by D. R. Graham
Easton nods to agree and dips his straw through the foam on top of his float. A customer enters the store, so Crystal leaves us at the counter to go help the woman.
“That’s a weird reason to break up with someone. But wow. Oh my gosh. Why is this so good?”
Easton chuckles. “The secret is her homemade ice cream. It’s basically crack. You won’t be able to stop dreaming about them from now on.”
“Thanks a lot. If I knew your plan was to bring me out here to the middle of nowhere and turn me into a drug addict, I might have said no.”
“Might have said no?”
Probably still wouldn’t have said no. Definitely would have still said yes. I raise my eyebrows at him but continue drinking so I don’t have to answer.
He finishes before I do and then watches me drink.
“Crystal thinks we’re dating,” I say once I’m finished.
He shrugs again as if her believing that doesn’t bother him. “I haven’t brought a woman around since I moved away. Everybody is going to think we’re dating. You can correct them if you want, but that will only make them gossip more with speculation. Either way you’re still going to be the talk of the town.”
My ears heat up in an uncontrollable embarrassed flush that has its roots in a fourth-grade rumor mill fiasco that left me emotionally scarred for life and apparently horrified to be the topic of anyone’s gossip.
Easton chuckles. “Relax. It’s a one-street town.”
Okay. Yeah. What’s the big deal? It’s the good kind of gossip. I don’t mind everybody assuming we’re dating if he doesn’t. I’d rather I was actually dating him, but I’ll take it. My red-hot ears are still on the verge of producing steam. Not sure how to turn that off. Change the topic! “Should we pick up something for lunch? What does your dad like?”
His face creases in a reluctant expression. “He loves the roast beef on rye sandwiches from the Dudnik’s deli across the street. You have to get them, though.”
“Why? Are you banned form the deli or something?”
“Sort of.” He stands and digs into the pocket of his jeans to give me a twenty. “Order two roast beefs on rye and whatever you want. I’ll meet you back at the truck.”
“How do you get banned from a deli?” I mutter to myself and shake my head as I walk to the door. “Bye Crystal.” I wave. “Nice meeting you.”
She waves over the customer she’s helping. “Bye Della. Have a nice visit at the Lewis place.”
Two other customers look up from what they were doing and eyeball me. Then they look over at Easton. Okay. I see how gossip in a small town works. I’m probably going to be pregnant with his illegitimate baby by noon. I leave and cross the street to the deli. The owner is a short, stocky Russian guy. I greet him in Russian, assuming he’s the Mr. Dudnik of the Dudnik Deli, and you’d think he just met royalty or something. He calls his wife out from the back storage room to meet me, and they both shower me with double cheek kisses. All because I said good morning in Russian.
While the owner makes the sandwiches from scratch I look around, wondering what Easton could have possibly done to get banned from the deli. I really don’t believe he’s the type who would steal. Maybe he was different when he was younger. Crystal did say it wasn’t easy to keep him out of trouble. But that doesn’t sound like the Easton I know.
Mr. Dudnik takes forever making the sandwiches and telling me about which part of Russia they are from. Apparently not a lot of Russian-speaking customers stumble into a sandwich deli half an hour outside of Three Rivers, California. Go figure. Maybe Easton didn’t get banned. Maybe he purposely sent me in knowing that the guy talks too much. Not judging. I talk too much. But he’s killing me. Eventually he wraps the sandwiches and stacks them in a paper bag, with the precision one would use for packing a sandwich for royalty. Then he tries to give them to me at no charge.
“No. That’s very generous of you, but I insist.” I hand him the twenty and bolt out the door before he can protest. Easton isn’t at the truck yet, so I sit on the tailgate to wait.
A striking woman with long, dark hair to her waist walks up and stops in front of me. Then she extends her arm to shake my hand. “Tracy.”
“Della.” Is that normal in a small town? People just randomly walk up and say their name. It’s very friendly. But honestly, a little strange.
