Rider’s Block

15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter fifteen

“American Pie,” Don McLean

I ’ll never forget the feeling around the table the first time we all sat together after the storm. Everything looked like business as usual if you simply examined what happened. Mechanically, everything was the same. Nancy made the main course, I helped her with the sides, everyone gathered around the table as usual, said grace as usual…but there was an air of gratitude I’d never before experienced.

We all know what happened, we all understand the gravity of the situation. We’re all thankful to be here.

George had a plan in place to fix the barn up in less than a day, and everyone spent the last week cleaning up debris, gathering the horse supplies that were strewn about, and taking inventory of what can be saved and what needs replaced.

Should I have spent the week working on my book? Probably, but I wanted to help. I needed to help. I feel part of this team, part of this story. If only for the summer. But I wasn’t going to miss out.

The experience seemed to make Eric marginally more comfortable around me as well. He stops by my cottage to pop in and say hi and hang around and talk at least once a day. He showed me how to ride Roper one evening after everyone finished a casual round of roping. I think he even read one of my books. I spotted it in his cabin on the kitchen table. I find that I really, really enjoy being Eric’s friend.

Sure, there aren’t any more bear hugs, and he doesn’t grab my hand, but he does make contact with my shoulder when he walks by me every once in a while and my traitorous stomach decides to cartwheel every time. He’s not being flirtatious in any way, but he’s around, which is a major step from the active avoidance he was previously doing. We find ourselves paired up most days working on the damage around the farm. I’m typically not much help other than being the pack mule that holds the supplies, but I don’t mind. And I would be lying to myself if I said the view wasn’t nice while he mends fence post after fence post.

I got another go at a horseback excursion when he took me to check more fencing within close proximity. After taking a first-round inventory of the critical parts of the property, it looks like the barn is the only structure that took a big hit. George warned everyone that there could be other unknown damage in farther off places on the property, but they’d address it as they found it.

After the first recovery week, George sent everyone home to spend time with family. The guys who work on the ranch all protested, but he was insistent. He said storms like that put everything in perspective, so he made everyone go spend some time with their loved ones and told them not to come back for a week before the next rodeo.

That first night everyone was gone Nancy insisted I still come for dinner even though it’d be just their sons and Christine at the table. I tried to protest so they could spend some time together as a family themselves, but she wouldn’t hear it.

“I’ll come if you let me make the dessert, how about that?” I try to bargain.

“Deal, but what do you have in mind? I need to know if I’ve got the ingredients.”

“How about apple pie?”

“Oh Lord, it’s like you’re trying to make me not fit in my favorite jeans. I can’t say no to that.” She pats her belly for emphasis, but as toned as she is from the natural movements of a life living with hard labor, the sentiment doesn’t really stick and I roll my eyes, which gets me a pinch on my arm.

I help her with the rest of dinner before starting on my pie. We make a chicken pot pie that’s so much smaller than I’m used to with so few people here.

My original intent was to use some of the dough Nancy made for my pie, but even with the smaller amount, we used up all that she made for the main dish, so I have to make the dough myself—which is not exactly my strong suit. I’m wrestling with a rolling pin trying to make a circle while not melting the butter when I feel Eric come up behind me.

“Here, let me.”

“I don’t know if I trust you with this.”

“I don’t know if what you’re doing to this poor crust is ethically sound. You harboring frustrations over here? No need to take it out on the rolling pin, it’ll just hurt the butter.”

“I’m well aware of the fragility of the butter, hence my frustration.” I puff out a breath of air to move a stray piece of hair away from my eyes since my hands are covered in flour and butter, but the stupid piece of hair falls right back in front of my eye.

Watching the whole interaction, Eric reaches up and tucks it behind my ear with a soft smile that is threatening to melt my knees. “Let me, please. I’m having a hard time watching you get so frustrated over here.”

Not having an intelligent reply, I simply hand over the rolling pin. Eric proceeds to roll out the edges of the crust that I couldn’t round out, and I’ve got a functional circle to use in less than a minute.

“It’s tolerable, I suppose.”

“But not handsome enough to tempt you?”

“No!” I all but shriek. I didn’t even realize I was quoting my favorite story until he picked up on it. Occupational hazard, but I subconsciously quote things all the time. “You cannot be a Jane Austen fan. You just can’t, that doesn’t line up.”

“And if I am?”

“I call bullshit, there’s no way.”

