Page 22 of Forbidden Cowboy
“You two are spoilsports!” I declared, mouth full of waffle.
They shoved me towards the door while I belligerently ate the waffle, and when I reached the cold stone slabs of the airlock, I sighed.
“I see how it is,” I bemoaned. “My two favorite girls don’t even want me here! They just want me to go to work so I can make money!”
I waited for a beat, realizing I had called Sierra one of my ‘favorite girls’, and I was worried I might have crossed some boundary. She didn’t seem to notice and was still laughing as she brought my boots over.
“You make the money to buy the ingredients so I can make the waffles,” she argued, and I looked at her.
“That’s fair,” I said faintly, only just realizing how lovely she looked.
She had her hair half up and half down, a small bun gracing the crown of her head, and the fine tendrils of bright hair around her face glowing in the morning sun streaming through the airlock window. I could barely look at the vision in front of me, dressed in plaid pajama pants and a loose t-shirt, looking more beautiful than any red carpet actress or supermodel.
“Tomorrow is Saturday, and then you can eat waffles all day,” Anna said like she was negotiating with a small child.
“Then that’s what I’m going to do!” I said. “It will be a waffle day, and anyone who stands between me and my waffles will suffer the consequences!”
My daughter dissolved into giggles again, and I pulled my boots on. I turned to peck Anna on the forehead, and without thinking, turned and did the same to Sierra.
Both of us stopped, and suddenly there was no air in the room. Even Anna felt far away. There was only the heavy look passing between us, laced with some meaning I couldn’t disambiguate. Whatever it was, it meant something, and for once, I knew it wasn’t just me feeling it.
Sierra was the first to look away, refocusing on her charge beside me.
“Look at you! What a messy face you’ve got, silly girl! Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”
Her voice was suspiciously high-pitched, and she ushered Anna out of the airlock, talking about the syrup all over her face, without giving me another look. The tension settled heavily on us like a blanket, and I took a step out of the front door, breathing in the early morning air and wishing I had some sort of answer to the questions in my head.
The tension didn’t dissipate that night, and the next day was Sierra’s day off, as well as mine. She disappeared early in the morning, and my stomach sank at the thought I might have driven her away. How could I make her feel awkward in the place that was supposed to be her home? I hated myself for it. I knew she was likely just at the hospital with Beau, but I still ached to see her face, to understand how she was feeling, and I wondered when this need to have her nearby at all times had suddenly developed.
She left a plate of waffles on the counter, covered in a tea towel, with explicit instructions for warming them up.
I didn’t want to think about how my heart tugged at the thoughtfulness.
Later that night, after I had tucked Anna into bed, and I was sitting outside, reading through papers on the back deck, I heard the door finally open. I didn’t let the relief show on my face, and I didn’t get up to make any fanfare about Sierra coming home.
“Hey,” I heard from the doorway, and I turned to see her.
She was silhouetted by the light from the kitchen, her hair loose and wearing a pair of jeans and that sweater with the stars on it. I had noticed it had become a bit of a comfort thing, and she frequently wore it to visit Beau. Her hands were balled in the sleeves of it, and she looked so damn cute that I wanted nothing more than to hug her. I obviously couldn't, but I wanted to.
“Hey,” I said. “Want to sit with me?”
She came over to my side, and sat at the seat adjacent to me. Her eyes scanned over the documents in front of me that were sideways to her.
“Work stuff,” I explained. “We’ve got contracts with a few restaurants over the country, and it’s about time I start getting them signed again.”
“So, they’re not local?”
“No,” I said, sifting through the papers until I found the one I wanted and handed it to her, “and most of them can be done over video conferences and emails, but this place is a little trickier.”
“What do you mean ‘trickier’?”
“They’re an old family running a three Michelin star restaurant in NYC, and the manager still isn’t sure about me and my ranch. He’s old fashioned. Wants to stick with the places that are local, even if it means reducing the quality of the meat. His son is the one who always convinces him to hear me out. It means I have to take a trip every few years, press the flesh and let him know that signing is the right choice.”
“And are you the right choice?” She asked in an almost teasing tone.
“I like to think so,” I said. “Our cows are fat and happy, just the way we like them. They lead good lives, and eat good feed and great grass. It might sound silly, but I think a happy herd ends up better in production than a caged one.”
“I like that they can just roam over the hills to their hearts’ content,” she agreed with a smile.