Country Nights

by Winter Renshaw

  “Morning.” I remove my hat and take a seat at the counter at the Old Home Diner on Main street in Bonesteel Creek proper.

  “The usual?” she asks, pouring a cup before carefully sliding it in my direction. She wipes her hands on her apron and grabs her notepad before retrieving a pen from behind her ear.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nod, glancing around for a newspaper or advertiser, something to occupy my time until my bacon, wheat toast, and eggs over easy come out, only something catches my eye, and it sure as hell isn’t the yawn-inducing headline on the Bonesteel County Tribune.

  That girl—the one who showed up at my house yesterday with her suitcase in hand claiming she rented my house for two months, is seated at the far end of the counter. At least I’m pretty sure it’s her. I come here damn near every day, and I’d know if someone seemed out of place. Plus, those baby pink shoes. Nobody around here has shoes like that, all shiny and pristine. Or jeans that expensive-looking. The only jeans people wear around here are meant for climbing in and out of dusty pickups and muddy tractors.

  I figured she’d have left town by now considering the way she left my place with her tail tucked. Can’t blame her for feeling like a jackass after letting some Internet scammer get the best of her.

  “You doing okay over here, sweetheart?” Donna asks her.

  The girl looks up, brushing her messy dark hair out of her eyes, and nods.

  There’s something sad about her, or maybe she’s just one of those women who have sad eyes. Deep and inquisitive, like she’s staring way down into your soul when she looks at you.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Donna asks.

  “My check would be great. Thank you.” The girl grabs her bag off the empty spot next to her and fishes out a red leather wallet. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, I realize her skin is red and blotchy, her eyes watery, and her nose is all red.

  For crying out loud.

  Is she still crying over yesterday?

  I’ve got little patience for stupidity and even less patience for young women who expect the world to go easy on them just because they’re easy on the eyes.

  Donna waddles my way, placing silverware and a paper napkin in front of me. “Food should be out soon.” She catches me watching the girl, and her lips fight a smile. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

  Looking away, I reach for my coffee and take a sip. “I guess.”

  Swatting me away, she chuckles. “I used to know her parents. Long, long ago. Went to high school with them, actually. So sad about her daddy. He was a good man.”

  I meet her misty, mascara-caked eyes for a second. I’m curious, but I don’t ask. It won’t do me one bit of good to go prying into some stranger’s business, and the last thing I need is to get caught up feeling sorry for someone I’ve got no business feeling sorry for.

  A bell dings from the kitchen and Donna turns on her heel.

  The girl at the end of the counter is standing now, and for a brief second, she spots me before glancing away. A twenty is gripped in her left hand, and she’s fidgeting like she’s anxious to get out of here.

  Dabbing her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, she turns her back to me.

  I’m sure she’s humiliated after yesterday, but that’s not my problem, and to be honest, I couldn’t care less.

  I don’t even remember her name, and I know she told it to me at least twice.

  Hell, a week from now, I won’t even remember what she looks like.

  “You need change, sweetheart?” Donna sits my plate before me before scurrying to the girl, taking her twenty and heading to the cash register. She runs back with some loose bills and a handful of coins. “If you ever need anything, please look me up, okay? It’s good to see you again. Tell your mama I said hello, will you?”

  The girl nods, offering a flicker of a smile before turning to leave.

  Our eyes catch once more, only this time we allow our stares to linger.

  She has to pass me on her way out, and the closer she gets, the more I notice the red bloodshot eyes and the ruddy complexion. Girl looks like she spent all night crying her eyes out.

  My breakfast is getting cold, but god damn it.

  Exhaling, I clear my throat. “You want to see the house?”

  She stops, head tilted in my direction. “Excuse me?”

  “Come by in an hour. I’ll let you walk through it.” This goes against my better judgement, and truly I don’t have time for this shit, but I’ve never seen a girl with sadder eyes than her, and it’s making me feel some kind of way.

  The girl blows a quick breath through her full mouth. “I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.” I turn my back on her, picking up a fork and cutting into my cold eggs. “You looked like you’d been crying. Was trying to show you some compassion or whatever the hell you were begging for last night.”

  “I’m allergic to cats, asshole.”

  I glance back at her, studying her dark eyes to see if she’s lying.

  “I stayed at a bed and breakfast last night. The owner has a half dozen cats, and turns out I’m highly allergic.” She scratches at a red welt on her forearm, sniffing. “You thought I was crying because you wouldn’t let me stay with you?!”

  I say nothing.

  I really fucking hate being wrong.

  “So, no, I’m not crying. Nor do I need your compassion or a tour of my childhood home,” she says. “I have a feeling it would only depress me anyway, being a bachelor pad and all.”

  “A bachelor pad? Lady, it’s my house.”

  “Please stop calling me ‘lady.’ It’s Leighton,” she says, cinching the strap of her purse over her shoulder as she eyes the door. “Anyway.”

  She loiters for a second, her soft pink lips pressing tightly like she’s got something to say but isn’t sure if it’s worth the energy.

  “Is he hassling you, sweetheart?” Donna interjects. “You just say the word and I’ll take him out back and bend him over my knee.”

