Hard 5 by Stephanie Brother
5
Baking bread has to be one of my favorite things in the world. Not only does it turn into something so delicious it’s hard to leave it to cool before eating, but in the process of kneading, I manage to work out a whole ton of frustrations.
I don’t hear the Bradfords leave in the morning. They were up before the sun, that’s for sure. One of them left a note to let me know they’d be back for lunch at midday, so I’m frantically getting ready to prepare a ton of sandwiches. I have a cake in the oven too. Just a plain vanilla sponge, but I’m sure it will go down a treat.
The cupboards are looking bare, so a shopping trip will need to happen soon. I don’t have a vehicle, but there seem to be a couple of spares out front. Maybe they could insure me on one of those.
While the bread is proving, I decide to venture into bedrooms. The one nearest the top of the stairs is tidy but dusty. The bed is made, but the sheets need changing, so I strip it, tossing the linen down the stairs.
It’s sparsely furnished with just a dresser doubling as a nightstand, and the bed. I poke around the assorted items on top of the dresser, finding discarded coins and a bottle top, some matches from a local bar, and a hat, which must be a spare. Beneath the hat is a letter addressed to Cary Bradford. It’s from a charity that raises money for underprivileged kids. The fact that he regularly donates just confirms my impression that Cary is a decent man.
I clean the room from top to bottom, finding fresh linen in a closet in the hall. I even wash the inside of the windows to let the light stream in.
The bathroom is my next room of focus, and I just about get that finished and the washer loaded before the bread has finished baking.
I have thirty minutes to fix lunch, and as it nears the time of the Bradford brothers’ return, my heart picks up a little speed. Thoughts of how much they appreciated the dinner last night fill my mind. Thoughts of how good they smelled after they cleaned up too. And maybe some thoughts about how sexy they looked before that, tired and filthy after a long hard day of work.
Shaking my head, I turn my focus to slicing ham. But even as I’m doing it, I imagine the hard planes of muscles that sculpt their backs and chests. Even under thick plaid shirts, it’s possible to see how strong they are. Working men like them need that strength.
It’s warm out today. I wonder if they ever strip off their shirts to work in the heat?
The kitchen suddenly feels stifling, and I throw open the doors to benefit from the through-breeze.
They’re still open when the Bradfords return, stomping in like a herd of elephants before Cash grunts at them to remove their boots. At least someone remembers to be housetrained. They take turns washing their hands too. It’s ridiculous, but I feel like a proud momma.
“Wow, Mel. This looks amazing.” It’s the first time any of them have shortened my name and it feels strange but nice too. My momma always called me Mel. Sawyer is the first to slump into a chair and survey the spread of food. He’s quick to reach for the fresh sandwiches. I’ve cut up some vegetables too and put the last of the fruit in a bowl on the table. “You made cake?”
“Yep.”
He shakes his head as though my baking skills are something to be in awe of. I guess to someone who’s never been taught how, they are. For me, baking is a skill akin to walking. I don’t even need recipes anymore unless I’m trying out something new.
“We’re gonna need supplies,” I say, “if you want me to keep feeding you.”
“Write a list, and one of us will head into town.” Cash is quieter about his appreciation, but I catch the way his eyes close a little over his first bite of my soft bread.
“I thought I could drive one of the trucks outside.”
“You can drive?” Scott says.
Of course, he’d be the one to question my competence. “Yes. I’m legal for that too!” I snark.
Colt sniggers, in a way I’m coming to expect.
“I’ll leave you the key for the Ford,” Cash says. He roots around in his pocket, pulling out a bundle of notes—it looks like Cash has the cash! Tossing what appears to be a small fortune onto the table, he nods. “Use this. Get whatever you think.”
I sit in what now seems to have officially become my spot and help myself to the food.
“So, when are we gonna take those fences down?” Scott asks. His eyes find mine and then flick over to Cash in a way that makes me take note.
“Next week,” Cash says, talking sparingly as usual.
“And the house?” Scott asks.
Cash’s steel-gray eyes flick to mine and then drop to his plate. He lowers his sandwich as though Scott’s questioning is exhausting him. “Let’s keep the business talk out of the kitchen,” he growls.
It’s then it hits me that they’re talking about my house. Well, the house that used to be mine but now belongs to the Bradfords. They’re tearing down the fences next week and then the house. Of course, that would make sense. They don’t need more property. They need land to dig up with plows. The image of those plows in my mind rips at my heart. Even when I’ve swallowed my mouthful, my throat still feels full. My heart aches for all the memories that rest within those four walls. Four walls that Scott seems to be relishing the prospect of destroying.
I don’t plan to shove my chair back so violently that it scrapes the tiled floor piercingly. I don’t plan to toss my napkin onto my plate or storm upstairs like a moody teenager. I can’t hold back the tears that stream down my cheeks or swallow down the burn in my throat. Resting back against the door, I bring my hands to my face and hold my breath.
