Wild Heart Summer

by Jenny B. Jones

  I can’t help but smile at that.

  But a mere three steps later, my smile disappears, and my feet halt on the gravel drive.

  “You’ll be staying here with your grandfather in the main house,” Owen says.

  “This little thing?”

  “You’ll have the entire second floor to yourself.”

  “Can’t I sleep in one of the guest cabins?”

  “Not unless you want to bunk with me.”

  Good heavens, his accent is adorable. Especially when he uses it to say things like that.

  I look up at the house and feel my resolve drift away on the breeze that fans my face.

  “He’s a nice man.” Owen stands beside me, his arm brushing against me. “Mitchell can be a little gruff, but he’s got a pretty big heart.”

  “A big heart? I guess that’s a new development.” I push a pin right into that balloon of esteem Owen holds for my grandfather. “Because that’s not the man I know.”

  “Give him a chance.”

  He hadn’t given my mom a chance. He’d kicked her out, disowned her. Dueling waves of anger and apprehension threaten to send me back to the truck.

  I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.

  And yet I have to. If I want to be on track to graduate in two years, there’s no choice.

  “Avery.” Owen’s voice is soft and patient, as if he has the time to stand there all day and humor an emotional wreck of a female. “It’s going to be okay.” He nudges me, gently bumping his side into mine. “Come on. I’ll go with you.”

  Great. A few hours of knowing Owen, and I’m already co-dependent.

  But I follow him, my unease tapping maniacally on my nerves. He opens the oversized front door, wipes his feet in what is probably a farmer’s habit, and pulls his hat off his head, revealing chestnut hair with sun-infused highlights in need of a trim. Thick hair meant to run your fingers through.

  Which I have also sworn off.

  We traipse down a hall and around a corner.

  “This is Mitchell’s office.” Owen raps his knuckles on a door before pushing it open. “Got someone to see you, sir,” he says, walking in ahead of me.

  This is it. My grandfather. The man who cut all ties with my mother. And me.

  And yet here I am—working for him.

  Out of desperation.

  “Avery?” Owen pops his head back into the hall where I still stand. “Are you coming in?”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “Maybe you could just describe me to him, let him know I’m here, and find out which room is mine?”

  “Where’s your backbone?”

  “It wouldn’t fit in my suitcase. It was either that or my hair dryer.”

  “We’re going in.” He grabs my hand and pulls me inside.

  Mitchell’s office smells like cigar, cedar, and leather. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, while two chandeliers made of antler horns dangle from the tall ceiling. A TV in the corner scrolls the stock report.

  My grandfather sits behind a giant oak desk, his eyes steady on mine.

  “Avery Clare.” He stands, and I’m taken aback by how young he is. How tall and handsome. Mitchell Crawford has a head full of gray hair and a matching mustache. A few thin lines crinkle at the edges of the green eyes so like my mother’s. And like mine. He’s slender, but clearly a life of manual labor has given him muscle and a posture to command a room.

  “Hello.” I hate the uncertainty in my voice. Is this the point I should lash out at him with my carefully prepared speech over his treatment of my mother? In another practiced scenario, I overwhelm him with my stunning cold indifference, dismissing him with my steely glare. My final option included taking my work contract out of my purse, lighting it on fire in front of him, and telling him exactly what he could do with his summer job.

  But when I tried that at home, I burned my fingers, set off the smoke alarm, and put a small hole in my roommate’s wool rug.

  “You look just like Courtney.”

  A pin prick of heat stabs through me hearing the mention of my mother’s name on his lips.

  Mitchell walks toward me, his intensity swirling around him thick as fog. My grandfather blinks rapidly, as if trying to dislodge something in his eyes, then smiles. “You’re pretty as a new Charolais calf.”

  I turn to Owen for translation.

  He laughs. “That’s a compliment.”

  Of course it is. “I, um, appreciate the opportunity to work in your kitchen,” I say. “Maybe someone could show me to my room, and I could get started.”

