I picture in my mind on occasion. Like, for example, late at night, when my bed feels too big. Or early in the morning, when my bed feels too empty. Or in the middle of the day, when I’m bored and it’s suddenly too damn hot in Texas, and I’m convinced Braden could inspire the same sort of heat, but for far more worthwhile reasons.

  I swipe open the text, slightly disappointed to discover that the beasty creature in the pic isn’t Braden, but a bull elk.

  Not heavy, but he’s even. 5x5. Mouthy, too. He’s been busting around in the trees like he owns the place. Figured you might appreciate his style.

  The bull elk pictured has five tines on each of his antlers. The tines are a little thin, but they’re evenly spaced and symmetrical, just as Braden’s described. The last of this season’s velvet on the elk’s antlers hangs from the tips, and he’s tangled himself around some low-hanging branches on a tree, likely trying to rub those remaining bits of velvet off. His coat is a burnished copper color that’s typical in late summer, smooth and glossy across his big body.

  He’s a good-looking bull, for sure. But I’m not sure if he’s enough. I squint at the image to see if I can spot anything extraordinary, studying it for a few minutes until another text comes through.

  You’re being too quiet. I know he’s not huge, but he’s respectable. And a damn good bull for the unit you’re hunting. So if your ego is sniping, remind her that not everything is about points.

  I snort. From a few states away, he’s managed to see right through me. Whether that’s a good thing or not, I’m not sure.

  I chose to hunt one of Braden’s units for a few different reasons—and I’m not ashamed to admit that he was one of them. But even more so, I chose this unit because it would be a place where I would have to hunt hard, put all my skills to the test, and do so with little guarantee of success. Hunting in general offers no guarantees, but there, I knew I would be faced with long odds, which is exactly what I want. Because if I lose my show after taking this rugged path, then at least I’ll know I have done my best to get back to my roots, to all of what my uncle Cal had taught me. I tap out a reply.

  SHE doesn’t need any reminders. And agrees that he’s a damn good bull. Can’t wait to see him on the hoof.

  “Is that the yeti?” Trey asks, without lifting his gaze from where his pencil works over the page with quick strokes.

  My head jerks up and I narrow my eyes on him.

  “Were you snooping on my phone?”

  He smirks at the page. “No. You’ve been floaty since you got back from Colorado. You’ve also mentioned the name Braden, casually, at least once a day since then, so he obviously left an impression. And you’re currently smiling at your phone like a dope. Doesn’t take a Sherlock to solve this mystery.”

  I look around for something safe to lob at him, hoping to redirect the conversation. All I find is a bag of store-brand sandwich bread, hefty enough to get my point across, but squishy enough to avoid injuring my only kin. The sack of bread careens off his sketch pad and lands on the floor.

  “I have not been floaty,” I mutter, then cock a brow. “What about you? Care to talk about the woman whose name you work so hard to avoid mentioning? How is Dayton, anyway?”

  Dayton works for Trey. She is sweet and beautiful, far more dedicated to AustinMade than any typical employee, and I’ve occasionally caught her watching Trey when he’s all wrapped up in his head, contemplating him like he’s her favorite riddle. Trey, for his part, does his own fair share of staring longingly in Dayton’s direction but refuses to admit to anything other than a strictly professional appreciation. Essentially, his approach has been to play stupid or play dead when questioned on the topic.

  Tre
y scowls at his pad. “You mean Dayton, my employee? My employee and nothing but? That Dayton?”

  Ah. Seems he’s gone with “play stupid” for today’s round.

  “Yup. That’s the one.”

  “She’s a competent and skilled accounting professional, as always,” he replies flatly.

  “Good to hear.” I hop down off the counter and swipe the bag of bread off the tile floor. “You want a sandwich?”

  Trey fights a small grin but loses. “Of course I do.”

  I shake my head. Make the kid a sandwich and you have a surefire peace offering. I slap together an almond butter and honey sandwich, taking a bite for myself before handing it his way. Trey reaches for it, sending me a quietly curious look.

  “Does the yeti know about your soft-hearted, sandwich-making side?”

