Page 32 of Alive and Wells

“Hey,” we say in unison.

“I—uh—I came across this book and thought you might like it. Since you’re into history, y’know? It’s about the history of Wells Canyon.” I thrust my hand forward, holding out a flimsy paperback. By “came across”, I mean I specifically went to the local tourist information centre and purchased it after the day at the river. I should’ve cracked the spine, dog-eared a few pages… made it look less new. More believable that it’s just been lying around somewhere.

Standing up, she brushes soil from her hands and walks over to me. Sparks fly from her skin into my veins when our fingers brush. It’s not just in my head. There’s no uncertainty; she feels it, too. Looking up at me with a bewitching stare and slightly parted lips.

She repeatedly turns the book over in her hands. “This is really cool—thank you. It’s probably ninety percent about your family, hey?”

I grimace. “Shit… probably. I would imagine a lot of the indigenous history, too. If this isn’t the type of history you’re into, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s pretty boring stuff, but you said you like history books and, well… Forget it.”

“No, Aus. It’s really sweet. I’m excited to read it.” Her eyes slice through me and her smile softens my cringing face. “Thank you.”

Shit. I didn’t consider what my next move would be once I gave her the book. I shift on my feet, insisting that blood flow to my limbs instead of my face.

Coffee mug, idiot. I swing my empty mug upward, nearly dropping it in the process. “Anyway, just came for a refill.”

“Perfect. My back could use a break. I’ll join you.”

We saunter together up the stairs, and I’m flooded with disappointment when Beryl and Kate are in the kitchen making tomorrow’s lunches. It’s not shocking to find them here. But there’s a sharp pinprick in my chest when I see them and lose the small shred of hope that I’d be alone with Cecily for a while longer.

“So,” Cecily says. I turn expectantly, only to find she’s not talking to me. A kicked puppy, I return to filling my mug and silently trudge to my seat. All the while discreetly—keenly—listening to her excitedly talk about the variety of tomatoes ready to pick. Hearing her argue with Kate about wanting to make salsa, rather than tomato sauce, because it’s “harder to zhuzh up store-bought salsa, so it needs to be homemade”.

Her presence, sinking into the chair opposite me, forces my eyes up from the weathered table. “Help settle the debate, Aus. Do we make salsa or pasta sauce with the bounty of tomatoes we’re about to have?”

“Salsa, obviously.”

“Right answer.” Her foot taps lightly against mine. I’d assume it was accidental, except it’s accompanied by a smile which quickly disappears behind her teal mug. Only her radiant, sparkling eyes are visible above the rim as she takes a sip, and they’re locked on mine.

In the six days since admitting I want to kiss her—both to her and to myself—there’s been an indescribable shift between us. Although I still get tripped up on words and end up not saying anything at all. Although some things I say come out wrong, making me seem like a dick. Although her body still instinctively retreats into itself when I get too close or move too quickly.

There’s a mutual understanding that we will kiss—it’s a matter of when, not if. And, for now, I’m happy with the long glances, subtle smiles, and footsies under the kitchen table. All of it is a constant reminder that we both want it to happen. I’m willing to wait to kiss her for as long as I need to.

15

Austin

Istrollintothebig house for dinner after the most unproductive day I’ve ever had. At least, the one task I did get done is worth more than any amount of paperwork. I put new tires on her damn tin-can car. It’s pretty clear she’s been in no hurry to get it done, and I can’t help but hope it’s because she’s also in no hurry to leave the ranch. However, I’m fully aware my hopes are foolish. I’ve walked in on her, Kate, and Beryl talking about Vancouver before. Confirming my trepidation and cementing the knot in my stomach.

“We’re leaving for the Stampede first thing. Last chance to change your mind, Aus.” Denny follows me into the kitchen where Jackson, Kate, and Odessa are already sitting at the massive wooden table. I take my usual spot, feeling the grooves from thousands of hours spent in this exact chair. Hell, there’s a perfectly worn circle on the table from where I’ve set my cup down every day for thirty-some-odd years.

“Somebody has to stay here.”

“Jackson can manage the skeleton crew, I’m sure.” Denny loads mashed potatoes onto his plate, the steam blurring his face from my view. “Let loose for once. It’ll be a good time. Lots of beer, lots of buckle bunnies.”

“I love buckle bunnies!” Odessa exclaims between sips from her dinosaur cup.

“You and me both, kiddo.” Denny’s wide grin and finger guns at our niece make her giggle. He cracks a beer and adds, “If I’m lucky, I’ll have quite a few wearing my hat, and taking me for a ride, after the rodeo’s over. Come on, Austin. Let your hair down.”

Odessa leans into Kate and, with a hilariously loud stage whisper, says, “Mommy, why is a bunny going to ride Uncle Denny?”

Kate smacks Jackson as if it’s somehow his fault our younger brother still hasn’t learned to watch what he says around the four-year-old. Even though Kate pretends to be angry, we can’t stop ourselves from laughing. Poor little girl doesn’t stand a chance growing up here—I doubt this is anything close to the worst thing she’s heard already.

“If you think that’s going to entice me, get your head outta your ass.” I feel Kate shooting daggers, and I glance over at Odessa. “I mean butt. Get it out of your butt.”

The kid giggles, and continues eating her dinner with her fingers. As I said, she’s heard much worse hanging out in this kitchen with the ranch hands. But she’s also likely the safest girl in the entire country, so I think Kate’s willing to let some questionable language slide.

“You’re forgetting something, Den. Why would he go to the Calgary Stampede when the girl he’s chasing is gonna be here on the ranch?” Kate lovingly points out.

In reality, Cecily staying at the ranch is hardly affecting my decision not to travel ten hours one way to go to the Calgary Stampede. More importantly, I would rather do practically anything else instead of rodeoing, partying, and sleeping with random women. For the first twenty-five years of my life, I wouldn’t pass up a rodeo invite for anything. My childhood was spent watching my grandpa and mom head our local rodeo organization; dreaming of following in their footsteps. In my teens and early twenties, I lived for the thrill of a winning run, the lively atmosphere, and—on occasion—the women. But I haven’t been interested in any of those things in alongtime.

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