  I lift my coffee to my mouth. “You’d enjoy that too much, Donna.”

  “You’re right.” She sighs, a hand pressed across her ample bosom. “I would. If only you were twenty years older.”

  “If I were twenty years older, I’d make a proper woman out of you in a heartbeat,” I say, winking. She blushes. Donna lives for this.

  “Age ain’t nothing but a number, handsome.” She tops off my coffee before shuffling to the kitchen. “Say the word and I’m all yours.”

  By the time Donna disappears around back, the bells on the front door jingle and Leighton’s heading for her white Chevy.

  I finish my breakfast and leave the cash on the counter before replacing my hat and heading back to the farm. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long, which means I don’t have time to worry about anyone else’s shit but my own.

  And that’s just the way I like it …

  … usually.

  There’s something unsettling about watching her leave, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.

  Chapter Five

  Leighton

  “Leighton, are you in there?” Mrs. Brostrom, the proprietor of the Pink Castle Bed and Breakfast, knocks on my door. “I don’t normally serve dinner, but I was making myself some beef stew, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me in the dining room?”

  I shove the last of my clothes into my suitcase and pull the zipper tight.

  My eyes are on fire and my nose has been dripping like a faucet ever since I came back here earlier today. I stopped at the local pharmacy on the way over, grabbing a couple allergy options, but one only made me sleepy and the other may as well have been a placebo.

  Opening the door, I’m greeted with the sweet smile of a lonely woman.

  An orange tabby cat dashes from between her legs and runs to my bed, jumping up and settling in the center of my suitcase.

  “My goodness. Cat Stevens, you know the rules.” Mrs. Brostrom places one hand on her hip, wagging a pointed
finger. “You’re not allowed in the guest rooms.”

  The house rules must not have applied to the calico cat I found in my bathroom this morning or the black cat with the yellow eyes that slipped into my room in the middle of the night, nestled on the foot of my bed, then proceeded to bat at my feet as if my toes were made of cat nip.

  I have no idea how they keep getting in here, and I’m afraid to ask.

  Pushing past me, she swoops the cat into her arms and offers an apologetic smile. But the second her eyes land on the packed suitcase that smile disappears.

  “Are you leaving?” she asks.

  I hesitate before a sneeze steals my opportunity to answer.

  “Bless you,” she says. “Are you catching a cold?”

  “I’m allergic to the cats,” I say, just as a white cat begins to rub itself against my legs.

  I love animals, I do, but I can’t deal with cats coming out of the woodwork. And I can’t suffer through these allergies another night.

  “Where will you go?” she asks, legitimately concerned. “All the hotels are booked.”

  “I’ll figure it out.” I step over another cat, this one a Siamese mix with beautiful blue eyes and a mean leer, and pull my suitcase off the bed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, following me to the hall. “I hope you enjoyed your stay. I’d love a review on Yelp when you get the chance …”

  “Of course.”

  I lug the bag down the polished wooden stairs. Aside from the menagerie of felines roaming the halls, this place is beautiful. A fully restored Victorian, this place is like stepping into another century only with such modern luxuries as running water and electricity.

  Mrs. Brostrom cradles a cat in her arms as she watches me leave, her lips smiling but her gray eyes hinting at gnawing loneliness.

  I wish I could stay here, I do.

  Rubbing hard at my itchy, watery eyes, I thank her for everything.

  And then I sneeze.

  Four times in a row.

  Looks like I’ll be sleeping in my car tonight.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” A man’s muffled voice startles me awake the next morning.

  Starting my car, I roll down the window when I see him: the asshole cowboy.

  “Tell me you didn’t sleep in your car last night,” he says, hunched over with his callused, overworked hands resting on the roof.

  I couldn’t stay at the bed and breakfast, not with all those cats roaming around. The two hotels in this town were all booked thanks to some annual demolition derby competition at the fairgrounds this week, and the nearest hotel was a ninety-minute drive west and listed on some bed bug registry.

  My car felt like the safest bet.

  Plus, I won’t get my final paycheck from the gallery until next Friday. I need to stretch what remains in my checking account until then. Last I checked, the cheapest flight out of Pierre on such short notice was almost eight hundred bucks.

  For now, I’m stuck here.

  “So what’s your plan, city girl?” he asks.

  I pull my phone off the charger and check the time. It’s eight in the morning and already I have two missed calls from Grant.

  The man is still tirelessly persistent. It may well be the one quality that hasn’t changed about him over the last couple of years.

  “I’m not sure that concerns you,” I say, tasting stale breath on my tongue. I’ll have to find some gas station to grab a bite to eat and get cleaned up. “How did you find me anyway? First the diner, now here. Are you following me?”

  “You’re parked behind the co-op. I’m here to get some salt licks for my yearlings. But if it makes you feel better, sure. I was following you. Ever since you showed up at my door two days ago, I can’t get you out of my head.” He keeps a straight face. “I’m obsessed with you, Payton.”

  “Leighton.”

  “Same difference.”

  I roll my eyes. “You done yet?”

