Page 14 of Fix Me Up, Cowboy
Yesterday, at his request, I gave him my phone so he could program his number, in case I had questions about Lady and Scoundrel.
“Why are you calling me so early? It’s still the middle of the night.” Okay, that might be an exaggeration. I haven’t considered six in the morning to be the middle of the night in over a year. But either way, it’s still earlier than I normally get up.
Noah chuckles. “I just want to remind you that even though it’s raining, you still need to clean the stable.”
“You couldn’t have waited to tell me that in, say, oh I don’t know, another two hours?” It’s not as if I’d planned to clean the stable before that.
Of course if I had my way, I wouldn’t be cleaning it at all.
And I won’t be for much longer—once I hire someone to do it for me.
“No, it worked better for my schedule to call you now.” Laughter sits squarely in his tone.
Jerk.
“I’m sure it did.” Especially if he could irritate me so early in the morning. “Well, thank you for the wake-up call, Noah. I’ll let you return to…well, whatever it is that cowboys do at this hour.”
“Does this mean you’re going back to sleep, Princess?” The mocking is still in his voice, only it’s been dialed up a notch.
I wish I could. But one of the side effects of the rain is that the pain in my leg increases. Falling asleep again is now impossible.
I release a slow breath as I visualize blowing the pain molecules out of my body.Nope. Still haven’t mastered that skill yet. My leg is grumpier than a toddler who has skipped nap time.
“No, I’m getting up. I have lots to do today. This isn’t a vacation for me, in case you’re forgetting.”
The sooner I pack up the house, the sooner I can put it on the market and return to Beverly Hills.
I tell Noah good-bye and end the call. Then I get up, swallow an over-the-counter painkiller, and do my morning yoga practice and physical therapy exercises.
By the time I’m finished, the rain isn’t coming down as hard as it was when Noah called. Now it’s more like a light spring shower.
That isn’t so bad. I can live with that.
I pull on Charlotte’s rubber boots and the yellow rain jacket that Noah also found in her hall closet yesterday. “Thank God no one back home can see me now,” I say to Charlie.
And thank God I’m not a celebrity who has paparazzi stalking her, eager to take a photo to be published alongside the headline, “What was she thinking?” in reference to the celebrity’s clothing choice.
My uncle, who stars in a popular home renovation and design show, has had his share of paparazzi snapping his photo. But no one ever criticizes his style choice.
Men don’t realize how easy they have it.
“Okay, Charlie. Let’s get this over with.” I open the back door, and we walk down the path leading to the stable. I take my time, paying attention to the uneven stones. We make it to the stable with no catastrophes.
It’s only then that I realize I’m shaking. “Do you think horses sense fear?” I ask Charlie.
And more importantly, are they going to attack me because of it?
They’re not wolves, I remind myself. Now if only my inner voice was a little more convincing.
According to Noah, the two horses are actually very sweet and accommodating. But that’s easy for him to say; he knows what the heck he’s doing.
I enter the small room attached to the stable, prepare two buckets of food, remove Lady’s halter from the wall, and head to her stall.
The top half of her door is open, and I show her the halter. “Hi. Do you remember me? My name is Kate and I’m Charlotte’s great-niece. Plus, I’m a friend of Noah’s.”
All right, the last part might not be true, but she seemed to like him yesterday, so I figured name-dropping couldn’t hurt.
“I’m just going to put this halter on you and then feed you. Then you and Scoundrel can play in the field while I start clearing out Charlotte’s house. I mean unless you want to help me. Because between you and me, I don’t know what I’m doing there either. Sure I have an art history degree with a minor in art and design, but that’s not too helpful when it comes to packing up the home of a deceased person.
