The faint sounds of the music filtered through the window screens to reach me as I sat on the front porch steps. Patsy Cline, I was not, but I hummed along anyway, watching the end of my cigarette flare as I took a long, slow drag. Although it was after midnight, it was too damned hot to do the walking that the song suggested. Summers in west Texas can be brutal and seemingly endless. I felt a drop of sweat roll down my back to catch on the waistband of my simple white cotton panties and, when I sighed in response, my tank top stuck to the skin of my back. I took a sip of the longneck in my hand in self defense. It was nice and cold and smooth but it just wasn't enough to combat the sweltering summer heat.
The stars were out and the moon was full. I could hear coyotes in the distance, yipping and crying in that laughing yet plaintive way of communication that always left me wistful and a little sad. I loved to hear them though and wouldn't trade my poor-man's farm for a house in town for any amount of love or money. I needed the open, the space that allowed me to breathe and just be.
Faintly, another sound reached my ears. Deliberate footsteps sounded from the side of the house and I turned, curious as to who my visitor could be at this time of night. I was surprised to see Eric, one of two hired hands, coming around the veranda with that slow, rolling gait that was developed by spending years on horseback. He stopped at my feet, peering up at my face as I sat on the top step. I felt color rush into my face and a wave of another kind of heat entirely roll through my body as I saw he wore a pair of button fly jeans, only half buttoned, his dogged old cowboy boots, and a simple thin, white, skin-hugging tank. I could clearly see his chest muscles and dark, tiny nipples standing taunt just under the thin fabric.
I yanked my attention away and looked at his face, shadowed by his white straw hat. "What is it, Eric?" I asked him, relieved to find my voice cool and casual.
He didn't say anything at first, just reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a battered pack of Marlboros, lit one and put it back. I dropped my own cigarette into the clay pot reserved for the butts, and sat, watching him smoke. I saw a bead of sweat run down the side of his neck and down into his shirt and without thinking too hard about it, licked my lips. I would have to have been blind to not notice his good looks. I had noticed the first minute I saw him. I had hired him, however, because he was a rare hand with the stock and watching him gentle a wide-eyed three year old colt was a beautiful thing to see. That didn't mean that the fact that his blue eyes were any less compelling though, or that his sandy blond hair didn't fall in a way that made my fingers itch with the urge to run through it.
I was relieved at first when he finally spoke and then slightly embarrassed at his words. "You do this every night."
His voice was warm and low with a rough edge to it and always reminded me of lava and honey; way too hot with a smooth sweetness that was a balm to my ears. Now, though, it caused me some distress. I realized that he was right. It had become my habit to sit out here and listen to the radio, usually old country songs and always the classics, drinking a cold beer or two and smoking a half a pack of cigarettes while I thought. Or, more honestly, felt as alone as a person could possibly be and stuck there and sorry for myself. But, hey, it got me through the next day.
I cleared my throat, alarmed to find that it had tightened up. "Not every night, but sometimes. Why?"
My voice clearly held the "it's none of your business" tone, which he promptly ignored. He shifted, not looking at me, and said, "Sometimes...you cry."
"I do not!" I denied and in the next breath confirmed what he had said. "How do you know? You spy on me?"
He looked at me in the eyes and I felt the numb ache that had begun with his statement spread through my chest, reaching tentative fingers out to tickle my limbs. I recalled the nights that I had cried, sometimes silently and with a deep loneliness that I felt could only be relieved by letting the tears fall with an overflowing stillness. Other times I had almost sobbed, still quietly but with the wracking pain that causes you to hug your knees to your chest and rock. I had felt safe in the dark quiet sanctuary of my porch, secure in the knowledge that the two hands had gone to bed, and that my old dog Tanner would never rat me out. Now, I felt vulnerable, suddenly exposed to the light of day and the eyes of another.
"I've been 'spying' on you since the first minute I saw you, Kylah." He stepped up onto the second step with his right leg, folding his right arm and laying it across the knee to lean on. He looked up at my face (which I am sure was a horrifying mixture of confusion, mortification, and stupidity) and reached out to stroke his index finger down the back of my limp and dangling hand. "I have wondered why a woman, a beautiful and strong and sexy woman, would sit out on her porch at night, alone, and cry."
I couldn't take my eyes off of the sight of his finger, lazily stroking the back of my hand, turning my stomach into a beer-whirling free for all. His long, tanned fingers were tipped with blunt, square nails and anchored by large, strong, work-roughened hands. I bit my lip and looked back at his face.
"I know that he left you and I can't imagine for a second what that does to a person or how you must feel, but," he took my hand in his, "at some point, Kylah, you have to let him go. It's been four years. For eight months I have been watching you, waiting for you to notice that I was, and seeing you go through the day working like a demon and never even seeing me. Now, if it's just me, then that's fine, I can accept that and move on myself. But if it's not, well, I guess I'm asking for a chance to show you how I feel. A woman like you would have a lot better pickings than some broke cowboy who showed up looking for work but I figured I'd ask just the same."
I looked at him like he was the mentally challenged one as his words sunk in. "A woman like me?'
