Courage Page 4

  After we finished our cereal, I made a quick trip upstairs and brought down some old white T-shirts I found at the back of my drawer—stuff I didn't wear anymore. I dropped them on the table in front of Courage. "I don't think you should expose that wound to the sun," I told him. "Why don't you cover your face before we go out?"

  He jerked his gaze to my eyes. "You aren't going to try the healing?" he asked.

  "Do you still want to?" I countered, surprised that he was still down for that when he was so obviously annoyed with me.

  "Aye," he answered in a growl.

  My gaze flicked to the cupboard beside the fridge. "Okay. I think we have some aloe vera I could use."

  "It might be a little late for salves and unguents," he pointed out.

  "No harm in trying," I said, opening the cupboard that held the medical stuff and reaching for a wide tube of aloe vera.

  In the dining room, I drew back the blue brocade curtains to let in some light so we could check out the furniture. The chair seats were covered with needlepoint so it looked like that wasn't going to work.

  "Why don't you lean back against the table?" I suggested while I frowned at the forget-me-nots stitched onto the seat cushions.

  He shook his head. "You're the one who needs to be touching wood."

  "Okay," I said, chewing on my lower lip and feeling a little tentative. In a few minutes, we were going to be in rather close proximity to each other. I wasn't too excited about the situation but there wasn't much I could do about it. "I'll lean on the table and you'll have to come to me."

  "That…sounds good," he said, his gaze locking on mine in a way that was strangely intimate. Which seemed odd as hell, considering I was pretty sure he was mad at me.

  I rested against the cherry wood table with my feet positioned demurely together on the floor, and lifted my gaze to Courage's face.

  He moved up and straddled my feet, standing close enough so that I could reach him easily with my hand.

  Which was really close.

  It made me nervous, being so close to him, especially what with the dark aura he had going on. Willing my hands not to shake, I squeezed some of the clear aloe vera gel onto my fingers and smoothed it carefully over his face.

  "You have to want to heal the wound," he reminded me softly.

  "Okay," I said, and readjusted my thoughts from dark auras to healing intentions which helped me to ignore how awkward the situation was, standing so close to a guy I barely knew.

  "I've been wondering what happened to your face," I ventured timidly.

  "There was a fire," he answered in three short words.

  "Is that it?"

  "That's all for now," he said flatly.

  "Have you seen a doctor?"

  "It's on my list."

  "Do you have insurance?"

  "I don't expect so," he answered. "Unless everyone's covered in this country."

  "I'm guessing that means no," I sighed, and decided to give up on small talk since he obviously wasn't into it. "Are you still angry about last night?" I asked.

  "Truth or Dare?" he countered in a sarcastic tone.

  "Yes," I answered. "I want the truth."

  "Then I'm still angry."

  "And why is that, exactly?"

  "Because I feel like things would have been different if my face…wasn't like this."

  "So, you think if you had your looks, I would have been all over you?"

  "Not in so many words," he muttered.

  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, which had pretty much deserted me the moment he'd stepped into my personal space. "Well, you shouldn't be angry," I told him firmly but gently. "I didn't want to kiss you but it didn't have anything to do with your face or your looks."

  "Right," he answered like he didn't believe a word I'd just said.

  I decided to take a different approach. "So, you're mad at me because I wouldn't kiss a guy I'd just met and didn't know anything about."

  That got him thinking. Still sulking but thinking.

  "I can tell you're a nice looking guy. In fact, if it wasn't for your injury, I'd probably be so nervous around you I wouldn't be able to string out a full sentence."

  "Why's that?" he asked, looking curious.

  "Because I'm generally a shy person," I explained, relieved that my voice was strong. "Especially around guys. I never talk to any of the popular guys at school. I avoid them every chance I get."

  "Oh," he said. Still thinking and still sulking, but maybe not so much. "So, if it wasn't for my scars, you wouldn't be talking to me?"

