Page 10 of Rootbound

Christ on a fucking cracker. At least they are very old tags that still say Van Rijckevorsel, I think? He doesn’t ask about the last name, so I don’t mention it.

“I’m Henry. I’ll be driving you out to the ranch. I’ll take these two bags out to the truck and then come back for you, alright?”

I manage a nod.

As soon as he turns to leave, the panic surges. My heart hammers in my throat and the tears threaten to spill over. I’m not going to get to avoidanyof this like I’d hoped. I feel like a marionette with my strings being pulled. I’m being played in something that I am not remotely prepared for… Why didn’t I prepare better?

I’m tired and the combination of the cocktails and residual flight anxiety is just getting to me, I decide. After all,Ihave done nothing wrong here. That family—the one who didn’t care enough to even remain in touch—should bethe ones afraid ofme.And Charlie…hisactions are the foundation for all of this. I am not the one at fault. I am not after anything from them. I’ve made a successful, amazing life for myself in spite of the people who left me. A life I will uphold and cling to with every fiber of strength in me. I’ve got this.

I toss back my head to knock the tears out of my eyes and decide, in that very moment, that I’m here to do myjob—one that will result in awe-inspiring photos, and one hell of a story, and there’s no reason for anyone or anything to get in the way of that.

Six

Henry

I get the bags packed in the back seat of the truck and make sure they’re wedged in securely. I assume little miss sunshine back there won’t want her precious camera equipment to get thrown in the bed, and since I know that Mrs. Logan will have my balls if I make the ranch look bad in any way, I decide that’s the better course of action. I need to muster up the energy to be more… personable… but fuck, I have plenty of real work back at the ranch to be doing, and this girl flew into the wrong airport. Not to mention, I can already tell that the woman I just met is going to be about as warm as a glacier.

Something nags at the back of my mind, though—her name, Tait, and something about the way that stare cut right through me. Eyes that at first look almost brown, but up close are actually a dark mossy green. She’s tan, but I guess she’s from California after all, so it’s likely fake. Herblonde hair is a wavy mane down her back and around her shoulders, wild. Almost like she’d been yanking at the roots the whole way here. She’s definitely not what I would have expected, though. I guess I’m small town enough to think that a California photographer would show up looking completely underfed, in head-to-toe black, rocking oversized glasses, or something. This girl showed up looking comfortable, in what Grace and Grady like to refer to as “athleisure,” and a jean jacket.

I could also tell through her gray workout leggings that, objectively, she’s got shapely legs (the term “thighs that could crush a watermelon” comes to mind) and couldn’t help but notice a sizable rack.Objectively.Again, California, so probably all fake (for all that I’d be able to tell). I should reel in the judgmental tone to those thoughts, but I feel immediately agitated by the woman, with no idea why.

I turn to head back only to find her charging headfirst at me like a buck ready to lock horns, rolling a bag with each arm behind her.

“Let’s roll!” she exclaims with a jerk of her blonde head at the truck.

The change in demeanor is jarring, a little manic. I silently take and load the other bags while she gingerly hops in—as if trucks are her regular mode of transportation, or something. I laugh under my breath, thinking about the last date I went on. She’d worn a skin-tight skirt and ended up needing me to give her a lift to get in and out every time. She probably thought it was cute and funny—maybe an excuse for me to touch her… I found it annoying.

I’m not jaded enough to think that it’sthemand notmewho’s causing my love life to be a veritable wasteland.

“So, Henry. How far is the Range from the airport?” Tait asks, cutting into my philosophical thoughts.

“Well, since you flew into Boise instead of Hailey, we are looking at about a three-hour ride.”

I catch one eyebrow shoot up and a little head shake.

“I didn’t book my flight, Deacon did. I hope this isn’t too much trouble.”

The slow and precise way she says it, combined with the curl of her eyebrow, makes it clear that she couldn’t care less about the amount of trouble it is. Something about the determined set of her jaw, the way she juts out her chin with the small cleft in it, her pouty bottom lip—it gets under my skin and I want to needle her more.

“Nah, what’s an extra six hours of my day when it could have been a total of one? The work will still be there, waiting for me, tomorrow. Along with tomorrow’s work.”

I see a muscle in her jaw flutter out of the corner of my eye.

“Would you mind if I play music? That seems like a pleasant enough way to pass the time,” she asks.

“Sure,” I reply. I don’t offer to help her figure out radio stations. She whips out her phone and manages to sync it to my Bluetooth immediately. I flinch and prepare for the worst…

… And am pleasantly surprised when the first song is by Chris Stapleton. Not my favorite of his, but tolerable at least.

The next song throws me off, though. Hootie & the Blowfish?

Song number three is, straight up, an oldie: “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac.

After that, the chaos continues.

I’m subjected to Justin Bieber, followed by George Strait,the Eagles, Katy Perry, Tom Petty, Post Malone, Shania Twain, Queen, then a few in a row that have the most filthy and/or violent lyrics I’ve ever heard (uncensored, and the girl doesn’t even bat an eye)… She mouths “spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me” without so much as a hesitant glance in my direction. It takes more than a song to scandalize me, but the unflinching, relentless randomness of this has heat creeping up my neck.

Oh, sure, now we’re back to some country.