Page 141 of Cowboy Daddies

“Home is where the heart is,” I reminded myself. “Tomorrow is another day and I’m going to enjoy it!”

With that determined, I stood and moved the stool closer to the tub, set my dinner on its surface, shut off the tap and stepped into the water. As warmth enveloped me, I sighed and when I ripped open my first fig bar, I thought of my new friend. I really hoped she’d enjoyed her own snack after getting home in time to have her baby in a nice, dry barn.

I wasn’t sure if it had been exhaustion or the sound of the rain on the metal roof overhead that had lulled me to sleep, but I’d slept like the dead. The storm had passed sometime during the night and I woke to sun beaming through the windows. I didn’t even let the fact that the light illuminated all those dust bunnies waiting to be captured dim my happiness.

My dinner last night had been yummy but hadn’t ticked even a single item on any nutritional food pyramid. I’d never even eaten the granola bar. Instead, I’d nibbled on cookies and sipped cola until the only fizzies left were in my tummy and not the tub and the water had gotten chilly. Which reminded me to add Mr. Bubbles to the ever-growing shopping list in my head as I stabbed at the slice of bacon sizzling in the pan. After I’d successfully turned it over, I cracked an egg and added it to the same pan.

The yolk hadn’t yet settled before a face wearing a look of disgust flashed in my mind’s eye as it replayed Roland’s critique number five hundred eighty-seven.

“Olivia, you already have the table manners of a heathen. Must you cook like one as well? Have some class, for fuck’s sake.”

“If talking to me like that is class then I’m dropping out of school!”

Of course, I hadn’t had the guts to actually say that. Instead, I’d apologized, emptied the skillet into the trash bin and was about to start over when his heavy sigh and pointed glance at the sink told me that classy folks never ever began with a dirty pan. Especially not in the state-of-the-art chef kitchen in their multi-million-dollar mansion.

A pop of grease brought me back to a kitchen that was far better simply because it had always been a place where love was so thick, it became part of every dish prepared in it.

“Bite me, Ro, it all goes to the same place, and my name is Livvy, you prick!”

Only my father and ex-fiancé Roland called me Olivia. To everyone else—well, everyone I cared about—I was Liv or Livvy. My father hated any version of the name since I’d been named after Grammie O and I could see the disdain on his face every time he said it. As for Roland, he was basically a carbon copy of his mentor and ignored my request he needn’t be so formal. The man had spoken to me with a patronizing tone that dripped with scorn, informing me I was far too unsophisticated and simpleminded to understand silly nicknames didn’t belong in the business world.

I’d wanted to inform him that my father didn’t use the name because he thought it was elegant or refined. He used it as a weapon, and I could picture the perpetual sneer as he pronounced my name, dragging out the syllables as if it were the most ridiculous name in the world. I mentally made a rude gesture to both men and licked the tip of my finger before trying to fish out the eggshell that had fallen in along with the yolk.

“Ouch!” The fingertip went back into my mouth to soothe the burn I’d received from dipping it into grease rather than egg whites. Refusing to consider it as a consequence for of being rude, I continued to suckle it. There was probably protein in shells, right? Once the egg was slightly brown on the edges, I popped the toast out of the toaster and carefully added the egg and bacon to the plate. Grabbing the mug I’d filled with coffee, and maybe a spoon or two⁠—

Or three!

—of sugar and a splash of cream, I took my breakfast out to the porch and settled on the porch swing. A single push of my bare toe against a gray board of the floor set it in motion. With the sound of birdsong, the warmth of the sun, and the first bite of slightly burnt bacon consumed, I lifted my mug and toasted the day.

“Good morning, world! What’s on today’s agenda?”

The buzzing of bees caught my attention and I shook my head. “Seriously? You may have already forgotten how that little adventure turned out, but I haven’t.” I ate some egg and was chewing a bite of toast that was so bland and dry it stuck in my throat.

“Score: bees, one. Livvy, zero,” I muttered after I’d unstuck it with a slug of coffee. Still, I would admit the toast would be far tastier if it were spread—make that drenched—in a layer of thick, gooey golden honey. “Fine, but no more rushing willy-nilly into the woods on a wild goose chase.” I giggled and corrected myself, “Make that no blindly bolting about for bees either. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to have a plan!”