  "That's about it," I answered as I finished up and rubbed the rest of the aloe vera into my hands. "So, how does it feel?"

  "Your hands felt good on my face," he answered.

  "What about your wound? Does it feel better?"

  He hesitated. "It might take a while," he said without much conviction, and without moving an inch away from me, which meant I was still trapped between him and the table. Not that I felt threatened or anything like that, but it did ratchet up the nervousness factor, especially now that we were finished and there was no reason to stand so close.

  I cleared my throat. "Maybe we should get going," I suggested.

  "Maybe you're right," he agreed. But he didn't look too excited about the idea of moving, like he would have been happy to stand there all day, looking down at me from his half-closed eyes.

  I lifted my hand and motioned toward the kitchen door. "After you," I said.

  He blinked once or twice and pulled in a deep breath. "Right," he finally said.

  Back in the kitchen, I washed the dishes while he used his knife to cut my old T-shirts into wide strips. And while I fixed sandwiches for lunch, he bound his wound, slanting the wide strips of white cloth over the right side of his face.

  When he was done, I couldn't see his scars anymore. All I could see was the absolutely perfect side of his face. And it was kind of startling. Because all of a sudden, he didn't look dangerous anymore. He just looked like a kid my age who could be in commercials—the kind that say, "See how good I look in these clothes? If you buy this stuff, you can look this good too."

  I turned away from him and reminded myself that he was not the kind of guy I wanted to have warm feelings about. I even forced my brain to call up a mental vision of his face without the bandages. And with that image firmly installed in my head, I turned to face him again. "You're gonna get hot in that black vest," I pointed out before we left the kitchen. "D'you want me to dig out one of Kellen's white T-shirts for you?"

  He lifted his head and his good eye gave me a startled look. "That won't be necessary," he said. "The vest is cooler than it looks. And warm when it needs to be. I…wear it everywhere. All the time."

  "Both cool and warm?" I questioned him. "Sounds like some kind of advanced scientific material I haven't heard about. Where'd you get it?"

  It took him so long to answer that I started to get suspicious. Like I wondered if he'd stolen it or something.

  I crossed my arms and stared him down. "Truth or Dare," I said, pointedly. "Where'd you get the vest?"

  "I've…had it a long time," he answered evasively. "Ever since I was a kid. I'm very…attached to it."

  "You've had it since you were a kid and it still fits?"

  "It's…expandable," he answered, turning his head so that I almost missed the touch of humor in his crystalline gaze. "You'd be surprised at just how large it can get."

  "So, the vest is cool and warm and very stretchy," I mused as I followed him down the hall to the front door.

  "That's right," he threw back over his shoulder. "Now are we going to talk clothes all day? I didn't realize you were such a slave to fashion."

  I looked down at the pale green T-shirt I was wearing with my blue jeans. "I'm not," I argued as I stopped to pull on my boots.

  "Do you want to cover shoes next?" he snorted. "Or boots? Or do you maybe want to get to work instead?"

  "Work," I answered with a snicker, my
gaze locked on his wide shoulders as he stepped through the door and held it open for me. I stopped on the worn boards of the porch and closed my eyes, pulling in a deep breath of fresh morning air scented with wild flowers and alfalfa. Honestly, our ranch is the best place on earth to be. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me quietly.

  "What?" I barked a little more sharply than I meant to.

  "Nothing," he answered, dragging his gaze away from me and letting it wander across the fields. "You have a nice place here."

  "I know," I murmured, and hoped again that his presence there didn't screw things up. I hoped that Kellen knew what he was doing when he hired him. Then I realized it was Kellen we were talking about and that wasn't a very realistic hope. With a sigh, I stepped from the porch and headed toward the barn with Courage beside me.

  And do you know, not one of those porch-pooches got up and followed us across the yard. I don't think any of them even bothered to prick up their ears. But maybe I shouldn't be so hard on them. I guess they wanted to be there when Kellen woke up and fed them.