  “Oh, now, plenty of time for that.” Mitchell claps me on the shoulder, but drops his hand when I take a step back—right into Owen.

  “Mr. Crawford—”

  “At least call me Mitchell.”

  Okay. “Mitchell, I need to be straightforward with you. I’m not here to catch up.” The man has to know where I stand. “I just want to do the job you hired me for.”

  “I see.” Mitchell straightens. “Right.” He glances at Owen. “Son, why don’t you take Avery to her room upstairs, get her situated, then you can give her a quick tour of the ranch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn to go, but Mitchell calls my name.

  He pauses to take an audible breath. “I know you’re mad at me,” he says. “You have every right to be. I can’t change the past.”

  No, he certainly can’t. This was exactly the conversation I wanted to avoid.

  “But if you’d let me,” he says, “I’d like to get to know you. I’ve missed out on your whole life. We’ve been given this wonderful opportunity, and it would be nice to spend a little time together. We’re family, aren’t we?”

  “We might be related by blood.” Anger makes my tone sharp as knife points. “But you and I are not family.”

  “I can’t bring her back, Avery. God knows I wish I could.”

  Lies. He was standing in front of me, a face pinched in sorrow, feeding me a bunch of lies.

  “Owen, can you please show me to my room?” I swipe a tear and walk out of Mitchell’s office.

  Grief has been my ever-present companion these last two years, and any hopes of it not following me to Arkansas evaporate with my every step.

  I miss my gypsy of a mother.

  I can still hear her voice, see her face. But she isn’t here.

  She’s in a cemetery in Washington.

  And I’m now living with the man who hadn’t even bothered to show up for her funeral.

  Chapter Three

  “I want you to know I don’t make a habit of crying.”

  I dab at my eyes with a tissue gallantly provided by Owen as he drives us over a tire-worn path in some super-sized golf cart contraption. Tall grass smacks the sides of the vehicle as we rumble through the fields.

  “I’m sorry nobody warned you you’d be staying in your mother’s old bedroom,” Owen says.

  I turn my head away from him and sniffle. “It’s fine.”

  Except it isn’t. Though the room has been redecorated since my mother’s teen years, some of her things remain, reminders of a life lived and left behind. Seeing her room, I’d instantly burst into tears.

  “I don’t cry at all,” I say as Owen drives. “I mean like hardly ever. I mean yes, I tear up when I watch those Hallmark movies. And commercials with soldiers or puppies, but other than that, we’re talking never. Like ever.” In my head, I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m still talking . . . and Owen isn’t. “Not even during certain times of the month when—”

  “Avery?” He turns left toward a giant barn then slides me a look. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s understandable you’re upset.”

  “I just don’t want you to think that I’m this weak thing who dissolves into tears at the smallest bit of stress.”

  “You’re Mitchell Crawford’s granddaughter. I doubt there’s very little about you that’s weak.”

  “I’m only his granddaughter by—”

>   Owen laughs. “You’re more like him than you can imagine.”

  These are not charming words coming from his lips.

  Upstairs in my mother’s bedroom, I’d traced my hand over a collection of horse racing trophies bearing my mother’s name, her senior picture hanging in a frame on the wall, and a Crayon-stained Cabbage Patch Kid sitting in a nearby chair. With heartache swimming in my eyes, I’d picked up the doll and held it to my chest, breathing in the scent of its yellow yarn hair and wondering why my grandfather had kept it after all these years. Had it been my mom’s favorite?

  “Are you okay?” Owen now asks over the roar of the motor. “You went quiet on me.”

  He’s probably grateful for that. “I’m fine.”

  “This ATV you’re riding in is Dolly Parton. She’ll be your best friend for the next eight weeks. I’ll leave the keys with you, and any time you need a ride on the property, she’s yours. If you need to run to Sugar Creek for supplies, Mitchell has a work truck for you.”

  My lips move into a reluctant smile. “Do you name all your vehicles?”