As I finished my breakfast, I prioritized the steps I’d need in order to have any chance of success of becoming an actual beekeeper. Sure, I’d watched Grammie O do it a hundred times, and I’d even helped harvest a honeycomb or two, but never on my own.

“That’s what YouTube is for,” I told myself. Which meant I’d need to check on what it would take to run cable out to the farm so I could access the internet.

Washing up only took two minutes because I’d been genius enough to dirty only a single pan, one plate, a mug, and a couple of utensils. As I hung the dishtowel over its rod I smiled and considered the look on Roland’s face if he saw me forego a plate altogether and just eat straight from the pan. Poor man would probably have a stroke. Or spend another few grand on therapy.

After digging Terry out from beneath the covers, I made the bed and placed the tortoise in the very center of my pillow and patted his head. My grammie had crocheted him for me the first time I’d been instructed to pull a plant from the ground. I’d pulled and pulled with all my might until the ground set it free. Despite landing on my butt in the middle of the row, I’d felt nothing but wonder as I’d stared at the brown potatoes growing within the plant’s roots. Even more fascinating was the baby tortoise that crawled out from the tangled mass. I’d wanted to take him inside, but Grammie O told me that he’d miss his momma but I could visit him whenever I wanted. And I had, every summer until that day I was taken away. I shook my head. I wasn’t going to let that destroy the fond memory of my grammie ensuring I had my own Terry to cuddle with any time I needed a friend.

“No more hiding. The sun is shining, the bees are buzzing and we’re gonna be just fine now.” I considered Terry agreed when his cute head didn’t retract back into its shell. I really needed to look into getting him a few friends. Then when I was out and about, the stuffies could get into all sorts of mischief as the toys had done in the Toy Story movies. Smiling, I shucked off my pajamas, dressed, shoved my wallet into the pocket on the bib of my overalls, and headed out the door.

I was halfway across the porch when something wet hit my toe. A squeal and a jump backward gave me a clear field of vision of the pile I’d made and promptly forgotten the night before. Part of me really wanted to just walk around them, and it wasn’t the knowledge that no one would clean up after me, or even the narrowing of eyes the color of obsidian as he issued critique number five hundred eighty-eight that had me sighing. Nope, nothing as complicated as that. All that was required to have a shudder of revulsion shoot through me was picturing insects packing up their bags to move into the nice dank, slimy condos every crease and crevice of that pile offered.

I didn’t see a laundry basket and there was no way I was going to gather up the entire icky mess in my arms. Sighing, I gingerly picked up a discarded item in each hand, using the pads of my thumbs and pointer fingers to pinch them tightly. Each trip required me to traipse through the house to transfer the very wet and definitely smelly clothes to the washer located on the back porch.

After my fourth trip, I dropped my sneakers into the machine but decided not to start the load as the washer most likely shared a birthday with the fridge and water heater. I’d need to be on the lookout for overflow, plugged up drains or excessive sudsiness and whatever other mishaps could happen. I was rather proud and congratulated myself for making such a reasonable decision. It had nothing to do with the fact washing was the easy part. Once the cycle finished, I’d have to wrangle each item through the wringer next to the washer, and then hang them out to dry. And since I couldn’t see any clothesline in the backyard, laundry moved down the list of chores and a new laundry line and clothespins joined the list.

Do they even make those anymore?

“Of course they do!” I said and then had to wonder if perhaps I was wrong. The last time I could remember even seeing a clothespin had been watching Grammie O pinning up sheets and telling me there was nothing quite as rewarding as going to bed on sheets that smelled like sunshine. Well, if they didn’t have those old-fashioned wooden ones, I could always grab a few plastic ones they had in the grocery store. Everyone always had a few of those around to close bags of chips and cookies to keep them fresh…

“You don’t need⁠—”

“Why thank you ever so much for reminding me, sir,” I said in a tone so sweet it threatened to give me a cavity. A tone I never used to converse with my internal pessimist as she’d spot my insincerity in a heartbeat. Nope, this verbal “thank you card” was meant for the man I was sure thought he was responsible for teaching me so many things about what I needed. But what he’d actually taught me was that if I didn’t get away, I’d simply cease to exist—or wish I had.