Scarlett Rose's Arc

Chapter 2 of 57

Scarlett Rose was on the fence line at six-forty, fifteen minutes before he'd said. She had laced her boots this time. She had braided her red hair tight. She had a thermos of coffee and a plate of biscuits wrapped in a clean towel, and she set both on a flat stump where he'd see them first. The rancher came up the ridge on a white mare with a silver mane. He rode like the horse was an extension of his leg. He tipped his hat when he saw the biscuits. He didn't say her name. She noticed. She didn't correct him for not trying. "Morning," he said. He swung down. He was taller than she remembered from yesterday, and yesterday she'd remembered him tall. "You brought breakfast to a fence job." "I brought coffee. Biscuits are a bribe." He almost laughed. He handed her a pair of leather gloves from his saddlebag. "Put these on. Post hole digger's heavier than it looks." They worked. He set the posts. She tamped the dirt. He showed her how to hold the rail while he drove the spike, and his hand covered hers once to steady the wood. He didn't move it fast. Neither did she. The mare grazed loose beside the cottage's white picket line, tail switching at flies. By ten the sun was hard on her neck. By noon they'd set six posts. He ate two biscuits standing up and said they were better than his mother's, and then looked like he wished he hadn't said it. At one o'clock he stepped back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "That's the worst of it. I can finish the rest myself tomorrow." Her stomach dropped. She had counted on three days. She had counted on him needing her. "Oh," she said. "Right." He looked at her. He looked at the cedar porch of her cottage, at the hanging baskets, at the biscuits. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Unless," he said. "Unless." "My mare threw a shoe last week. Farrier's out till Thursday. I've been walking her." He didn't quite meet her eye. "You've got that flat pasture behind your place. Better footing than mine. I could turn her out here a few days. Check on her mornings and evenings, if that's not a bother." She kept her face still. Her hands were shaking inside the gloves. "It's not a bother," she said. "Tomorrow, then. Six." "Six." He mounted up. He rode off slower than a man in a hurry. She stood by the finished posts until she couldn't hear the hoofbeats anymore. Then she walked back to the porch, sat on the top step, and pressed the empty towel to her mouth so she wouldn't laugh out loud. He had made himself an excuse. He had made her one too. She had two mornings, and then five, and now a horse to feed.