  He grins and pats the steering wheel. “Dolly’s no spring chicken, and she’s had a lot of work done. But she never lets us down.”

  “And she has a lot under the hood?”

  “Only here an hour, and you get us already.”

  He spends the next few minutes pointing out various elements of the ranch and doing more than his share to keep the conversation going. I learn Owen doesn’t have a lot of family nearby, and he turned twenty-four last month. His smile seems to be a constant fixture on his tan face, and every time he looks at me, my skin warms. And it shouldn’t. It just shouldn’t.

  Clearly I need to extend the age of my Man Ban to at least thirty. Maybe even forty. I might as well cast a wide net and make this male boycott really effective.

  “Now over to the left—” Owen continues his tour—“we have Mitchell’s prized Black Angus cattle. He’s got about two thousand of them right now. They’re all named, so make sure you get familiar with who’s who. You can expect a quiz at the end of the week, though sometimes I’ll admit it’s still hard for me to tell the difference between Mable and Sable.”

  Every single cow looks the same.

  I smile, despite my nerves. Despite my heart that’s been flip-flopped for the past two weeks.

  The sun begins its slow slide down into the hills, but it’s still hot enough to encourage sweat on my forehead. I swat away a bug as Owen continues to drive, make small talk, and brake Dolly Parton at various sights along the way. He gives a little trivia about the cows, the duck pond, the newest addition of organic crops Owen planted himself, and the windmill energy they’re trying out.

  “So what prompted Mitchell to go all commercial and open the dude ranch?” The dude ranch that I’m completely unprepared for.

  “Tourism is really starting to pick up in the area. He thought it would be a good investment to cash in on it. Turns out he was right.”

  “And what’s your job here? Besides picking up girls from the airport.”

  “I guess I’m Mitchell’s right hand man.”

  “You’re kind of young to be running the place, don’t you think?”

  Owen glances at me from behind shiny Ray-Bans. “Nobody runs the Shadow Ranch but Mitchell. I just help pick up some slack. Oversee the employees at the dude ranch, keep an eye on the livestock, and handle some of the trail rides and events.”

  “It’s still a big responsibility.”

  “I’ve worked on this property since I was twelve. My grandpa and Mitchell are friends, and I practically grew up here.”

  I want to ask more questions, but I hold back. I don’t need to collect details for some mental Owen Jackson file. I need to keep it business and nothing more.

  Owen makes a U-turn, sending our little vehicle over grassy, gravely mounds like a bouncing space rover. “Hang on, there.” He reaches out a strong hand to my shoulder, as my body rocks with the uneven terrain.

  His hand lingers. His fingers brush the ends of my hair.

  The nerves along my skin come alive like they’re caught in a storm of static electricity.

  My wide eyes search Owen’s face, but if he felt anything, he isn’t showing it.

  “Sorry.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel. “I forget you’re not used to all this.”

  All this? As in meeting my grandfather for the first time? Blazing a trail on thousands of acres of a ranch? Or wishing my every girl-cell wasn’t fanning herself and calling for the smelling salts in the overwhelming presence of this cowboy?

  “New York is pretty different,” I finally manage.

  “Let’s go check out the lodge.” He swats my knee with his hand. “You know, the place you knew nothing about.”

  “I’m a quick learner.”

  His laugh is low and barely audible over the engine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  ***

  “You look a little overwhelmed,” Owen says as we wrap up our tour of the lodge and head back to Dolly Parton.

  That’s putting it mildly. Owen proved to be a thorough tour guide, briefly showing me his cabin, which was just like the others. It was sparsely decorated and tidy with a cute front porch and a clear view of the lodge. The other cabins were all currently occupied, each one filled with paying guests who expected three meals a day, snacks, and the ranch to entertain them every hour of their stay.

  “It’s been a long day,” I admit, ignoring the feel of Owen’s hand covering mine as he helps me into my seat. Reminding him I don’t need assistance is futile.

