Page 8 of Unstable

MY TRUCK TIRES RUMBLE over the cattle guard as I drive through the gates of Double H Ranch. Probably need to take that sign down, surprised no one thought to do so before now… since it stopped being accurate over eight years ago.

I put my pickup in park and get out to go back and close the gates, hating that in order to shut everyone else out, I have to trap myself in.

And then I feel it. I scan every direction as far as I can see, searching for the set of eyes I can sense watching me. Seeing no-one, but doubtless they’re there, I climb back in and drive up to the two-story ranch house of my childhood.

There it is again. I’m not imagining it, the unmistakable weight of a scrutinizing stare thrums along my skin, and I quickly lock my doors. I glance up to investigate every window of the house, only to find them empty. No movement of curtains or suspicious shadows.

After long moments of rationalizing and waiting for my erratic heartbeat to find its natural rhythm, I finally decide I’m just hypersensitive after the enormity of this day and dump the key from the envelope Merrick gave me into my sweaty palm. I reach down and grab my bag off the floorboard, clutch the key tighter in my hand until I can feel its notches making impressions in my skin, and slowly creak open the door of my old truck.

No sooner than I’m out and standing, I’m not.

“Oomph,” I grimace as my back meets the hard, rocky driveway. What the…

“Bourbon?” I laugh in delighted, wistful surprise, the laugh I’d forgotten I possessed having not forgotten itself. I reach up to pet the shaggy, tan head of the sheepdog that just pummeled me to the ground. It’s Bourbon alright; older, patches of whitening hair surrounding his eyes and chin, but his licks all over my face feel exactly the same as they used to. “You poor boy, how long have you been wandering around here all alone? If you let me up you beast, we’ll see about getting you fed.”

“He’s been fed.”

I scream and roll to my side, jumping to my feet and whirling toward the deep voice that just scared the shit out of me.

“Who the hell are you?” I fume, darting my eyes around wildly, looking for anything I can use as a weapon…since my dog obviously isn’t going to save me. Bourbon hasn’t so much as growled at the stranger.

“Gatlin Holt.” The stealthy trespasser steps forward with his hand extended. “And you must be Henley. Been expecting you.”

I refuse his handshake and take him in far too slowly to still seem off-put by his unexpected presence. He’s at least six-foot tall, wearing indecently fitting Wranglers, a long-sleeved gray thermal that showcases his “seen plenty of hard work” torso, and scuffed cowboy boots. Dark brown hair, late for a trim, sticks out from under the edges of his cowboy hat and deep brown eyes finish the package.

He’s certainly not unattractive, but there’s also nothing overly exceptional about him… except every single damn thing about him.

Even standing still, he exudes an intensity that makes you want to know all his stats, his every detail…especially the things he doesn’t want you to know. And despite the fact that he’s a stranger, on my property, who may possibly be about to kill me…my stomach isn’t quivering with fear from any of those factors.

No, what’s going on inside my tummy would much more accurately be described as someone having just opened a jar of fireflies in it and those suckers are finally free— buzzing with new life.

It’s tacky, and very ill-timed, for me to not only be unconcerned with my safety, but ogling this intruder. I should be focused on the fact I’ve just set foot back on the farm I don’t deserve, but he’s…quite distracting.

“You’re not too bad to look at yourself,” he calls me out on my perusal, his pleased grin causing a dimple to make an appearance in his left cheek, toying with my sense of reason. The reason that says “grab a big stick and knock out the knockout before he attacks you first.”

I ignore his smug compliment. “Just your name won’t cut it with me, cowboy. Who are you, why are you here, and why isn’t my dog attacking you?” I fist both my hands and prop them on my hips, spreading my feet apart in hopes of amplifying my intimidation factor.

“I’m Jack’s son, the man who—”

“I know who Jack was,” I interrupt. Should’ve connected the last name, but I’m a little off my game at the moment. Regardless, this charismatic stranger did, in fact, just also lose a parent, so I make a mental note to adjust my callous tone when I next speak.

“Then you must also know, he worked for your mom, as did I. I live right over there,” he points to the small log cabin behind us in the distance, “in the farmhand house. And Bourbon isn’t attacking me because we’re buddies. He’s been sleeping inside with me at night until you got here.”

“Well then,” I bend down to grab my bag and the key I dropped, but Gatlin beats me to it.

“Let me help you with that,” he offers, but I decline his chivalry and quickly snatch up my own things. “Ah, a lady who can take care of herself, I see. I like that.” He smiles, his gaze sliding over the length of me, before he hurriedly regains control and looks me in my eyes. “Maybe we’ll just go inside, have a bite to eat, discuss things.” He lets me walk ahead of him, toward the house.

Is it pure insanity that I, who trusts absolutely no one, is about to just waltz right into the house I was dreading having to enter with this guy I’ve known a minute? Yes, absolutely. But I can’t seem to find an ounce of fear within me. And if you think about it, he’s the more familiar here…making me the real intruder. So I go with it.

Honestly, what more do I possibly have to lose at this point?

“I’m sorry about your father.” I attempt polite condolence that instead comes out sounding robotically insincere. I clear my throat and make another attempt at basic human decency. “Were you two, close?” I ask as I open the door. I don’t know if he answers me, I’m too busy wobbling on my feet, bombarded with the aroma rushing out from inside the house.

“Easy there,” Gatlin grabs my elbow with one hand, my hip with the other to keep me from toppling over. “You okay?”

“Yes, fine,” I snip, instinctually jerking away from his touch. “It’s just… how can it smell exactly the same after all this time?” I mumble to myself in wonderment. Every home has its own signature scent, but you’d think it would change when everything else does. Apparently not though, because while I remain frozen on the porch, I continue to be assailed with a mixture of my mom’s favorite body powder, last I knew sold by Ashfall’s one and only Avon lady, Madge Hurley, and Sandalwood potpourri.

She still used potpourri? I didn’t even know they made that stuff anymore what with all the candle warmers and such these days.

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