Page 4 of Stay for Me

I said nothing, waiting patiently for his next words and praying to whoever the fuck was running the show up there to let me have this one win. After everything I’d been through, in my opinion, it was the least I deserved. I had no home. I had no family.

All I had were the dark memories of my past and the clothes on my back.

I just needed this, and I’d be fine. I’d make it.

“I can’t pay you much, Mags,” he said, his voice serious. “This job is hard work, and right now, little pay.”

“I just need clothes on my back and food in my gut, sir.”

The cowboy studied for me for a long time then, and for a flicker of a moment, I was convinced he might have been seeing his past self in me. The man had demons, that much I knew. Unlike me, he wasn’t even bothering trying to hide them. From his rumpled flannel, to his beard, to pale skin…I knew Denver Langston was drowning.

“When did you get back to the States?” he questioned, his voice level.

“Two months ago,” I told him, unsure whether that was the truth or not. It felt like two months, but it might have been four…or six. Truth be told, I didn’t remember much from my time in the hospital to me walking into my house, finding pain instead of a warm welcome.

That was all in the past now.

“Where’s your vehicle?”

“Don’t have one.”

He reached up and adjusted his hat, a tired sigh leaving him. “You a drifter, Mags?”

I didn’t answer because the fuck of it was, I didn’t know how to.

After a few moment of silence, he clipped, “I can’t hire a man who is going to bring trouble to my ranch, Marine. I have mouths to feed and a fucking son to protect.”

“Don’t have any fucking trouble to bring in the first place, sir. I’m just looking for work,” I said, my spine snapping straight.

“You on drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever done drugs?”

“Unwillingly.”

He jerked, the moment so small and insignificant that if I wasn’t who I was, trained like I was, I might’ve missed it.

“You got a record?”

“Nope.”

“What was your job in the Marines?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

His head ticked to the side. “I’m asking you.”

I clenched my jaw. “To serve my country.”

When he didn’t respond, I—unfortunately--felt compelled to tell him the truth.

And so, I did.

By the time I was done, the Hallow Ranch owner was looking at me in a different light, the coldness in his gray eyes having melted away. “Mags,” he said, testing the name. “Was that your call-sign?”

I shook my head. “Didn’t have one.”

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