  “Pearl’s glad you’re here,” he says of the current doyenne of the kitchen.

  The woman had hugged me and gushed over my resume, then given me a lengthy tour of her kitchen. With her youngest daughter due to have a baby any day, Pearl was retiring. Though the woman was sweet as ice cream on a blackberry cobbler, it was my kitchen this, and my kitchen that. And she quizzed me over cooking things even Betty Crocker wouldn’t bother to ask.

  “She seems kind of territorial,” I said, as we drove on.

  “Are you talking about the photos on the wall? The ones where she’s posing with her stainless steel appliances?”

  “I’m sure it’s totally normal to kiss your refrigerator.”

  “She does love its French doors.”

  I lean my head against the seat and let the warm breeze blow my hair like a Beyonce video. Only with sweat. And bugs. And the smell of cow manure. But other than that, just like it.

  “This ranch could have its own zip code,” I say when Owen is still driving past pastures ten minutes later.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Owen slowly brings us to a stop, slips off his sunglasses, and looks out over the land. As I watch man survey creation, I study the profile of Owen’s face. His nose that has a slight bump as if once broken. The strong jaw that dares girls to trace it with their hands. The work-earned tan that covers every bit of visible skin. The sense of satisfaction and contentment lighting those eyes.

  “You love this place, don’t you?” I ask, almost afraid to interrupt his holy reflection.

  “I do.” He drawls the words and turns to me. “I hope you grow to love it too.”

  I open my mouth for a quick rebuttal, but Owen beats me to it.

  “It wouldn’t be a complete tour without showing you Mitchell’s prized horses.” He hops out, his boots hitting the ground. “Come meet the kids.”

  I smile at the affection in Owen’s voice, but something black and heavy curls in my stomach.

  “That’s Jasper Johns. And there’s Newton’s Apple. We have a few named after First Ladies—Hillary, Michelle, Barbara, and that beautiful one right there is Jackie. That older man there is our best trainer, Roger Parsons.” Owen leans his tall body on the fence and watches a man working with a Thoroughbred. “Those horses are Mitchell’s pride and joy.”

  “I know.” I stare at the animals and try to see wha
t could be so important. “He picked them over my mom.”

  Shoot. There it went again—the words. They just keep pouring out. I didn’t mean to get into it, to unpack one thing from the suitcase I’d stuffed away called “Mom’s Past.” But I’m so angry for her. For what could’ve been. “When Mom got pregnant with me, she quit racing.”

  He watches a younger ranch hand approach a skittish foal. “I hear she was the best female jockey in the state.”

  “One of the best period.” At only eighteen. “I guess that’s when things imploded. When he cut her off and Mom left.” With some guy who wasn’t my dad, but who’d made a fragile promise to take care of us all the same.

  Owen pulls his eyes from the training and studies me for a long moment before finally speaking. “Mitchell loved your mom, Avery. Don’t doubt that.”

  “He disowned her. All he cared about was his precious reputation, his horses, his name.”

  “Maybe he was a different man then.”

  I shrug, feeling the weight of Owen’s stare.

  “I know it has to be hard to be here.” He steps closer. “Why did you come?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. I needed an internship, and this one became available.”

  “And with our cook retiring, it was perfect timing.”

  “My advisor tells me the ranch starting offering the internship only a few weeks ago. It’s not exactly divine coincidence.”

  “Mitchell’s been trying to reach out to you for years.”

  I push back my warring thoughts as the young man in the Shadow Ranch t-shirt reaches for a foal with a halter. The wild thing bucks and scrambles away. He walks after her and tries again, but the foal wants none of that and neighs in protest.

  “I guess it’s not the kitchen you thought you’d be managing,” Owen says.

  I laugh ruefully, grateful for the shift in topic. “I was thinking more French restaurant. Not dude ranch. But I guess it gets me credit all the same.”

  “It’s an opportunity to check a box for your program,” he says, “but it could also be an opportunity for more.”