  “Guess so.” He stands straight, squinting in the morning sun toward the back of the co-op building, where an employee fidgets with the lock on the other side. A couple of half-ton pickups pull into the back parking lot.

  “Okay … bye.” I wait for him to leave, but he just stands there.

  “Look,” he says, face winced as if it pains him to say this. “I’ve been meaning to hire someone to help out a bit this summer.”

  “Pass.”

  “Let me finish.”

  I glance up, meeting his overriding stare.

  “I have a bunk house,” he says.

  “I know you have a bunk house. My father built that bunk house.”

  “You can sleep there if you want.” He removes his hat, runs his fingers through his dark hair, then places it back. “But only if you help out around the farm … chores and all that in exchange for room and board.”

  It’s ironically kind of him to offer since so far he hasn’t proven himself to be a kind person. I can’t imagine working for him would be a walk in the park, but a nice, clean bed would be a godsend.

  I rub the crick in my neck, staring past the steering wheel.

  “I don’t have all day,” he says, brows lifted. “And you’re looking like you could use a hot shower, so ...”

  Oh, god.

  I would kill for a hot shower right now.

  “Not going to twist your arm,” he says. “Not going to stand around waiting for you to make up your mind either.”

  Massaging my temples, I exhale. “I … I don’t know.”

  I want to.

  And I don’t.

  “I’m going to go inside and get my damn salt licks.” He steps away from my car, boots dragging across the gravel. “You’ve got five minutes, and then the offer’s off the table.”

  I watch him go inside, his boots dragging through the gravel parking lot as he takes long strides. His dark jeans wear tight on his muscled ass, and his blue and red plaid shirt is cuffed at his elbows and pulling tight at his broad shoulders. I’d have figured a man like that in these parts would’ve been married with a family by now, maybe with a pretty little wife and a handful of strapping sons to help out on the ranch.

  But he’s got the confidence of a man who doesn’t care what other people think of him. And he comes across as a bit of a loner, a man content to live by his own rules. A man who needs nothing and no one: a dangerous combination.

  It would be nice to see my house again, even if it has been converted into Asshole Cowboy’s bachelor pad. But I haven’t worked on a farm in over ten years. I’m not sure how much help I’d be. And I don’t want to stay in the bunk house. If it’s anything like it used to be, it gets hot in there at night with no AC, and it’s musty, and all kinds of creepy crawlies get in through the cracks in the walls.

  A voicemail box lights up my screen. I must’ve missed another call from Grant. Pressing ‘play’ simply for curiosity’s sake, I lift the phone to my ear and listen.

  “Leighton.” His voice breaks when he says my name. And then he sighs. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it sounded like he hasn’t slept since I left.

  Good.

  “What are we doing?” he asks. “Talk to me. Call me back. Come back. I miss you. I need you. I fucked up. I admit it, baby. I fucked up so bad. Just … come back to me. I don’t know where you are. Your sister won’t tell me. Your boss says you quit your job. I’m worried. You just left … and that’s not like you and I …”

  He rambles on, but I tune him out when I see Cowboy strutting across the parking lot toward his truck. Ending Grant’s voicemail, I climb out of my car and meet him at the tailgate.

  “You haven’t even told me your name,” I say.

  He cocks his head in my direction. “River McCray.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “What’s that matter?”

  I shrug. “I just want to know a little bit about you.”

  “Thirty-three,” he says, sighing like my question annoyed him.

  “A
re you from around here?” I ask.

  “Born and raised.”

  “How come I’ve never heard of you before?”

  He lifts his dark brows. “I’ve never heard of you either. Guess we’re from different generations.”

  “I’m not that much younger than you,” I say, doing the math in my head. Roughly seven years. We wouldn’t have gone to high school together, so I guess it makes sense that I’ve never heard of him. Though growing up, my parents tended to know all the farm families in the area, so I guess it strikes me as odd.

  “Anything else you need to know?” He places some salt licks in the bed of his truck, their heaviness echoing off the metal when he drops them.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  He about chokes on his spit. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “More like nosy.”

  “You just seem so …”

  “So what?” He squints, waiting.

  “Closed off?”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” he says.

  “Have you ever lived with anyone before?” I ask. “More specifically, have you ever lived with a woman?”

  “Where are you going with this, Leighton?” He checks his watch before peering toward the highway.

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll get to the point,” I say. “I’ll work on your ranch, but only until next Friday, because I get paid then and I’m getting the hell out of here. And I’m staying in my old room, not the bunk house.”

  He looks me up and down before slamming the gate shut. “As long as you understand it’s my house, my farm, and my rules, I think we can make this work.”

  Chapter Six

  River

  “Boots and coveralls are in the mudroom.” I point, forgetting she knows her way around. “Get dressed and meet me in the red barn at the end of the east drive.”

  She stands at the base of the stairs, dark hair dripping wet and a fresh change of clothes covering her damp body. She smells like a bar of Dial soap, but she won’t for much longer. If I’m opening my doors to a complete stranger, giving her food and shelter, she’s sure as hell going to earn her keep, and I don’t intend on going easy on her just because she’s a girl.