by Joanna Sims
“Everything in my world looks small.” Brock directed his next comment to Hercules. “Especially you.”
Brock held the poodle close to his face and the teacup rescue bit him gently on the nose.
“Did you just see that...?” Brock laughed. “He just bit me on the nose!”
Casey stomped her feet into her boots, stood up and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “See? I told you he liked you.”
Brock, still carrying Hercules in his hand, took her to a shed set back a ways from the barn. He grabbed ahold of the handle and pulled hard on the sliding door. The door didn’t budge, so Brock handed Hercules to her and used both hands to force the door open. Inside of the shed, piled high almost to the ceiling, hand-carved furniture, made with quality wood like oak and maple, had been haphazardly packed. Forgotten treasure.
Casey didn’t know what to say. Some of the furniture was showing signs of water damage—the wood was rotting and there was a layer of white powdery mold on the legs of the chairs and on the desktops. The shed was long and wide and filled with all of this incredible furniture that could have been appreciated by someone.
“I don’t understand.” She looked at him. “Why would you throw all of this incredible furniture in this shed and let it rot?”
He didn’t answer her. There had to be more to this story than what he was willing to say. And that was okay.
“You’re an artist, Brock,” she told him, her eyes trying to distinguish shapes and patterns in the dim light at the back of the shed.
“I know how to use a saw and a hammer. That’s all.”
“No.” She shook her head. “That’s not all. You are an artist.”
If she weren’t starting to feel tired and light-headed, she would crawl on top of that pile and see what was in the back. She’d have to save that activity for another day.
“Were you serious about giving me some of this?”
“You can have it all.” Brock waved his hand like the stuff in the shed didn’t matter—like it was just a pile of junk. “I’ll start pulling some of it out and you can point out what you want.”
Casey was blown away by the offer and she had every intention of taking him up on it.
Brock continued after a minute or two of thinking. “I may as well pull all of it out. I can burn what you don’t take.”
She gasped—literally gasped—at the thought of Brock making a bonfire out of his incredible creations. In fact, that was a fantastic business name—Incredible Creations—handmade in the USA.
“That is not going to happen! I’ll take every last chair and table and desk before I let you do that!”
Brock pulled the door to the shed shut with a hard slam.
“You take what you want. If you want it all, I’ll be happy to load it on a truck and send it back to Chicago with you.”
Her apartment wouldn’t be able to accommodate but a couple of pieces, but there wasn’t any way she was going to let him burn it like scrap wood. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it all—maybe store it until she could find good homes for each piece—but none of it was going to go up in flames. Not on her watch.
They walked side by side in silence. Brock seemed pensive now. This whole thing had to be related to his marriage—and his impending divorce. Nothing else made sense. Why would he give up something that he had obviously loved? Why had he given up something that he was so talented at doing?
“If I asked you to make me something custom, would you consider doing it?”
Brock stopped in his tracks—looked at her.
“No. I’m sorry. I don’t do that anymore.” He stared at her a minute longer, long enough for her to catch the raw pain in his eyes. “Not for anyone.”
* * *
The pain and discomfort lasted longer than usual this time, but it did subside. Yet—she couldn’t ignore that what she was experiencing simply wasn’t the norm. And whatever was wrong—if it was, in fact, endometriosis—it seemed to be getting worse. She didn’t like to think it, but she would probably have to go to that doctor Taylor had mentioned. The next time she was at Bent Tree, she’d have to ask Aunt Barb for the name of her doctor and a contact number.
“What’s on your agenda?” Brock picked up her plate and took it to the sink for her.
“What?” She had drifted off in her mind. “Oh, gosh. Sorry. I was somewhere else.”
He was in the habit of asking her about her plans for the day over breakfast, and then after dinner he would ask her how the day had unfolded. She’d never had any man show this much interest in the mundane details of her life.
“Actually...” she continued. “I was thinking about exploring the shed today. Is that okay?”
“You’re feeling up to that?” He stopped rinsing off the plate to look at her.
“I feel much better today.” That wasn’t exactly true. She was better, but still not 100 percent. But sitting around waiting to feel better made her nuts.
She didn’t tell the ranch foreman the entire truth because she had picked up on the fact that Brock, underneath his hard, brick-and-mortar exterior, worried about the people in his life. No sense adding to the burden he was already carrying because of the divorce. A divorce and custody arrangement that seemed to be dragging out and dragging out—it always came down to three things: joint custody of Hannah, selling the house and ownership of Taj. Brock didn’t open up much about his ongoing mediation with Shannon—the little he did share with her, away from Hannah’s ears, told her they had reached an impasse. Mediation had failed and they were going to court.
Hannah, who had been quietly scrolling through her iPad with her left hand and taking bites of food from her plate with her right hand, asked them, “Did you know that ladybugs are cannibals?”
Casey had been encouraging Brock to redirect some of Hannah’s intensive interest in ladybugs to other subjects in order to increase her ability to function more appropriately and socially with her peers. But it was also true that those intense interests or passions that often came with a diagnosis of autism could lead to a career down the road.