  I reply with a self-conscious laugh, a warbling sound that reveals too much.

  “There’s my answer,” Trey mutters, and then takes a sizable bite of the sandwich.

  I sweep a few bread crumbs into the sink. Braden has seen my softer side, just a little, especially when I have enough cider rum punch on board. But nothing inside me believes that’s a bad thing, or a risk not worth taking. He’d offered me his home, for God’s sake. Trusted me to be there when he wasn’t, and from every text he’s sent recently, it seems he’s thoroughly invested in the success of my hunt. Bickering aside, we genuinely like each other, I believe that. And we have chemistry, in fucking spades.

  In the background, “I Just Wanted to See You So Bad” starts to play, Lucinda owning up to a craving she decides to see through, even if it takes her traveling. Even if it doesn’t make a bit of sense, even if she can’t explain why.

  (Braden)

  “In short, all good things are wild and free.”

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU, “WALKING”

  Finding a redneck on your doorstep at seven in the morning is a bit like discovering a door-to-door salesman there. The same persistence and determination, the same sensation they’re about to shove their way inside with or without a proper invitation. The only difference here is that instead of hawking goods I won’t buy, Garrett comes bearing a shopping bag full of junk food he knows I won’t eat: Hostess Fruit Pies, Honey Buns, and those little powdered sugar–covered donuts that are the same size as the tumors they’ll eventually find in your liver if you eat too many of them.

  The junk-food offerings are symbolic, anyway. The guy equivalent of announcing that he needed to talk, and since it’s too early for beer, he went with what he could find at the local gas station convenience store, where he consumes far too many of his meals. As Garrett knows, I’m an early riser, so he could count on finding me up and around after finishing my morning workout.

  “This field is planted with milo, and this one with wheat. The rest of it’s corn.”

  Garrett taps a finger on the plat map he spread out on my kitchen table almost immediately after announcing he’d brought breakfast and then worming his way into my house.

  “There are two houses on the property. He’d keep the mineral rights, but one share of ditch water would come with the deal.”

  I nod, despite the way Garrett’s position prevents him from seeing it. He’s hunched over the table, his eyes still fixed on the map in front of him, speaking to it as much as he is to me. The map is of some Kansas farmland owned by an old farmer without heirs, who apparently isn’t going to be able to work much longer and is looking for the right guy to sell it to. And Garrett is likely that guy. Despite having had to sell his dad’s farm and finding himself working a dead-end job at the local co-op, Garrett remains a farmer at heart—he just happens to be a farmer without a farm.

  The coffeepot on the counter hisses when it finishes percolating, and I push myself up from my chair to fill two mugs, setting one in front of Garrett.

  He mutters a thank-you and grabs the mug, finally leaning back in his chair. His eyes are red, and the dark hollows beneath make him look twice his age this morning. But between being dumb enough to let Cara move back to Chicago without so much as putting up a fight and the marathon trip he’s just made to Kansas and back, looking like shit is to be expected.

  Garrett sighs, pushes up his ball cap to scratch his forehead before yanking it back down.

  “It’s too good to be true, right? A full section. For a fucking song, price-wise. And he’s willing to take basically nil as a down payment and carry the rest.”

  He looks uneasy, more so than I’ve ever seen him in all the time we’ve known each other. I give a casual shrug.

  “Either that or it’s just the right deal at the right time. Maybe he knows guys like you don’t come along every day. Not a lot of folks out there champing at the bit to farm, and even fewer who actually know what they’re doing.”

  Garrett mumbles something in agreement, but it’s obvious he’s not convinced. Why? I have no clue. The kid has the brains and the heart for the life of a farmer, and not many people do these days. Not when farm profits are in a downturn, land costs more than it ever has, and most people would rather see a shopping mall where a cornfield should be. But Garrett’s carrying around the knowledge of a fifty-year-old farmer in his head, on the back of a twenty-five-year-old—and this is his chance to put it all to use. So other than bullshit fear, I don’t know what’s stopping him.

  “The soil is good, right?”

  What I know about farming could fit in a beer can, but asking about the soil seems like an obvious place to start. Garrett gives a nod.

