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?'
His eyes were clear and hypnotizingly honest. "Yeah. Gorgeous, smart, good sense of humor, sexy as hell."
I jerked my hand away from his as if he had burned me. "Are you joking?" My face flushed and my trust issues reared its ugly head. I was as far from beautiful as a girl could get without having a major defect. I was plain and freckled, with too-large green eyes and a bottom lip that was bigger than the top. My auburn hair was always a wild, curling mess and I rarely bothered with make up or jewelry. I wore a t shirt and jeans like it was my uniform and considered dirt and bruises something to take a little pride in at the end of a day's hard work. I had a decent figure, toned by perseverance and determination to make the farm a success, working as hard as the men to do my fair share, but it was nothing beautiful.
The memory came, unbidden, of the night we had gone to town to the bar. The three of us had celebrated the arrival of a new foal by driving thirty miles for a couple of beers and a game of pool. I remembered the lithe blond that had zeroed in on Eric like he had a homing beacon hidden in his shoe. She had a scrap of a skirt on, heels, a tank top that revealed more than it concealed, and a fuck me smile. I was so green with envy at her casual pursuance of him, the way she stroked a finger down his bicep and laughed at something he had said, that I had switched to tequila and gotten quietly drunk in about twenty minutes. I remember coming home that night, so relieved that he had come home with us instead of going home with her, and stroking myself until I came, whimpering his name into my pillow.
Now, here he sat, telling me things that I had dreamt of hearing, and I was unable to believe them. I had drowned myself in work when Mark left, determined to carry out the plans that we had started before the brunette with the boobs had captured his attention and he left me high and dry, and if I was completely truthful, broken. I had blocked out things like sex and love because they were a distraction and, honestly, what were the chances of me ever finding something like that again and ending up with my heart intact? I was only 27 but I suddenly felt like an old woman looking back at her life and thinking about all of the missed chances.
"I'm not joking." His hand dropped and his fingers curled around my bare calf, the callused pad of his thumb stroking my sensitive skin. "You could do better than me. I want you real bad, though, and I care about you. A lot."
I stood abruptly, my heart hammering in fear that he was lying and in hope that he was not. "You don't have to tell me that, Eric. What? You find yourself in the mood and figure I would be an easy target? Then just come right out and say it's about fucking. Don't come up here with pretty lies and try to sweet talk me."
With that, he mounted the steps in a rush so that he stood before me. He grabbed my wrists roughly and placed one hand on his chest, just over his heart. The other he placed on his cock, long and thick and hard beneath the denim. "Feel that? I've been this hard for months. For you. Do you feel my heart? Feel how it's pounding? That's because I'm so fucking afraid you're not going to give me a chance and tell me to pack my shit and go. It's also pounding because there's still a chance you could say yes."
My nostrils flared as the scent of him invaded. It was all soap and warm and musky and male. I could feel his cock twitch beneath my hand and without stopping to think, pushed my hand harder against him. His hips jerked and he hissed through his teeth. I looked up to find his eyes closed and his face a mask that struggled for control. When he was an ounce calmer, he opened his eyes and looked down into mine. "I'm going to kiss you," he murmured, descending slowly, giving me plenty of time to back away.