“I had no idea,” Casey said to her. “I thought ladybugs were harmless.”
“They are harmless.” Hannah looked at her so seriously, as if she were defending the honor of a close friend. “They only eat their siblings if food is scarce.”
Brock met her eyes and they smiled at each other.
“Well.” Casey pushed back her chair. “That’s certainly good to know.”
The ranch foreman rested his hands on the back of one of the kitchen table chairs—Casey often found herself staring at his hands. They were massive. Not the kind of hands that you would suspect washed dishes or cooked stick-to-your-ribs, down-home country food.
“Come on, Hannah. Get your stuff together. It’s time to get you to school.”
It took Hannah a little bit longer than other children to shift her focus, but she had made progress.
“Check your schedule,” Brock reminded her. “Make sure everything’s checked off.”
A visual schedule with a list of chores always worked in Casey’s classroom, so she suggested that Brock create one for Hannah at home, and it seemed to be reducing the number of outbursts in the morning. Hannah knew what she was expected to do and she was in charge, in control, of getting the chores done and checking them off the list.
Hannah picked up her plate, rinsed it off and put it in the dish drain. Then she checked that chore off her list. Brock waited until he heard Hannah’s heavy footsteps reach the top of the stairs before he said, “You’ve done so much with her in such a short time.”
Casey was kneeling down beside the family dog, Lady, who had taken a liking to Hercules—and now the feeling was mutual. They were a very odd pair, but it appeared to be love. Whenever they were in the same room, Her
cules would be glued to the yellow Lab, and if Lady was lying down, the poodle would lie down atop her outstretched paws.
Casey didn’t want to take credit for Hannah’s hard work. All she did was make some changes to the home environment and work on some essential social skills.
“She’s a really hard worker.” Casey scooped up Hercules. “There isn’t any reason why Hannah can’t go to college, have a career, get married.”
Brock stared at her wordlessly for so long that she was prompted to ask, “What?”
“I’m just not used to hearing someone be so positive about Hannah.” Brock’s voice had an odd waver in it that made her look closely at his face. “I’ve heard a lot of negatives for most of her life—what she needs to work on, what her limitations are going to be, behavior plans. I don’t hear about all of her strengths much.
“Thank you for that,” he added.
* * *
Before Brock piled Hannah in the truck, he opened the shed door for Casey. She had promised to be careful; he had warned her to watch out for creepy-crawly inhabitants as well as slithering ones. It was a large shed, the size of a two-car garage but twice as deep. This was going to be a challenge, push her strength to the limit, but she thrived on seemingly insurmountable tasks. It was fun for her and she could happily lose herself in a job like this. She didn’t really have a rhyme or reason to her method of how she was going to unload the furniture—she was just going to dig in.
One by one, she untangled loose chairs, easy to lift and move out of the way. Then she crawled up on top of the pile to reach for the chairs at the peak. It was warming up quickly inside of the metal structure, and several hours into the chore, Casey had to take a break. She had begun to sort the pieces according to style or function. Her favorite pieces were the heavy rocking chairs—Brock could sell these like crazy on a website. She just couldn’t understand his stubbornness on the subject.
Casey dusted off one of the rocking chairs, sat down and sighed the sigh of a woman who was feeling a rush of endorphins from exerting her body. She guzzled down a full canteen of water before she closed her eyes and rocked happily in the rocking chair. This chair, for sure, was going back to Chicago with her. She already had the perfect spot picked out for it.
“Howdy!”
Casey’s eyes flew open—she shouldn’t be hearing anyone else’s voice. She was supposed to be alone on the ranch.
Wyatt, the cute cowboy.
“I was beginning to think that I wasn’t going to find you.” Wyatt walked over her way.
She couldn’t help herself—he was young, but boy was he cute. The way his faded blue jeans fit his thighs, the way his hat rested on his head—that smile.
“How are you, Wyatt?” Casey stood up. She supposed her break was over. She’d find out what Wyatt wanted, then send him on his way so she could get back to work. She had it in her head that she was going to pull every stick of furniture out of the shed so she could sort it out. Some of the pieces were damaged beyond repair, but most of the pieces just needed a little love and elbow grease.
Wyatt tilted his hat to her in greeting. “Just another day in paradise.”
Her eyes landed on the beautiful mountains in the background, the flat prairie perfect for galloping Gigi and the wide expanse of blue sky. It was paradise—or the closest thing to it for her. She had been wondering lately—if she could brave Chicago in the winter, could she survive Montana in the winter?
“Whatcha got going on here?” Wyatt looked at the furniture strewn about.
“I’m unloading this shed,” she explained the obvious. “Brock said I’m free to take what I want. It’s such beautiful stuff, I wish I could take it all.”
“This is Brock’s work?”
She nodded. “Speaking of work—aren’t you supposed to be at Bent Tree?”
“Day off.” He smiled at her.
“And you thought you would just stop by to say hi?”
“Yep.” Wyatt took a look inside of the shed. “If you’re gonna move all this stuff out of this place, you’re gonna need some help.”
