Page 31 of Fix Me Up, Cowboy
The sooner I can block the unpleasant memories of cleaning the stable.
With my curiosity temporarily held back, I continue my task as I sing songs from old movies like Mary Poppins. There’s something cathartic about singing “Chim Chim Cher-ee” while dancing around the attic.
Charlie watches me work, every so often barking his opinion on one thing or another. Luckily, this time I don’t accidentally uncover any sleeping bats.
By the time my leg is ready to call a strike, I’ve done a fair amount of work.
“So what do you think?” I ask Charlie. “I’ll have to hire some men to help me move the furniture and the heavier boxes downstairs. But otherwise, I’m done up here.”Thank God.“Once everything is downstairs, I can take photos and contact Florence.”
Florence owns an antique store in Beverly Hills. My stepmother’s interior designer introduced me to her two years ago. I also have several other contacts who might be interested in some of the items.
I shut the window and go downstairs. Charlie follows me.
In the master bathroom, I gather the essential oils I brought with me from home and run water into the claw-foot tub. Once it’s full, I strip down and climb in.
The tension in my muscles dissolves in the heat. I lean back and close my eyes, allowing my nature soundtrack to engulf me. I imagine the feel of the warm breeze brushing against my face. I imagine the woodsy scent of whatever it is that makes Noah smell so good.
All right, the last part was unexpected. But instead of pushing away the thought of him like I should, I imagine his lips against my jaw, his light beard against my skin, his calloused fingers sliding along my inner thighs.
Only it’s not Noah’s fingers gliding up my legs—they are my own.
They continue to the apex of my thighs, to the one place a man hasn’t touched me in a very long time.
I spread my legs a little wider, and gasp slightly at the sensation of Noah’s fingers brushing my clit. A spark ignites in my lower belly. He continues teasing me, causing me to moan. I writhe under his touch, my lips parted, eager for a kiss that will never come. The flame in my lower belly grows bigger, wilder…until it consumes me like an out-of-control forest fire. My inner muscles clench hard and I groan out his name.
Is this the first time I’ve touched myself? Not at all. A woman has needs, and it’s not like I have a boyfriend to meet them. But this is the first time it’s felt this intense.
Would it feel the same with the real deal touching me versus my Noah-induced imagination?
I mentally shake the thought from my head and finish soaking in the tub—doing my best not to think of Noah.
But every time I redirect my thoughts to my great-aunt, they keep sliding back to Noah. To what he told me about how she’d helped him with his reading.
I finish my bath, change into a sundress, and go downstairs. Even though I’ve been in the house for three days, the sight of the mint wallpaper—with the pink, white, and green diamonds—still makes me cringe.
At this rate, the only way I’ll be able to permanently block it from my mind is to go on a week-long spa retreat once I return to LA.
After pouring myself a glass of wine, I head to the living room with the mysterious key from Charlotte’s desk. I settle onto the couch and try the key in the lock. It fits perfectly. Inwardly, I do a happy dance.
The box is filled with several stacks of opened envelopes. One stack in particular has a thin, pink ribbon tied around it. I remove that pile first, my mind racing with all the possibilities of what could be inside.
“Do you think these are love letters?” I ask Charlie, even though I’m quite sure he has no idea what that means.
The envelopes are all addressed to either Charlotte or a man named John Turnbull. The same names are listed on the return addresses. I remove the letter from the first envelope in the pile and read it. It’s dated May 3, 1953.
My Dearest Charlotte,
I wish I could count down the days until I can be with you again. I wish I knew the exact date this war will end. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and make love to you. It’s been such a long time.
I can’t wait to see our new home and to start our life in Montana. I can’t wait for you to be my wife.
He then writes about his time in Korea and some of the men in his unit. He tells of one adventure that has me laughing. The letter concludes with his declaration of love and his hopes that the war will end soon.
I remove the letter from the next envelope. This one is addressed to John from Charlotte.
My dearest John,
I can’t wait for you to see the house and the lands of our new home. You’ll love it here. The people in Copper Creek are friendly and the area is breathtaking. Bitterroot Valley is just as we imagined it would be. It’s nothing like Beverly Hills and it’s nothing like LA. It’s fresh air and majestic mountains. It’s freedom.
