BPOV
I had to stop and sit down; I was working myself to death, and I knew it. I sat on the bench outside the chicken coop and used my bandana to wipe my sweaty face. My old hound, Rusty, plopped his butt next to me, leaning in to my hand as I scratched his ear. It had been months since my bastard husband had been put in the ground, and I had lost fifteen pounds from all the extra work I was having to put in. I needed a solution, and I needed it quick.
I’d heard on the radio that the university was doing a student exchange of sorts. Young adults were signing up for volunteer hours through universities across the country to get a new perspective and have new experiences before buckling down for four plus years of studying. This seemed like exactly what I needed, assuming they could find the right type of person.
“Yes, I need someone that's strong enough to complete ranch work for me. If he's a weakling, he's going to be no good to me. Yes, the whole summer. I'll provide room and board, they just need to work the land with me in return. Thank you.”
It was set. I’d called them and requested a ranch hand for the summer. I just hoped I could get a strapping young man that would help me without fooling around or being lazy. I was at my wit’s end, and if I didn't get the right type of person, I didn't know what I’d do.
I didn't have time to stop and wait around for one Edward Cullen that was due to arrive at any time, depending on how fast the taxi drove him out here from the airport. I was in the horse barn mucking stalls when I heard him call out for me. I stopped what I was doing and leaned one arm on the handle of the shovel, squinting in the direction of his voice. I couldn't really see him in the dark of the barn, but I knew he was tall.
“You the boy they sent to help me?” I asked as I wiped the sweat off my face with my bandana. I felt like that was all I did these days.
“Um, yes, ma’am,” he answered in a deep baritone. At least he was polite.
“You’d better be strong, I swear to God. I need someone that can work hard, not cry over manual labor,” I muttered. It would be just my luck that they’d sent a wuss that would cry over a blister. I had blisters on top of my blisters.
“What can I do?” Good, he was willing to jump right in.
“There’s fresh straw down at the end, there.” I pointed over my shoulder. “Add that in an inch high layer to the stalls down the way that I’ve already mucked.”
I went back to what I was doing, hoping he’d follow instructions and leave me be. I was uncomfortable around strangers, especially men. My skin crawled with the uncertainties of it all.
Not much time had passed before he was talking to me again. “What do we do after we’ve finished this?”
I sighed. Figures he’s a talker. I decided to just give him a drink and maybe motivate him to work and not run his mouth.
“You need to preserve your energy by not talking, and stay hydrated,” I said as I handed him some of my homemade lemonade.
At least he was polite enough to thank me. His mama raised him right, which eased my worries a little. We went back to working in the stalls, which took the rest of the afternoon. I was a little embarrassed that I couldn't even afford to turn on the lights in the barn. I normally didn't run the air conditioner in the house either, but I would turn it on when I went in to finish dinner.
“Late enough chickens need feedin’,” I told him later when I saw him wandering around in the yard. I pulled out the feed and cut into the bag, throwing a handful of feed in demonstration before I headed into the house. The first thing I did was set the thermostat, followed by washing thoroughly.
I really had to get dinner on the table. I hadn't stirred the beef stew in awhile, and it might need more water to thin it out. Plus the biscuits had to be baked off now they’d risen for a few hours. I heard the front door open and close, and felt the back of my neck tingling as he stood silently behind me. I turned with a sharp retort on my tongue, only to have the words die before I could speak them.
Holy shit, he was hot. Tall and lanky, dark red hair all windblown, and a blush on his cheeks as he dropped his gaze to my feet.
“The chickens are fed, ma’am, and I put the feed away in the cabinet,” he mumbled.
“Thanks,” I choked out before turning back to the stove so he couldn't see my hands tremble. Dear God, I hadn't thought far enough ahead to what the man might look like. I could have ended up with a cocky asshole, so it looked like my luck was improving.
I heard him moving around behind me, the water running and the cutlery clinking together as he apparently set the table. When I moved over with the biscuits, he actually moaned. That did dangerous things in my belly, things I don't remember ever having the pleasure of feeling.
I grabbed the cast iron dutch oven with hot pads and lugged it to the table. “Hope you like stew.” I really didn't know what else to say that wouldn't sound stupid. I’d spent so many years keeping my mouth shut for fear of retaliation that I was out of practice at small talk.
I was pretty astonished that he served me first, and I ended up staring at his mouth as he bit into a biscuit. He moaned again and I grew unreasonably hot. I was so flustered that I snapped at him when he looked up at me.
“You done staring? Plenty left to do round here if you’ve nothin’ better to occupy your mind than staring.”
“I apologize, ma’am, it’s just that they told me I was coming to help a widow…”
Of course, he’d expected me to be an old woman. Still, he was making me uncomfortable.
“And only old people die, that it?” I snapped. God, I was going to make myself miserable if I second guessed every move he made.
“Ah, no. I meant no disrespect.” He dropped his gaze to his plate and ate silently.
I looked down at my own plate and did my best to ignore him.
I was pretty sure I was screwed.
I was so impressed that he started on the dishes without being asked to help. I’m pretty sure he’d never done them without the benefit of an electric dishwasher, but he did a satisfactory job. I cleaned the stove and greased the pot before leaving it sitting out. I started the coffee pot and pulled out my ledgers, dreading the time I had to spend going over the figures.
“Can I help?” I heard him ask quietly from beside me.
I looked up, and I swear he knocked the breath out of me. He was so young, though, and I had every reason to avoid him. He was so polite, and he had offered to help me more times than I could count; certainly more times than I had expected. He really would make the summer much easier on me, if I could relax and let him do what I’d hired him for.
Finally, I realized I had been staring at him while he was expecting an answer. I pushed my chair back and stood. “I’ve a room ready for you upstairs.”
I walked away and took the stairs briskly, knowing he would follow. I had spent the afternoon yesterday putting the room in order for him. The sheets were old as the hills but clean, the surfaces dusted, and I’d found a bar of soap under the sink that I’d placed in the shower across the hall. My house was old, but it held many memories; some good, some horrific, but all of them mine.
“There’s clean sheets, and the bathroom’s there.” I indicated with a chin nod to the door across the hall. “Towels in the closet, soap in the shower.”
I fled down the stairs and spent a few minutes on the books while I heard the shower turn on upstairs. I tried not to picture the water running down his hard abs, something I hadn't even seen but was imagining entirely too vividly. When the water shut off with a squeak, I rushed to the front of the house to lock the front door and turn off the lamp in the living room.
Rusty came with me into my bedroom, settling by the door I closed and locked. I didn't think I needed to worry about keeping him out, but if felt comforting just the same. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to sleep after the excitement of the day, but I was exhausted as usual. I fell into a dream-filled sleep, where I saw red hair and sharp green eyes.
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