Maisey Yates - A Tall, Dark Cowboy Christmas

“Right.”

“I don’t really have any connections. The last couple years... There hasn’t really been anyone. I figured why not start over. Totally. Somewhere new. I had a plan. Not the best plan, but I had one. I should know better than to make those by now.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” he responded.

She thought about pressing for more information, because she was curious. Curious what force on heaven or earth had ever dared oppose Grant Dodge. He seemed far too formidable for anyone or anything to dare. But she also had a feeling—a pretty rock-solid one—that he wasn’t interested in having heart-to-heart talks. Least of all with her. The man was a fortress, and she had a feeling that was by design. That he was keeping things locked up for a reason.

Hell, she could understand that.

“Don’t you want to know what we’re doing this morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, taking a sip of hot, fortifying coffee. “My brain is feeling just awake enough to handle that information.”

“We’re painting the barn.”

She thought of the pretty, bright-red structure he had showed her yesterday morning. “Isn’t it painted?”

“One of them.”

“There are more barns? Multiple barns?”

“Several. This is the one we keep supplies and machinery in. But Wyatt thinks that we should freshen it up for the tourists.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t have a thought about barns, or the color of them, at all.”

“Oh, just the way you said it. Made it seem like it was something he was into, but maybe not you.”

“I’m here to support Wyatt. I would rather be here than working at the power company. That means I do whatever the man wants.”

“It must be tough,” she said. “Working with your brother. Taking orders.”

“Why do you think that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m an only child.” She frowned. Because maybe she wasn’t an only child. If it turned out she was a Dalton, then she had half siblings. But still, she had been raised one, so that counted for something. She had foster siblings sometimes, but ultimately, she was alone in life. There was no group that moved with her. No one she could reach out to when she needed something.

“I always admired the hell out of Wyatt,” Grant said. “He used to be a pro bull rider in the rodeo.”

“Really?” she asked. “That’s kind of badass.”

“Pretty damn badass,” Grant agreed.

He pushed open the door on a barn that had been worn down to the original wood, and held it for her. She went in first. There were dropcloths and ladders, paint rollers and buckets of paint, all ready to go inside.

His demeanor changed when he talked about his brother. He was a little bit less serious. A little bit less of a wall. It intrigued her. Made her want to dig a little deeper. See what other reactions she could possibly get from him.

And why not? Allies were an important thing in this world. It wouldn’t be a terrible thing to make one out of Grant Dodge if she could.

“Where are we starting?”

“Outside,” he said. “I’ll do up high, if you want to do down low.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

He shot her a look she couldn’t quite read. It almost had humor in it — almost. “I have no idea what the kids are calling much of anything these days.”

“I guess I don’t, either,” she said. “What a sobering thought.”

“You’re closer than me.”

“Not by much.”

“Twenty-six? I’d say.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So advanced. So aged. Can you even remember what you were doing when you were my age?”

His expression turned to stone. It was an immediate shift. That little glint of humor she had seen in his green eyes, just a hint, gone flat. And just like that, her stomach fell.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

She’d said something wrong, and she wasn’t sure what. It would be nice if she could find a segue, but she needed at least one more coffee to be that nimble on her feet. “Well, I guess we can cart some paint outside.” Her verbal soft shoe was nothing to write home about.

“Right,” he said.

They hauled out one of the big five-gallon paint buckets, and he started messing around with some piece of equipment she wasn’t familiar with.

“Compressor,” he said. “I’m going to use that on the upper level.

“Wait a minute, you get the power tools? Is that because you’re a man?” She eyeballed her classic, totally uncool paint roller.

“No, I get the power tools because I know how to use them. If running a compressor was something that you did for one of your manual labor jobs, please feel free to inform me, and I will happily turn that work over to you.”

“All right, that’s a good reason. Because no, I haven’t ever used a compressor.”

He pried open the lid on the paint can and started to stir, and she found herself captivated by his movements, even while he was all covered up. This morning he had on a dark jacket and gloves, the same hat he’d been wearing yesterday on top of his head.

“Is this what you would be doing if you weren’t babysitting me?”

“I’m not babysitting. I’m training.”

She shrugged. “Well, is this what you would be doing if I wasn’t here?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Probably by myself.”

“How much of a charity case am I, Grant?”

“I’ll get the job done faster with you here.” His sidestep didn’t go unnoticed.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Do you want the answer, McKenna?”

“I don’t actually care if I’m a charity case. People in my position can’t afford to put pride over a warm meal.”

“Fair enough. It’s probably about fifty-fifty. Because let’s face it, the cleaning work that we need you for doesn’t exactly cover pay and a place to stay. And it sure as hell isn’t full-time.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

“How did you end up — ”

“Working a string of menial jobs and having no connections in my life?”

“Yeah,” he said, hefting the five-gallon bucket of paint and pouring a measure into a tray.

“Foster care,” she said. “Which kind of gets you used to the transient lifestyle. Also, not the best for forming long-term attachments.”

“All your life?”

“From the time I was two.”

Most people looked at her with pity after she told them that. Most people said they were sorry. Grant Dodge just seemed to absorb it. Like she had spoken the words to a mountain, and not a man.

“I did not get good grades in school. Didn’t know how to even begin applying for financial aid for college. Didn’t want to, anyway. I struck out on my own with a guy that I met in my last home. That didn’t turn out. Had a little run of didn’t turn out . Decided that at least if I was on my own I was never going to get screwed for anyone else’s mistakes. Which ended up not being true, since my last landlord sold the place out from under me. Thought that was more a deliberate action than a mistake on her part.”

She looked up at Grant. His expression contained neither judgment nor pity, and she didn’t know quite what to do with that. Typically, it was one or the other.

“Aren’t there tenants’ rights to protect you?” he asked.

“Sure,” she answered. “But how am I going to take anyone to court? How am I going to make sure that those rights are enforced? Mostly, it isn’t going to happen.”

He frowned. “That doesn’t seem — ”

“Life is not fair, Grant. Not even close.”