  "Funny the way the dogs have accepted you," I said more to myself than anyone else.

  But Courage had heard my quiet musing. "Dogs are perceptive creatures," he said.

  I slid one of the big barn doors all the way open. "You think so?" I asked, even though I knew what he was saying and even agreed with him to some extent.

  He stepped through the wide opening and joined me under the vaulted roof of the barn. "I'm certain of it," he answered with authority.

  We loaded the fence posts onto the tractor and took it out to the northwest quadrant. The stock hadn't been rotated into that section for a while because a whole stretch of fence was down. The old posts originally set by my grandfather were rotted and broken. I used the auger attachment on the tractor to make a new hole next to an old post. Then I gave Courage the posthole digger and showed him how to clean out the loose dirt. While he finished the holes and set posts, I went down the line and augered out more holes. But before we were separated by too much distance, I warned him to keep a watch out for rattlesnakes.

  "Maybe you should tell me what a rattlesnake looks like," he said, leaning on the posthole digger, his tawny skin stretching tightly across the muscles of his shoulders.

  It seemed like a reasonable question since he was from England and they probably didn't have rattlesnakes over there. "They're brown with a diamond pattern on their backs. And rattles on their tails. You'll probably hear one before you see it."

  "What should I do if I see one?" he asked.

  "If you have time, back away slowly. If you don't, use the posthole digger. Aim for the head."

  "Right," he answered like he wasn't too worried about it.

  I shook my head as I started off, thinking he dang well ought to be worried about it. There are a lot of snakes out on the plains. I mean a lot. The plains are a virtual prairie dog buffet. Those snakes are living the good life on our ranch. No reason they should go anyplace else.

  I got back to work with the auger, glancing back at the new hand every occasionally and wondering how he ever got a physique like that, especially at his age. He was lean but buff. Totally ripped. Not an ounce of fat on him. But it didn't look like the sort of body you get from working out in some comfortable gym with twenty-four hour television and a fruit smoothie bar. It looked more like the build you get when every day is a battle to survive.

  Like back in medieval times or maybe in the days of the old west.

  But that's silly, right? Because those sort of living conditions don't even exist nowadays. Not in this country, and certainly not in England. Last I recall, the U.K. has the kind of government that takes care of everybody.

  He was strong, too. He could lift three times what I could—easily. And I'm no weakling. I can sling hay with the best of them. I've been manhandling eighty-pound bales since I was big enough to drive. And it's not like the guys I know aren't strong, either. Farm boys and ranch hands work hard. They have to. But this guy took strong to a whole 'nother level.

  I dragged my wrist across my damp forehead and lifted the auger from the hole then pointed the tractor toward the next post. And the next time I glanced in Courage's direction, I found him leaning on the posthole digger and watching me just as intently as I'd been watching him earlier. I figured he was just paying me back for staring at him. Because staring isn't polite, even when it's just a glancing stare. But I felt my cheeks flush anyhow.

  "Yeah, I get it," I muttered to no one in particular, and got back to work drilling holes…which didn't take a whole lot of think-power. So, spent the next few hours watching the auger spin and plotting the next issue of Zombie Cantina, deciding the storyline was overdue for a love triangle. By the middle of the day, I had some good ideas to run past Jesse.

  We stopped for lunch around noon. I fetched our sandwiches from the box on the tractor and sat against a newly installed post, my back to the sun. I generally sit with my back to the sun. I reckon there's no reason to get any more freckles than I already have. Because more than you can count is too many, in my opinion.

  Courage sat behind me, his back resting against the opposite side of the pole. As I unwrapped my bologna sandwich, I considered warning him about freckles but eventually decided against it. Unlike me, he'd probably look okay with a light dusting.

  The noonday sun beat down on the acres of waving grass, making me drowsy and content. It was a beautiful day to be out in the fields. "Have you done this sort of work before?" I asked him.

  "Not exactly," he answered. "Why do you ask?"