Her eyes scan down and narrow as if she doesn’t approve of what I’m wearing. What’s wrong with white capris and a pink peasant blouse? This isn’t exactly Manhattan. She’s wearing jeans and a button-up shirt. Not grounds for the critical look on her face. “Is this Easton’s truck?”
“Oh. Yeah. I think he’s running an errand or talking to someone he knows. He’ll be back in a minute.”
She nods slowly, still taking me in. But doesn’t say anything.
“I take it you know him.”
“Yeah, I know him. Tell him Tracy says hi.” She turns and walks away.
All right. Nice talk. There’s definitely a story there. I don’t want to know it. Well, I mean I do. I’m just fairly certain I’m not going to like it all that much. I have a very strong impulse to shout; “He told me he likes me and that I’m awesome and he was dying to ask me for a goodnight kiss because I’m as beautiful as an Orlov Trotter,” but some things that pop into your head are better left unspoken, as my sister has reminded me at least a million times in my lifetime. Tracy turns the corner at the hair salon and disappears.
After five minutes, when Easton still hasn’t shown up, I open the deli bag and unwrap my turkey sandwich. It’s not that disgusting, slimy processed meat. It is actual shaved chunks off a home-roasted bird with cranberry sauce. Fresh out of the oven bread. Mmm. It smells good. And it tastes amazing. Easton appears from around the corner of the deli, smiling and carrying a blue shop bag.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to pick up a fishing reel for my dad.” He holds up the hardware store bag, then points at the sandwich. “It’s good, right?”
“Yeah. As good as the float. Why can’t you go in the deli?”
“Dudnik doesn’t serve Native Americans.”
My mouth opens and the partially chewed piece of sandwich drops out onto the ground. Ew. Did I just do that? I spit out food on the sidewalk. “Sorry.” I hop off the tailgate and scoop up the glob of food with the napkin, then throw it in the garbage can. “What? He’s a racist? Why would you ask me to buy his sandwiches?”
“They’re the best in town. Maybe the best in California.”
“Easton. I can’t eat the sandwich of a racist.”
He chuckles, completely unaffected. “Guaranteed you eat food prepared by racists all the time. You just don’t know it. Besides, I don’t care what that guy or any other bigot thinks of me.”
“Hating someone because of how they look is wrong.”
“That’s his problem. I like his sandwiches.”
I shake my head and storm back to the deli, throwing my sandwich in the trashcan on the sidewalk.
Mr. Dudnik looks concerned that I’m back so soon. “Is everything okay with the sandwiches?”
In Russian I say, “Yes. I just came back to tell you how delicious they were. They were even better than my grandmother’s.”
He smiles proudly and rushes out from behind the counter to press the twenty-dollar bill into my hand, insisting that he doesn’t want a daughter of the homeland to pay.
“Thank you,” I say in English and pocket the money. “I will definitely be back. My fiancé is Easton Lewis. You must know him. He grew up near here. His father still lives here. The Lewis ranch. They are Mojave, as in the first people to ever inhabit the land. Now that we are going to be married I’m sure we will be visiting regularly. I will be sure to stop in and say hello each time. Hopefully it won’t be too long before I’ll be able to bring our half-Russian, half-Mojave children in to enjoy your sandwiches, too. Thank you, again.”
His eyes widen and his mouth drops open in a dumbstruck way. Speechless is g
ood.
Spinning around, I resist the urge to lecture him in Russian before I leave.
Outside, Easton is leaned against his truck with his arms crossed. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
“I didn’t.” I hand him the twenty. “I told Dudnik how much I enjoyed the sandwich. He insisted there was no need for a fellow Russian to pay. And then I let him know my Mojave fiancé and I would definitely be visiting the deli regularly once we are married because we want our future mixed-ethnicity children to experience small-town hospitality and home-cooking.”
Easton smiles and stuffs the twenty back into his pocket. “That will get the town talking. Good job.”
Ah, man. My ears are ablaze again. “Speaking of town talk, who’s Tracy?”