“Well, you would be right.”

“See.”

“But you’re also wrong.” I raise my eyebrows in immediate protest, but he cuts me off. “Because Mom’s a fan, therefore I am—by default—a fan.”

I pause to think about it just long enough to show I’m taking him seriously. “Then who’s your favorite: Wickham, Darcy, Bingley?”

“Trick question, nice try. Wickham’s an ass, Bingley’s a pushover, and Darcy’s misunderstood attitude is his own fault. He should have just taken what he wanted from the start, damn society.” I blink up at him, stunned, for what feels like four minutes. The smug look of satisfaction on his face brings me back to the present.

“Alright, so you’ve at least watched it.” That earns a laugh as he places the dough in the pie tin. He’s been laughing a lot recently, and I don’t know what to make of that.

It’s still not clear if he remembers his drunken confession the night we all went dancing, but I feel like if he did he would be keeping his distance from me. But being my friend? That I did not expect.

As if he can see the internal debate running through my mind, he interrupts me by passing by, heading toward the pantry and saying, “Now what else do we need to make this filling? Apple is my favorite, so I hope you make it right.”

“And what, exactly, is right ?”

He pauses for a second before saying, “Well, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve had an apple pie I haven’t liked. So go ahead and make the filling.” He waves his hand to the pantry. I walk by, but he doesn’t move, staying close as I examine the ingredients. I grab some apples, vanilla extract, more flour, cinnamon, brown and white sugar, and a lemon. My hands are filled, but before I turn to leave, I spot some pecans and decide to add those in as well, but I can’t quite reach the shelf they’re on. Noting my targeted ingredient, Eric reaches over the top of me to grab what I couldn’t, brushing my shoulder along the way.

I try. I really do. I try not to notice the butterflies in my stomach when he’s this close to me. During the storm there was too much adrenaline to take inventory of all of my feelings, but right now? Hanging out in a pantry? Making a pie? Yeah, a simple shoulder brush just sends my stomach into roller coaster mode and to be frank I don’t really appreciate how my body is choosing to act around this man who clearly needs anything but a woman in his life. Head, heart, stomach…. let’s get on the same page.

Quickly shuffling around him, I set my haul on the counter and start prepping my ingredients. Chopping is one of my favorite parts of cooking, so I get to work. Eric comes up next to me with a knife of his own. He watches me chop the first apple before grabbing one to dice up himself, doing his best to mimic the type of cut I’m doing. Which is adorable. Dammit. If I was picky, I’d say his chops are much larger than mine, but I just appreciate the help.

We continue to work in companionable silence as I move from dicing to mixing to pre-cooking the apples in a skillet before transferring them to the crust. No soggy bottoms over here, this will be a Mary Berry–approved pie.

Eric continues to help in unexpected ways. I didn’t think I was a messy cook until I watched him tidy up after me. I tried to protest but he quickly shut it down. By the time I got my lattice done and my pie in the oven, the rest of the family was sitting around the dining room table, ready to dig into the chicken pot pie.

Nancy rearranged the table to accommodate for the smaller crew, and I notice the situation is finagled to where there are only two seats left…next to each other. Which means for the first time since I’ve been here, Eric sits next to me. But not before pulling out my chair. Because he’s a gentleman. Double dammit.

“I can already smell the pie, Mia, and I know it’s going to be good,” Dean says with his characteristic sly smile.

“You cannot, it’s been in there for a minute, you liar. And don’t call me Mia.”

“But it’s so cute, you just seem like a little Mia. I don’t know if I can stop.”

“I don’t look like a Mia, do I?” and then looking to Eric I add, “Do I?”

“I don’t know Red, you kind of do.”

“How is it so different than Amelia?”

“It’s shorter, like you.”

“Firstly, I’m not short. I’m actually above average, but your family is tall so it’s not helping. And secondly,” I turn to Dean, “you’re lucky you’re charming.”

That earns a laugh and a wink from Dean.

George prays over the food and spends an extra two sentences being grateful for the safety of the farm. When the prayer ends I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows and admire the view. You can’t see the barn from this angle, so it looks like the tornado was never there.