  "I'm just surprised by how strong you are. You look like you've been lifting and hauling things all your life."

  "I've done some lifting and hauling in my time," he admitted.

  "Well, it seems to have paid off," I remarked aimlessly.

  "How much land do you have here?" he asked after a few moments of relaxed quiet.

  Tossing the last of my sandwich into my mouth, I scooted around to the other side of the post so I could sit cross-legged in front of him. "Over two thousand acres with a hundred and sixty cows and almost as many calves."

  "Two thousand acres!" he murmured softly. "That sounds like a fiefdom. Your family must be very wealthy."

  "Land doesn't equal dollar signs," I told him. "Not nowadays. The ranch is a lot of work. My parents haven't had a day off in twenty years."

  "Have you heard from your folks?" he asked, reaching up and lacing his fingers behind his neck.

  "Mom texted me this morning before I came down for breakfast. It sounds like they're having a good time," I answered while my gaze tracked the curving swell of his biceps…completely without my permission, as if my eyes had a mind of their own.

  The girls at school can talk about long legs and cute butts all they like but I'm an "arms" girl, all the way. I like a lean set of forearms. I like a bulging biceps. I like arms that look like they can work hard. And hold tight. Arms that could protect you if you needed protecting.

  And the new hired hand had great arms.

  With an impatient sigh aimed at my wandering attention, I dragged myself back to the present and cast my gaze out across the fields of rustling grass.

  "Your parents are lucky they have you to count on," he said quietly.

  "Thanks," I answered, glancing back along the fence line and seeing how much we'd gotten done since dawn. Courage worked hard. Fast. Efficient. If I'd been trying to do the same work with Kellen… But Courage was only working at our ranch because he thought my red hair might give me the power to heal his wounds. "What if the healing doesn't work?" I asked. "Will you be…moving on?"

  "Not right away," he answered. "I'll stay and help until your parents get back."

  "Why would you do that?"

  He rolled his hard shoulders in a shrug. "Because I want to. I like it here. I like the animals. I like the country. And the food is great," he pointed out with a grin.

  "You like my cooking?"

  "I…like you
," he answered with a serious light in his eye.

  "I thought you were mad at me," I countered with a snicker.

  "I am," he admitted, then smiled. "But I'll get over it."

  I searched his face. "I don't get it."

  "What?"

  "None of it. How could you decide you like me already? You don't even know me."

  He cocked his head and locked his gaze on my eyes. "Why are you so against me liking you?"

  "I'm not! I just…want it to be real. I don't want it to just be a bunch of words you don't mean. I hate it when people do that."

  "It's not a bunch of words," he claimed quietly. "I know you better than you think. And right now, I have nowhere else to go. So, as long as we're stuck together like you said before, I've got your backside."

  "Wh-what?" I exclaimed on a burst of laughter.

  His face was solemn but there was that glint of humor in his eye again so I don't know if he'd gotten his words turned around or if he'd said it to make me laugh. "Sorry," he said. "I meant I've got your back."

  I plucked a small flower from its stem and tugged on its petals. "So, what about your family?" I asked.

  "What about them?"

  "Did you leave them behind in England?"

  "Nay," he answered. "They're over here. In America. I'm just not sure where they are. I lost track of them a few months ago. I expect they're looking for me, though. I'm sure they'll find me eventually."

  "How're they gonna find you, out here in the middle of nowhere?"

  "As it turns out," he said, "the middle of nowhere is a great place to leave a sign for my brothers and cousins."

  "What kind of sign?"

  "The kind of sign you can see from the air."

  "Your brothers are pilots?"

  "They…can fly," he countered.

  I thought about that for a while. "We could use the swather to cut a sign into the grass."

  "Swather?"

  "A big mowing machine that cuts the grass before we bale it for hay."

  "That might be a good idea," he said, looking thoughtful.

  "So, what kind of sign are we gonna leave?" I asked, getting excited about the prospect of mowing a sign into our field that everyone could see from the air.