The amused expression disappears from his face and he scans the street looking for her. “My high school girlfriend. We broke up after my first year at Stanford. Why?”
“She came over to say hi while I was sitting on the tailgate, waiting for you.”
He opens the door for me. “What else did she say?”
“Nothing. She asked if this was your truck and then told me to say hi to you before she walked away.” Leaving out the fact that her tone was hostile enough to make me wince, I hop in the cab and he shuts the door for me. His expression is difficult to read as he walks around the front of the truck and gets in the driver’s side. “Is she Mojave?” I ask as he takes his hat off and slides it onto the dashboard.
“No. She’s half-Mexican and half-Norwegian.”
“She’s beautiful.”
He nods and turns the key in the ignition. Then he turns his head and flashes one of his model smiles. “She might slash my tires once she hears that you and I are getting married.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Partly.”
Which part? I slouch down and scan the street for any sight of her. “Maybe you should clear up the rumors for her benefit. And our safety.”
He shakes his head, unconcerned as we drive past all signs of civilization. “We broke up because she cheated on me. Whom I’m friends with, whom I date, and whom I marry are none of her business. She made her choice. I don’t care what she thinks.”
I sit up straight and stare at him, completely dumfounded. Why in the world would anyone cheat on him? There can’t possibly be someone better out there. She’s such an idiot.
“Okay, no more talking about two-timing Tracy and the racist Russian. They don’t mean anything to me.” He points across the road to an open pasture. “That right there means something to me. That’s where our property begins. It extends over those hills out in the distance and farther than the eye can see on the other side.”
The stunning vista stretches across the entire horizon. A small river with a craggy stone bank cuts through the meadow and follows the curvy foot of the green, rolling hills. Bigger mountains tower in the background. “Wow. It’s gorgeous.”
He nods and then turns off the main road, through an arch with the words ‘Lewis Ranch’ welded in iron. We carry on along a gravel road, which is sort of like a driveway but five minutes long. The house is literally a rancher—a one level log house with gabled windows in the attic, a metal roof, and a covered porch that runs along the entire front. They even have rocking chairs. It’s really charming, like the setting of a movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel.
As Easton pulls up and parks in front of a red barn that is adjacent to the house, he says, “I have a room up in the loft of the barn where you can study. That’s where I stay when I’m home. It has a desk, bathroom, drinks in the fridge and snacks in the cupboard.”
“Okay.” I get out of the truck and spin in a full circle to take in the majestic surroundings. “I love it here already.”
A fluffy black and white border collie runs from behind the barn and greets Easton with wiggles and figure-eights through his legs. “This is Brewster,” Easton says to me before addressing the dog, “This is Della. She’s nice. You’ll definitely like her.” He raises his eyebrows and flashes a grin at me as he rubs Brewster’s ears.
“He’s cute. But I’m not a dog person.”
“What?” Easton feigns shock and exchanges a look with Brewster. “Did you hear that, buddy? She doesn’t like dogs. I know. I know. You’re no ordinary dog. Just be yourself. There’s no way she won’t eventually fall for you.”
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but his chances of winning me over are slim. I’m really more of a goldfish person.”
Easton shakes his head at Brewster. “What can I say? She’s weird. Don’t try to figure her out.” Brewster barks once as if he understands, then runs off and disappears behind the barn.
I grab my backpack, which is full of textbooks. Easton scoops the deli bag with the other two sandwiches from me. “Do you want me to meet your dad?”
“Yeah, later. He said he would be out clearing brush until this afternoon.”
“Shouldn’t he be resting?”
“He won’t until the work’s all done, so I better get at it.” He points to the stairs that lead up to the loft and then opens one of the horse stalls. “The keys are in the truck if you need to go back to the general store for anything. You can also go into the main house if you want to. Make yourself at home. Ranch hands will be coming and going, so don’t be alarmed if you hear something down here or see guys around. If there’s a problem, you can call me. I’ll be back around five.” He grabs the saddle and other leather things I don’t know the name of to prepare the horse.