Of course, it was going to happen. What did I think? That they would preserve my old home like a museum to my family? Even the most sentimental of people would see no sense in that. But with all the rational thinking in the world, my heart still feels as shattered as it did on auction day, and the day I found the mortgage papers in Pa’s desk, and the day Pa died.
There’s a soft knock at the door that makes me want to scream. “Go away,” I shout, pressing my hands flat to the wood.
“Mel, let me in. I want to talk to you.”
I was expecting it to be Cary who’d come after me, but it’s Cash’s voice that reaches me. Somehow, the idea of this stoic man trudging up the stairs after me breaks my resolve.
When I open the door, I don’t hide my streaked cheeks or wipe away the tears from my eyes. He’s huge, filling the doorway, imposing but in a way that speaks to his strength and capabilities, his reliable nature. “Scott was wrong to be so insensitive,” he says. “I’ve spoken to him about it. It won’t happen again.” I nod as his gaze roams my face, probably finding me a blotchy mess.
“Nothing about this situation is as I would like it to be.” He rubs his forehead, closing his storm-cloud eyes momentarily.
“It’s not how I would like it to be either.” If he’s waiting for me to make it easier for them to tear my life apart, he’s going to be disappointed. When they do it, they’re going to feel the impact of it too. There are no actions without consequences.
“Do you think you can be happy here?” he asks me. He blinks slowly, waiting for me to respond to a question that I would never have expected him to ask. Is he worried about me being happy? I thought he was fed up with living in a dusty mess.
“You want me to answer that after one day? I’d be a fool to make assumptions about anything that quickly.” Cash nods, his eyes drifting around the room that I have made clean and pretty. A sanctuary in a storm. “And anyway, I know you’re only asking me to assuage your guilt.”
“Assuage?” He shakes his head. “You sure know some interesting words.” His mouth twitches at the corner, and I can’t be sure if he likes it or if he’s laughing at me, and that immediately raises my hackles.
“If you don’t want to feel guilty, then don’t do things that you know are wrong.”
That gets his attention all right. Cash’s posture goes from relaxed to straight, letting me know I’ve touched a nerve. “Is it wrong to buy something that’s for sale, Melanie? I didn’t do anything to your Pa. I don’t gamble, and neither do my brothers. I don’t prey on the weakness of others. But if I can afford to do something that’s going to improve the position of my family, I’m going to do it.”
“And you want to reach out a helping hand to the collateral damage.”
He sighs, hooking his thumb into his belt loop. “Collateral Damage? That’s a movie, isn’t it? Look, you need a place to stay and a job. We need someone to do all the things that we don’t have time to do—seems like a perfect fit to me. I wouldn’t want to see anyone on the street if I could do something about it.”
My spine stiffness and my hands are clenching at my sides. “Cash the good Samaritan.” It comes out as a sneer, and his head flinches backward. Despite my anger, I feel bad for lashing out with spite. That’s not how I was raised, and it isn’t necessary to get my point across.
“Why have you got to make this so hard?” he asks.
“You want me to make it easy for you to break my heart?”
My blurted words hang darkly between us. Cash might be stoic, but I can see how hard he’s finding it to deal with this situation. I’m guessing his acquisition of the Flint ranch was a whole lot less personal. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman that guilt is creeping into his soul.
That makes me mad too. I’m not a fragile flower.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks eventually, and I like that he knows he doesn’t have all the answers. Men usually toss out solutions, even when they’re not required. This man knows better.
The trouble is, I don’t know what I want. I can’t ask for my home back. I can’t ask him to put aside all of his investment for me. We’re strangers who’ve shared a roof for one night. What he knows about me, he could fit on the back of a postage stamp. So, if I can’t ask for that, what can I ask for? Better terms of employment? A more fulfilling job? Job security? Do I even know if I want to stay here?
What I do know is that I don’t want this man thinking I’m a 1950s housewife. There’s a whole lot more to me than that.
“I’m not just a homemaker, Cash. I know how to birth a calf and how to groom a horse. I know how to plant a garden and how to reduce the need for pesticides on crops. I know how to check livestock and bid on healthy ones at the auction. I’m grateful for the roof over my head, although I’d prefer the roof of my family home. But cleaning toilets and baking bread isn’t the full extent of my skills. It’s not all I want to be doing with my life.”
“You want to take on more?” He sounds surprised, and that irks. He’s assuming things about me that he has no business assuming.
“I want to reach my full potential,” I say, realizing for the first time just how important it is for me to spread my wings.
“I think you have a whole lot of potential,” Cash says, and he sighs thoughtfully. “Let me think on what you’ve said. I need to leave now, but we’ll be back later.” With a nod, he plods back down the hall, leaving me feeling a strange mix of both sad and hopeful.
My family home might be about to be destroyed, but life does go on, and maybe it’s possible for me to thrive regardless.