Page 36 of Untamed
Bull riders use the term "into his hand" or "into my hand" to describe the scenario in which a bull is spinning in the same direction of a rider's riding hand.
Example: A right-handed bull rider on a bull that spins to the right is riding a bull "into his hand."
Haylee had a great plan when I called her this morning. I wanted to apologize to Grayer and let him know I’m not this girl he thinks I am. And sorry didn’t seem good enough. It wasn’t.
Haylee said a way to a man’s heart is food, and that I was good at. I know how to cook and could throw down a meal when needed.
My specialty? Macaroni and cheese. Not just any macaroni and cheese. I made it with barbecue sauce and Ritz crackers mixed with butter. Dee. Lish. Ous.
With The Judd’s as our background music, Morgan and Mom help me out because Mom loves to cook, and Morgan wants to do anything we’re doing. Mom’s taught me all her favorite recipes over the years and every recipe handed down through generations of her family. It’s what we’ve bonded over throughout the years and what I’ll miss when I leave. I will.
“Are you making enough for Grayer?” Mom asks when she notices how much cheese I’m grating. Morgan’s working on the Ritz crackers. Taking them from the sleeves, she places them in a bowl.
I stop midgrate. “Yeah.” I’m afraid to look at Mom. “Is that okay?”
She smiles. “I was hoping you would. He’s had a rough few months. He needs a good home-cooked meal.”
It takes me another fifteen minutes, only because I don’t want to appear too eager to know, and I ask, “Do you remember why the Easton brothers left town?” I whisper, not wanting Morgan to hear me. She’s still crushing the crackers in a bowl, one by one. I hate to tell her I usually use the blender, but whatever. It keeps her busy.
Mom frowns at my question and wipes her wet hands on the front of her apron. “I do. And Ineverbelieved those rumors.”
“You never believed her?”
“No. I’ve seen those boys around since they were in diapers. Sure, they were a little wild and loved to cause trouble, but they’re boys. They’d never do something like that, they were raised better than that.”
Mom’s right. You can be bad and you can be evil. There is a difference between the two. If you ask me, from what I’ve seen, Grayer is neither. He’s good and pure. I see it in his eyes and his need to protect me.
When Mom and I finish the macaroni and cheese, we make some creamed spinach, garlic bread, and peach cobbler for dessert. We sit down to eat around four when I begin to wonder if Grayer is going to show up at all, especially after last night and the fight with Joel. Maybe he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble of fixing the barn.
Part of me wouldn’t be surprised if he left town after last night. Sad, yes, but not surprised.
I’m in my room that night and I’m contemplating going to bed when I see his headlights come around the corner and the dust cloud that kicks up. It’s late, probably too late for him to be working out there, but Dad more than likely doesn’t care. He just wants the work done. He doesn’t care when it gets done.
When I see Grayer go inside the barn, I scurry down to the kitchen, careful not to wake my parents or Morgan and heat up a plate for him. I put the peach cobbler in a bowl with two scoops of ice cream and then place all that on a tray to take with me, praying he hasn’t eaten already and doesn’t tell me to get lost.
I step outside. It’s raining, the fresh smell of summer cut grass, lilacs, and wet dirt overwhelm me. I breathe in deeply as the rain pelts my face and I hear the distant thud of a hammer in the barn as I approach.
Barefoot and sleepy, I’m wearing my nightshirt, no bra—all part of my plan—and carrying the food with me. I open the barn door while trying to balance the tray on my knee. Quietly, I close it behind me, locking it. Stables line the sides of the barn, horses in for the night. Mac neighs when I pass by him, attempting to steal my tray. He knows what’s in there—the hint’s in his name, Mac. When he was a foal he used to only like macaroni noodles.
There’s music playing from a portable stereo on the floor, and hay and feed bags are scattered amongst tools along the roughed-up wood floor.
The loud thud of metal hitting metal brings my attention to Grayer to my left. His shirt is gone, and he’s got his cowboy hat on singing Randy Travis and stumbling around.He’s totally drunk!
I know the song he’s singing. I’ve heard it a lot as it’s one of my dad’s favorites. Leaning against the wall, I hold the tray close and try to be as quiet as I can, but Mac neighs louder, upset I haven’t given him the food.
When Grayer notices me standing in the barn barefoot, his whiskey-induced smile catches mine and he drops the hammer on the ground with a thud. His eyes rake over my body, wanting like they did that first night, and then he sees the food. His left hand rises and scratches the side of his scruffy jaw, his knuckles cracked and bloody. “What’s that?”
“Food. For you,” I say, shrugging.
“Smells good.” His hooded eyes make another pass over my body. His hat shadows his eyes slightly, but I can see the flush in his cheeks, pink as the morning sky from the liquor he’s consumed today.
Taking two steps toward me, he sits on a crate. I hand him the tray.
He looks up at me through long lashes, tipping up his hat with a knock of his hand to get a better look. “You made this for me?”
Oh God, those eyes, that smile, his face, he’s absolutely beautiful. Stop staring at him!
“Yeah,” I manage to say. “There’s more than one thing I’m good at, ya know.” I don’t know why I said that.Facepalm!