  “Yeah, no worries there. I went to the FSA office while I was there, pulled all the soil reports. And I’d transition to no-till, which is easier on your dirt in the long run.”

  “No chance he’s leveraged too deep with a bank or something? Grasping at a last chance to stay out of foreclosure?”

  Garrett grinds his jaw and shakes his head. “I had my dad’s old estate attorney check on that before I even went out there. It’s free and clear.”

  I hit a sore spot—intentionally—but Garrett knows why I went there. After his dad died of a heart attack, he dropped out of college thinking he’d come home and take over the farm, only to find out the property was entirely upside down because his dad had too many loans out, leaving Garrett with no choice but to sell. The last thing Garrett needs is to find himself in another situation like that.

  With that out of the way, it’s time to poke at his other open wound. This one I’m a little more familiar with. I know how much your heart smarts when it’s been stomped on. I also know that no matter how broken your heart might once have been, when there’s an urge to put it out there again, all those old hurts can feel like ancient history.

  I take another sip of my coffee before digging in, knowing that no matter how hard he flinches, this is for his own good.

  “And are you thinking with your stupid, lonely dick? Because Cara might have made it clear she thinks this is what’s best for you, but that doesn’t fucking matter. Not really. She can’t be the reason you do this.” I jab a finger at the plat map. “You have to do this because it’s what you want. You can’t hang this deal on getting her back.”

  Garrett, surprisingly, doesn’t flinch at all. “My dick has an opinion, but he’s not running the show. This? Owning a farm for myself? It’s my whole life’s plan. I’ve just spent the last three years trying to pretend it wasn’t.”

  “Good.”

  Garrett does his best to keep his expression neutral, but his eyes widen, when I don’t say more.

  “What?” I furrow my brow. “You want to know what I think?”

  He groans. “Yes, asshole. That’s why I’m here. Come on, you’re the one guy I can count on to tell me exactly what he thinks. Don’t fail me now.”

  I gather a long breath. Fuck, it’s going to suck when Garrett leaves. But I’d be a shitty friend if I did anything other than tell him the truth, which means I set my coffee mug down and give him my full attention, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean back.
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br />   “I think you’d be an idiot not to see this through. Do your due diligence, research everything, then go back out there and get belly to belly with this guy to make sure you want to be on the hook for a loan payment to him for the next twenty years. If so, then do what you can to make it happen. I’ll even help you move your shit out to Kansas.”

  My phone vibrates just before Garrett can launch out of the chair and try to hug me, which doesn’t seem too far-fetched given the relief on his face. I shoot him a cautionary look as I extract my phone from my pocket.

  You are so dramatic. The Empire Ambassador is NOT a dump. I’ve stayed in places way worse than this.

  My face wrinkles up and I let out a confused grunt. Don’t tell me that shit-hole motel actually has a website. One that Amber might think she can use to determine its quality and condition. If so, you can be sure the photos she’s looking at online are either fake, out of focus, or taken in the dark without a flash.

  “You OK there, buddy? You’re making some weird faces and even weirder noises.” Garrett asks, around a mouthful of the Hostess Fruit Pie he’s chowing down on now that he’s not quite so stressed out.

  “Fucking Amber,” I mutter. “She’s looking at some website for that motel out on Highway One Thirty-three, trying to convince me it’s not as bad as I told her it was.”

  Garrett chokes a little on his sugar-laden death snack. “The Empire Ambassador? Is she nuts? That place is like every bad movie about serial killers and drug deals gone wrong.”

  “That’s exactly what I told her. But she’s determined to …”

  My words trail off when another text comes through, along with a picture that’s been snapped from over Amber’s slim, golden-tanned shoulder. Half of her grinning face is in the shot, the rest showing a nasty motel room behind her. A bad painting on the wall, a gaudy table lamp with its shade askew, and two beds dressed with patterned bed coverings that would hide travesty all too well.

  Look! Two QUEEN beds. Usually it’s two doubles. Can you see the ancient clock radio? The disturbingly sticky ice bucket? The fine painting of possums above the bed?