Page 8 of Tattered and Torn
“You must be Gabrielle,” the girl says. She’s dressed in blue jeans, a hoodie, and a pair of very serviceable hiking boots. She appears Asian, although her accent is purely Midwest American. Her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s petite and so gorgeous.
“Maya McKendrick,” she says as we shake hands. Her grip is firm and confident. She points across the room at the guy she came in with. “That’s Travis Hicks. We’re the climbers, but we also do hikes and overnight camping.”
Travis is maybe a few years older than Maya. He’s much taller, maybe six feet tall, with brown hair and a trim brown beard. He’s also dressed in blue jeans and hiking books, along with a white T-shirt underneath a red-and-white plaid shirt.
“How was your hike?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Fine. We lost only two guests. I consider that a win.”
When my eyes go wide, she laughs. “We found them, of course,” she adds. “But it was touch and go for a while.” She rolls her eyes. “People don’t know how to follow directions anymore. How hard is it to stay on the effing path?”
I smile, already liking Maya. She reminds me of a good friend I left behind in Chicago.
As I’m the only one available to run the front of the restaurant, I work as quickly and efficiently as possible to take everyone’s order and deliver meals and drinks. Once everyone is happily eating, I make my rounds with the pitcher of ice water and top off people’s glasses.
Hannah and Killian pop in to grab a bite.
It’s not until there’s a lull in the lunch rush that I wonder where Burke is—John. He’s got to be hungry, too. But then I remember Hannah telling me he’s not much of a people person. Maybe he prefers not to eat in the restaurant.
Once everyone is done eating and leaves the restaurant, I pack up a carry-out lunch consisting of a BLT sandwich, a bag of chips, and a couple of brownies. I leave the kitchen in the very capable hands of Nelle and Betty, who are cleaning up after the lunch rush and looking ahead to the dinner plans, and head down to the front desk.
Tammy’s on duty and currently looking at her phone. Her black hair is cut short, and she has a septum ring and an eyebrow piercing. “Hey, Tammy. Do you know where I can find John?”
“Who?”
“John. Burke?”
“Oh, him. Yeah. He’s either in the horse barn or at his cabin. The cabin’s just past the barn. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” I turn and head out the main doors. The barn and a huge fenced-in pasture are located across the gravel drive to my right.
As I approach the barn, I notice a group of horses grazing out in a field. I pause at the wooden fence a minute to study them. Then I move on to the barn. I find a side door that’s unlocked, so I let myself in. The interior of the barn is cool and smells like a mixture of sweet grain, the tang of horse sweat, and leather.
“John? Are you in here?”
I walk down the center aisle, glancing at the horses in the stalls on both sides of me. I do a quick headcount—there must be at least two dozen horses here. Most of these appear to be quarter horses. There are a few palominos, a bay, and one huge black horse at the end of the row. I know my horses. I used to collect horse figurines when I was kid, during my I want a pony phase. Fortunately for my parents, I eventually outgrew that stage.
There’s a light on in what I presume is the tack room. The door is ajar, and I hear faint country music coming from inside. I push open the door and poke my head inside. “John—oh, sorry.” I quickly back out of the room and look away.
“Shit!” comes his muffled response, followed by a rustle of clothing.
“I’m so sorry,” I say loud enough to be heard through the door. “I should have knocked.”
I got a bit of an eyeful. It wasn’t anything R-rated—he had his jeans on—but I got a good look at his bare chest as I caught him in the act of changing his shirt. I saw lots of skin, golden and tanned, and well-defined muscles. I couldn’t miss the bold tattoos above his pecs, leading up to his broad shoulders. I also noticed a silver chain around his neck and a pair of dog tags. Former military, I’d guess.
But that’s not all I noticed. His hat was off, and I finally got a really good look at his face—all of it. The left side of his face was badly burned at some point. His left hand is scarred, too. The poor guy. “I brought you some lunch. I figured you’d be hungry after your ride.”
My cheeks are burning. As a redhead, I’m not good at hiding blushes.
The door swings open and John steps out. He has a different shirt on, and his cowboy hat is perched on his head once more, and there’s a leather glove on his left hand. He subtly positions himself so that I see only the right side of his face.
I hand him the bag. “You didn’t come to lunch.”
He shakes his head. “I was busy.”
“Well, I brought you something anyway.”
“Thanks. Everyone calls me Burke, by the way.”