Page 20 of Whispers of My Skin

The first light of dawn is creeping through my window when sleep finally comes, allowing me to escape from reality for a while, just as long as Joel doesn’t slip into my dreams again.

But there’s to be no escape, since his callous voice jolts me awake after what seems like mere seconds.

“Wakey wakey. Come on lazy bones, time to get up.”

I groan and bury my head in the pillow, feeling like death warmed up.

“Stir yourself, Tara,” Joel continues, “Or you’ll be drenched in cold water, and that’ll wake you up pretty damn quick.”

My stomach lurches in protest as I try to comply with his orders and sit up. Recently, I’ve not been so good in the morning, but the doctor says it’s to be expected in my condition.

“You wouldn’t,” I protest, as I slowly roll over in bed, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass before attempting to get out of bed again.

“Want to bet?” He raises a challenging eyebrow as he folds his arms and rests his shoulder against the door frame. “I wouldn’t put it to the test if I were you, honey.”

I glare at him and he has the nerve to laugh. To laugh right in my face. Damn him.

And why the hell does he have to look so good this early? So unfair when I’m sure I look like shit.

Mumbling some not so lady-like words, I finally manage to struggle up and head to the bathroom, closing the door with a mighty slam to convey my displeasure, which only makes my headache worse.

Joel laughs at my little display of temper. “Oh, and Tara? Meant to say don’t bother getting yourself all glammed up. Won’t be necessary for what I have planned for you today.”

“I wouldn’t waste the effort anyway,” I snarl in response, muttering some more very unladylike choice words about how he should just go fuck himself.

“What’s this all about?” I indicate the array of tools set out in front of us. Having been dragged out of bed at this ridiculously early hour after virtually no sleep, I’m in no mood for puzzles or guessing games.

We’re standing outside the house. As ordered, I’ve not bothered with my appearance—I didn’t have the time, inclination or energy anyway. So here I am, in old jeans and a tatty t-shirt, with no clue as to what the hell Joel is playing at.

There are paint cans, an assortment of brushes and rollers, plus a tall aluminum ladder propped against the wall.

“Well, Tara, as I recall, you said something about wanting the ranch restored to its original glory. That’s why you came to me, right?” Joel states. “But if you think the only one who’s getting their hands dirty around here is me, then you’ve got another think coming.

“I never assumed that,” I protest.

“Great, glad to hear you’re intending to pull your weight and not just rely on me. So, to prove you’re serious, I want you to paint the outside of the house. And since I won’t tolerate half measures or sloppy work, I’ve provided you with all the necessary supplies and equipment.”

I look up at the house. It looks dauntingly large from this angle. Intimidating even. It’s a white wood paneling building, surrounded on three sides by a large two-story porch. On the fourth side, there’s a full height red brick feature chimney.

“The whole thing? By myself?” I ask incredulously, shaking my head in disbelief. I don’t mind helping out, but this is something else entirely. “I can’t possibly do it on my own, Joel. When my father was alive, he used a specialist maintenance company to carry out this kind of work, and they used to send in a team of several men, and even they took a couple of weeks to complete the job.”

“He may well have done, but that was then, and this is now. The coffers are empty and we can’t afford to bring anyone in,” Joel insists firmly.

“What about some of the ranch hands? Surely a couple of them could be spared to help out for a few days?” I plead.

“Nope, no can do. I’ve been through the accounts several times, and there’s no way round the fact that the current payroll is unsustainable. The ranch is overstaffed anyway, so first priority has to be cutting the dross. Should have been done a long time ago but seems no one had the guts to deal with all the hangers-on and deadweights you’ve accumulated around here. So, that’s what I’ll be dealing with while you’re getting on with the painting. And that means there’ll be no one to help you, honey.”

The sickly-sweet way he uses that term of endearment irritates the hell out of me.

This has to be a joke. When I asked Joel to manage Redlands, I didn’t expect him to start all this house maintenance and decorating practically as soon as we moved in. Sure, I thought we’d get around to it eventually, but I realize with a sinking heart that this is Joel’s way of proving that he’s the one laying down the law, that the roles are reversed. He’s no longer the hired help, and I’m no long the lady of the manor. He calls the shots, and I have no choice but to go along with whatever he dictates.

Although to be fair, on closer inspection, I can’t dispute that the house is in a pretty bad way. Lord knows the state of the roof, but I don’t raise that point in case Joel suggests I tackle that too.

None of which changes the fact that I’ve never done anything like this in my life before, even if I am willing to put in my share of hard work, at least, as far as I’m able in my current state of health.

“But I have no idea how to do any of this,” I say, waving my arms at this big old house I’m somehow expected to transform. “And I don’t see a magic wand, unless you’ve got one hidden up your sleeve.”

“No magic wand, so I suggest you look on this as a golden opportunity to expand your skills and prove yourself,” he replies. “Use your initiative. Google it. Search YouTube. But you’d better learn fast as you need to get this finished by the end of the week seeing as I’ve plenty more jobs lined up for you.”

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