A Tall, Dark Cowboy Christmas. Maisey Yates
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“Outside,” he said. “I’ll do up high, if you want to do down low.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
He shot her a look she couldn’t quite read. It almost had humor in it—almost. “I have no idea what the kids are calling much of anything these days.”
“I guess I don’t, either,” she said. “What a sobering thought.”
“You’re closer than me.”
“Not by much.”
“Twenty-six? I’d say.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So advanced. So aged. Can you even remember what you were doing when you were my age?”
His expression turned to stone. It was an immediate shift. That little glint of humor she had seen in his green eyes, just a hint, gone flat. And just like that, her stomach fell.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
She’d said something wrong, and she wasn’t sure what. It would be nice if she could find a segue, but she needed at least one more coffee to be that nimble on her feet. “Well, I guess we can cart some paint outside.” Her verbal soft shoe was nothing to write home about.
“Right,” he said.
They hauled out one of the big five-gallon paint buckets, and he started messing around with some piece of equipment she wasn’t familiar with.
“Compressor,” he said. “I’m going to use that on the upper level.
“Wait a minute, you get the power tools? Is that because you’re a man?” She eyeballed her classic, totally uncool paint roller.
“No, I get the power tools because I know how to use them. If running a compressor was something that you did for one of your manual labor jobs, please feel free to inform me, and I will happily turn that work over to you.”
“All right, that’s a good reason. Because no, I haven’t ever used a compressor.”
He pried open the lid on the paint can and started to stir, and she found herself captivated by his movements, even while he was all covered up. This morning he had on a dark jacket and gloves, the same hat he’d been wearing yesterday on top of his head.
“Is this what you would be doing if you weren’t babysitting me?”
“I’m not babysitting. I’m training.”
She shrugged. “Well, is this what you would be doing if I wasn’t here?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Probably by myself.”
“How much of a charity case am I, Grant?”
“I’ll get the job done faster with you here.” His sidestep didn’t go unnoticed.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Do you want the answer, McKenna?”
“I don’t actually care if I’m a charity case. People in my position can’t afford to put pride over a warm meal.”
“Fair enough. It’s probably about fifty-fifty. Because let’s face it, the cleaning work that we need you for doesn’t exactly cover pay and a place to stay. And it sure as hell isn’t full-time.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
“How did you end up—”
“Working a string of menial jobs and having no connections in my life?”
“Yeah,” he said, hefting the five-gallon bucket of paint and pouring a measure into a tray.
“Foster care,” she said. “Which kind of gets you used to the transient lifestyle. Also, not the best for forming long-term attachments.”
“All your life?”
“From the time I was two.”
Most people looked at her with pity after she told them that. Most people said they were sorry. Grant Dodge just seemed to absorb it. Like she had spoken the words to a mountain, and not a man.
“I did not get good grades in school. Didn’t know how to even begin applying for financial aid for college. Didn’t want to, anyway. I struck out on my own with a guy that I met in my last home. That didn’t turn out. Had a little run of didn’t turn out. Decided that at least if I was on my own I was never going to get screwed for anyone else’s mistakes. Which ended up not being true, since my last landlord sold the place out from under me. Thought that was more a deliberate action than a mistake on her part.”
She looked up at Grant. His expression contained neither judgment nor pity, and she didn’t know quite what to do with that. Typically, it was one or the other.
“Aren’t there tenants’ rights to protect you?” he asked.
“Sure,” she answered. “But how am I going to take anyone to court? How am I going to make sure that those rights are enforced? Mostly, it isn’t going to happen.”
He frowned. “That doesn’t seem—”
“Life is not fair, Grant. Not even close.”
“Yeah, I’m actually familiar with that principle.”
Again, she didn’t ask. It was strange, because he was asking her quite a few questions. More than she had expected a guy like him to ask, certainly. But she could tell the reverse would not be welcome.
“Well, then we understand each other to a degree. I don’t expect life to be fair. And that’s why when I’m given unexpected charity, I don’t kick up a fuss. I’ve had enough of the alternative to know that if something good is going to cross my path, I’m going to take it for however long it lasts.”
“Pretty solid principle to live by,” he said.
“I haven’t got a whole hell ton of principles, but the ones I do have have served me pretty well.” She dipped the long-handled roller into the tray of paint and moved it back and forth a few times, sliding it through the ridge part of the tray to get rid of the excess.
“Anywhere?” she asked.
“Anywhere,” he responded.
While he set up the air compressor, she set about making her mark on the side of the barn. She had thought yesterday’s work was satisfying, but this was somewhere beyond that. It was therapeutic in a way. Bright red strokes over weathered, worn wood. Making something new out of something old. It was more than just cleaning, it was transforming. She and Grant worked in relative silence, nothing but the sound of the air compressor, which blended into white noise and became somewhat meditative as she worked through the lower sections of the barn. They worked until her arms ached, and she was hungry.
“Why don’t we take a lunch break?” Grant asked.
“Sounds good to me.”
He covered her paint roller in plastic, and then the two of them walked back down the trail toward the mess hall. This time, when they walked by one of the covered arena areas, there were horses, and a girl with dark hair was riding one around a set of barrels.
“That’s my sister,” he said. “Jamie.”
McKenna found herself glued to the scene in front of her. She walked over to the fence, draping her arms over the top, and just watched. Grant went to stand next to her, a silent, tall figure at her side. “She’s pretty good, isn’t she?”
“Amazing,” McKenna answered.
“You want to ride sometime?”
She turned her head