The usual rodeo talk then ensues. There’s another big event coming up in two weeks. Dean and Trevor are strategizing while George and Eric talk about improvements he can make to his ride. Nancy watches all of the conversations unfold while Christine and I talk about the apple pie process. After I mention Mary Berry we get on a long tangent about how much we love The Great British Baking Show and that draws in the rest of the table. Apparently, everyone’s a fan, including the guys. Trevor is particularly passionate about the bread episodes, as it turns out, and Nancy goes into a long explanation that apparently southern culture and British culture are closely aligned with a deep appreciation of pomp and circumstance. Now that I know the whole family are also Jane Austen fans, it all adds up. Eric nudges his knee against mine when his mom mentions that the eight-hour BBC version of Pride and Prejudice was a frequent background selection to play around the house. I try to hide my eye roll, but apparently I am unsuccessful with it because it earns another knock of his knee against mine. Which I try not to overthink. I’ll save that for late at night when I can’t sleep like a regular human being.

I pull my pie out of the oven right as the sun is starting to set. The view out the window above the kitchen sink is one of my favorites because it shows off the sun’s rays the best at night. But as I’m looking out, movement catches my eye in the pasture.

There aren’t usually cows in this direction, but as I look out there appear to be four extremely large cows out in the pasture, and they don’t appear to be happy to all be together.

Just as I’m about to head to the table and ask about it, Eric shows up in the kitchen behind me.

“Came to see if I could help—what are you looking at?”

“What kind of cows are those? They’re huge.”

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“Well, firstly, those aren’t cows. Those are bulls. And they’re not supposed to be there, and they’re definitely not supposed to be together.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t keep our bulls together so they don’t fight.”

“Are they going to hurt each other?”

“They might. But the other problem is if they’re right here, that means their fence is probably damaged. We didn’t check that far back on the property because we didn’t think it was in the path.”

“How far back on the property is it?”

“A day and a half ride by horseback to our Wyoming section. Can’t drive back there, too many creeks and the terrain is too rocky. This is gonna be a problem.”

Eric runs back to the table to tell George, and the two of them hurry over to where I’m still standing by the window, watching the bulls. There’s a tension in the dynamic of the four of them, and it’s fascinating to watch.

“Dammit, you’re right,” George says after seeing the four behemoth animals hanging out. “Well, let’s sort this out over pie. This smells delicious, Mia.”

“Not you too, George!”

“Dean’s right, you do look like a Mia.”

I hear Eric’s attempt at hiding a laugh behind me as I bring in the sliced-up pie and deliver it to the table. I’ve barely gotten a bite in when I look over and George’s is completely gone.

“Now that I’ve gotten to enjoy my pie, which was one of the best I’ve ever had, Mia, so thank you,” he says, looking at Eric with a pointed glance, “we need to talk about the bulls. Gotta get them back in their intended pens soon or we’re going to end up with calves in the winter and fights we don’t want to break up. Unfortunate timing that I just sent everyone home, but we’re just going to have to deal with it. Dean, Trevor, you guys need to practice before the rodeo next weekend so I think you’re out.” He takes a deep breath before looking over in our direction. “Eric, I think you’re up. I don’t want you to go alone but—”Before he can finish the sentence Dean pipes in, “Why doesn’t he take Mia?”

“Me?” I look over at George, expecting him to join me in my protest, but to my utter surprise instead he looks like he’s nodding his head.

“I was going to suggest that. Eric, you guys can take Roper and Star, and all you need to do, Mia, is ride Roper with the load of equipment to fix the fence.” I take this moment to remind them all that while I have a helpful approach to life on this farm, I am very underqualified for this job.

“I want to help, and I’m more than happy to, but is it okay that I don’t know how to ride?”

Eric decides this is the moment to add in his two cents, and to my utter surprise he also isn’t protesting. “You can ride Roper. We’ll just be at a walking pace the whole time so it shouldn’t be too hard on you. We can take it slow.”

“See!” Dean says excitedly. “Problem solved. Trevor and I can keep practicing, Eric can fix the fence, and our favorite author over here can get her own horse-riding excursion to get the real deal experience.”

“How can I say no when you put it that way?”

“Stick with me, baby, I’ve always got the good ideas,” Dean says while leaning back in his chair. The smug look on his face makes me a little more than suspicious, but he always has that look on his face so is this example really that different?

Out of the corner of my eye I see Eric’s eyes sliver slightly in Dean’s direction, and Dean simply winks at him. Nancy is hiding her smile behind sips of her iced tea, and Christine is looking anywhere but at me.

I feel like I just walked into a trap, and I didn’t even know it.