Page 44 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"Don't feel bad. He enjoys it."

He winks at me, just like he did back at the stable, and once again it sets my mind spinning. I press my lips together, trying not to react, but judging by the heat in my cheeks, I probably fail.

"I can cook too," Reed says. "I do a mean mac and cheese, but with one or two secret ingredients."

I smile faintly. Dean says nothing, and I can't think of anything to say either.

That tension hangs in the air—complicated, tangled, undeniable.

How is it even possible to be drawn to two men at once? Three, if I count Lennon.

I have no idea what's wrong with me.

Dinner—or perhaps supper by this time of night—is a little quiet. It's late for Grace and her tiredness shows in her mood, which takes up most of the men's attention. Innocently, I suggest she might like a cup of hot cocoa, and they all throw me warning looks—but it's already too late.

"Mommy used to make me hot cocoa," Grace murmurs. She glances at her dad. "Why has Mommy gone away, Daddy? Why can't she come back?"

My heart breaks, as Lennon's face shatters. He struggles to rein his feelings back in, to keep his composure for his little girl, and to answer her in a way she will understand and accept, but we can all see how much he's struggling.

"Mommy died," he says. "Remember? She's with Jesus now, in heaven."

"Yes, but why can't she come back to visit us?"

"Because once you've died and gone to heaven, you can't come back, honey. Not even if you really miss your husband and your daughter and want to visit them very much." His voice stays even, but his face suddenly looks old and tired. I wonder how many times they've had this conversation or something like it.

Grace's face crumples, and she begins sobbing, breaking my heart all over again.

Despite my original concerns, staying in the guest cabin isn't so bad. It's sort of like my parents' place, though slightly bigger, and with much more modern amenities—plus unlike my place, all of them actually work. I get there and immediately strip and take a well-earned shower. I take a painkiller and ease into bed, hoping the pain in my thigh won't keep me awake all night—but I needn't have worried, because the moment my body touches the bed, I fall asleep.

For the next three days, I do as the doctor ordered and take things easy. This would have been frustrating if I'd been on my own in my cabin, but here, with the three men and little Grace to keep me company and take my mind off things, I find the time passes and I don't mind at all. Besides, it gives me the chance to do a complete review and rewrite of Dean's books. All the columns add up correctly now, which is more than could have been said for them when I first picked them up and looked through them.

On the fourth day, however, I feel someone shaking me awake a lot earlier than I'd like. "Rise and shine. Back to work today."

I blink open my weary eyes to find Dean standing there, looking down at me with that serious expression of his, yet still looking as handsome as ever, even if he can't find a way to smile.

"Breakfast time. This morning, you're going to help us move the cattle into the south pasture."

I yawn. "Perfect."

That's how it continues for nearly two weeks straight: Dean waking me up and telling me the task of the day. I'm learning a whole range of farming skills, and much of it is hard, back-breaking labor, but I don't mind, since I'm learning so much. I'm experiencing first-hand how a farm operates, and the accumulated knowledge is like gold.

Marsha lets me accompany her during her health checks and when loading up animals for delivery to various wholesalers and auctioneers. She shows me the locked pharmaceuticals cabinet and explains how she tallies its contents at the end of each week and enters it into a special book.

She also shows me how to arrange meetings with the vet and introduces me to him when he comes by one day to inspect one of the heifers. Though I don't plan on having my own livestock for a while, it's all useful information.

On Tuesday, I accompany her to watch a calf being born, aided by one of the hands.

This particular hand, Ouray—which means 'arrow' in English—has Native American ancestry. He knows many stories passed down from his parents and grandparents about his Ute tribe, which had settled in this valley thousands of years before the white man even knew that America existed.

He tells me about his tribe's creation legends—how, according to their traditions, birth is represented in the earth itself.

The stories remind me of something I once read in my mother's diary: a line about returning what was lost back to the earth, not unlike what my mom had written in her letters to me. I never fully figured out what she meant by it—but now I wonder if it has something to do with all of this. Could it all be connected in some way?

Despite their politeness, I can tell most of the hands don't expect me to last. They keep a cautious distance, not openingup, not letting me in on their inside jokes—waiting to see if I'll disappear after a few days like so many others. However, the longer I stick it out, and integrate myself into their little community, the nicer they are to me.

Ouray warms up even more when I explain how my mom and dad used to bring me to the True Heart Lodge during vacations, how much they loved it here, and how they had planned and hoped to one day live here for good.

"I think I remember your mother," Ouray says. "She was a lovely woman. She had a strong connection to the land and a close friendship with the Ute."

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