Is it weird that I don’t want him to go? He’s like homemade ice cream. I’m going to slip into withdrawal as soon as he’s out of my sight. He stops buckling the saddle strap thingy and looks over at me with one of his model smiles. Oh shoot. He knows what I’m thinking. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. I want him to love me as much as he loves Crystal’s root beer floats. That sounds strange, but it’s true. I need to break free from his gravitational pull before I do something stupid like volunteer to get on a horse and ride the range with him. I step up onto the bottom stair and say, “I’ll miss you.” Ugh. Stupid. Not the right thing to say. I don’t know what the right thing to say is, but it isn’t that. I wince and then spin around and run up the stairs to the loft.
Chapter 10
Easton
Fixing the downed fence took longer than I had hoped, and it’s after six o’clock by the time I get back to the loft. Della’s curled up asleep on my bed, which makes me want to join her. Wondering what she was doing back here alone was all I thought about while I was working. Being in bed was definitely one of the scenarios that had occurred to me—not the best train of thought considering I’m attempting to keep things platonic. Not that inviting her to spend the day here and meet my dad can be considered platonic. I glance at the empty bag of peanut M&Ms and three Mountain Dew cans on the desk next to her pile of books. At least she got some studying done. Avoiding the squeaky floorboards on the way to the bathroom, I strip down and hop in the shower.
There’s no question I’m going to need to hire another ranch hand. There’s too much work for Dad to do while he’s not feeling well, and I can’t come out every weekend. But, unfortunately, I don’t have the funds to hire another hand right now. I could take a modeling gig, which means heading to San Francisco or LA and more time off school. It also means time away from Della. Shit. I can’t believe she’s even a consideration that’s crossing my mind already. I’m in deep.
I wrap a towel around my waist and step out of the bathroom. She’s awake and sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Hey,” I say as I unzip my bag and pull out a change of clothes.
“Hi. I thought maybe you were a ranch hand helping himself to a shower.”
I step back into the bathroom to dress but leave the door open so she can hear me. “I should have clarified that they aren’t supposed to be hanging around up in the loft. How many of them came up for showers while I was gone?”
“Only two. And on
e of them spoke Spanish, so I’m not one hundred percent sure what he said when he stroked my hair lovingly.”
I laugh and step back into the apartment. “If that really did happen it’s probably better that you don’t know what he said.”
She hops off the bed and slides her feet into her canvas tennis shoes. “Please tell me it’s almost time for dinner. I’m starving.”
She moves closer and stands right in front of me, like hugging distance. Kissing distance. Pick her up and carry her back to the bed distance. “Uh. Yeah, it should be almost ready. My dad’s cooking up the fish he caught.”
Her eyes track across my chest and her top teeth rest against her bottom lip as if she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. My heart is pounding so hard it’s making me light-headed. We need to go to the main house before I reach over and touch the exposed skin between the waistband of her pants and the bottom hem of her blouse. She’s killing me.
“Uh, so just to give you a heads up, my dad and I have a complicated relationship.”
“Okay.” Her eyes angle up at the ceiling in a squinty, perplexed way as she tries to figure out what that means. “Is there something specific you want me to say or do?”
“No. Just don’t take the tension personally.”
She focuses on my expression, trying to read more into what I mean by tension.
A part of me wants to tell her everything, but I don’t know how to explain without going into the whole history, which would take forever, so instead I say, “Let’s go eat.” I place my palm on the small of her back and let her walk ahead of me down the stairs.
She slows as she passes the horse stalls and pats each of their muzzles. “Which one is your favorite?” she asks.
“My favorite horse died last year. I was the only person he would let ride him. His name was Shitake, but I called him Shithead.” My palms fly up in apologetic defense. “It’s not really swearing if it’s his name.”
“Why do you guys all think I can’t handle a swear word?” She props her hands on her hips, offended. “I’m not that fragile.”