She tried to decline his help, but he wouldn’t hear of it. For some reason, the cute cowboy wanted to stick around. And yes, he was a flirt. But he was harmless. Her aunt and uncle both liked Wyatt—he was young and took wholehearted advantage of his natural good looks, but he wasn’t there to hurt her.
“All right—all right.” She finally gave in. “If you want to help me, help me. You can start by moving that desk right there.”
Wyatt dove into the project and his muscles did come in handy. Somewhere along the line, he shed his button-down shirt and was bare-chested. He reminded her of the Matthew McConaughey of the nineties, when he took every opportunity to take his shirt off because he knew that he looked that damn good. Well, Wyatt looked that damn good. Golden skin, golden hair, shredded abs, defined arms. He was the whole sexy package.
“Woooo!” Wyatt jumped down from the top of the smaller pile of furniture. “I’m sweating like a whore in church!”
She was trying to woman-handle a heavy desk to its section with only minimal success. She had pulled it, pushed it, cursed at it.
“Wyatt! Would you help me, please?”
The cute cowboy was wiping the beads of sweat from his chest and forehead and face. He tossed his shirt over the back of a nearby chair and then headed her way.
“Here—move on over.” Wyatt winked at her. “This is a job for a man.”
Oh, really?
“Is that so? Then I suppose I should wait until one arrives, huh?”
Wyatt tugged on the table that was caught on a root in the grass; he laughed at her comment, but kept on tugging until the table was free. The smile of triumph he gave her when he easily dragged the table to its “section” with one arm was so cocky that she couldn’t even hold it against him. It was undeniable—Wyatt was flat-out likable.
“Thank you,” she said.
The cowboy posed for her like he was in a bodybuilding contest, showing off his biceps. “Count on the guns!”
Casey rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. I see them.” She grabbed his damp shirt and tossed it to him. “Now put them away before you hurt somebody.”
Chapter Ten
They worked side by side, only taking breaks for hydration, until the shed was completely empty and every piece of furniture was categorized. The furniture that wasn’t salvageable was put off to the side for Brock to handle in his own way.
“Holy cannoli.” Casey couldn’t believe what they’d accomplished. “That was a chore. Now I’ve got to figure out how to get it back in there so it’s easy to get around.”
She walked over to the area of the yard where she had put the several styles of bed frames. There was one in particular that she liked. She moved a couple of things out of her way to get to the bed frame she had in mind to put on the “take to Chicago” list when she spotted something move near her foot.
“Oh, crap! Oh, crap!” She scrambled up onto a nearby desk, stood up and searched the ground for the snake that had just slithered between her legs.
She pointed. “Snake! Right there! Snake!”
Her heart was racing like crazy. She hated snakes. She hated snakes. And that one had the audacity to slither right between her boots like he was going under a bridge!
“You’re fine.” Wyatt brushed off her panic. “It’s probably harmless. The only venomous snakes we have in Montana are rattlers. Did you see a rattle?”
She frowned at him. “No.”
“Then quit your yelling, woman. He’s more scared of you than you are of him.”
“That is not true!” she snapped at him. “You quit lecturing me and make sure he’s gone!”
Wyatt kicked some of the wood around where she had found safe ground. It took a minute, but then she
heard him say, “There you are.”
“What are you doing? What are you doing?”
Wyatt had dived forward, his hand outstretched. When he straightened upright, he had a snake in his hand.
“Look—see? It’s just a gopher snake. He’s not gonna hurt you.” Wyatt started to walk toward her with the snake.
“Don’t you dare bring that snake over here, Wyatt! Don’t you dare do it!” she hollered. “Take him out to the field—far enough away so he won’t come back!”
Wyatt grinned at her, but he didn’t come any closer. “He’s just a kid. Are you sure you don’t want to see him up close so you know another gopher snake when you see one?”
Her heart was beating so hard that it sounded like a drumbeat in her ears. Her legs were shaking and she felt completely freaked out.
She jabbed her finger toward the field. “Over there!”
The cowboy complied with her command—he was laughing good-naturedly on his way to setting the snake free. Wyatt strolled back to where she was still standing atop the desk.
“The coast is clear. Do you wanna come on back down?”
“Which direction did he head?” she asked cautiously.
“He’s halfway to Canada by now.” Wyatt held up his arms so he could lift her down. “Come on now. I think you owe me a cold drink and some conversation.”
Casey let Wyatt swing her down from the desk. Up close, he smelled kind of sweaty and woody and musky, but it wasn’t offensive.
“You’re just a little thing, aren’t you? How tall are you, Casey?” Wyatt asked her as they walked back to the farmhouse to get something cold to drink.
“That’s a strange question.” Casey lifted an eyebrow at him. “Five two and three quarters. My sister and I totally got gypped in the height department—we took after our mom’s side of the family instead of the Brand side.
“Lemonade okay?” Casey asked when she reached the top step of the porch.
“That’d taste mighty good right now.”
“Have a seat out here—I’ll get it for us.”
Casey wasn’t sure how Brock would feel about Wyatt being in his house—but if she had to take a guess, it would be that he wouldn’t be too fond of the idea.