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The cook nodded gravely. "Whatever you say, lassie."
I had to get out of here, I thought as I walked out of the house and took a walk. It was noon, the sun was at its zenith, and it was hot as hell, which meant that the Ledger family would be ensconced in the air-conditioned house.
I put on my straw hat and sunglasses that I'd bought at Zara, and in a pair of khaki shorts overalls over a tank top, and took off with my phone.
I got a text from Ace, asking where I was and that he'd knocked on my door. I told him I wasn't feeling well, and I'd see him later. He didn't prod.
Ace had been such a disappointment. I'd not expected much, but I'd expected respect. I was stupid to have trusted him.
Next time, when someone suggests something that's too good to be true, Isha, remember this and know it probably is too good to be true.
"Miss," someone called out to me, and I turned.
A man came up to me on a slow jog. "Clay Harrow, ma'am. I'm the Ledger Ranch foreman."
He held out his hand, and I shook it. "I'm Isha—"
"I know who you are. Rowan wanted to make sure you didn't wander off too far in this heat."
"Ah…I was just going for a stroll. I wasn't planning on going too far."
Clay looked like Rip from Yellowstone, and I felt gauche because of it. He was big and burly, and smelled of hay and earth. He had a face that was kind and weathered. I had this overwhelming urge to trust him, but I held back. After Ace, it was going to be a long while before I trusted someone.
"How about a beer, Isha?"
I nodded.
"Come to the bunkhouse."
I giggled.
"What?"
"I'm a big fan of Yellowstone."
He sighed. "Lots of people come by thinking it'll be like that. It's not quite so lawless around here."
"So, you're not shooting your enemies?"
He laughed. "Hell no, ma'am. We actually have the law here."
The bunkhouse was exactly as I'd imagined it to be, but bigger. It was a simple, sturdy structure that radiated with the camaraderie and rough charm of those who called it home.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wood and leather, and laughter filled the space as Clay introduced me to a few of the hands. They welcomed me with a friendliness that was disarming.
We sat at the kitchen table, the room lit by dim overhead lights, and drank beer.
"So, you're from London, is that right?" Eddie, one of the hands, wondered.
He was in his fifties and had a voice that sounded like he'd been drinking a lot of whiskey, and smoking many, many cigarettes.
"I am."
"What's it like?" Huey, who looked to be around my age, asked.
"It's a big city," I shrugged. "Ah…a lot of like New York or Chicago."
"Never been," Huey said. "Never been anywhere but here."
