The Babysitter Page 9

  "Cull them?" I asked for her. "No. Not usually. Had a nasty ass other rooster that I culled a while back."

  "You mean they come nastier than that one?"

  "Red is pretty tame, all things considered. He'll get used to you eventually. But, no. I don't eat the chickens. The eggs are great. And they also keep the bugs away. Once it gets going, I will let them graze in the garden. They'll get rid of any possible pests. This'll be your thing in the mornings. Collecting the eggs. I'll deal with the messy work."

  "The, ah, mucking. That's what its called, right?"

  "No experience with animals, huh?"

  "Well, no. I mean I had a dog until I was seven. And..."

  "What kind?" I cut in.

  "What?"

  "What kind of dog?"

  "A Shih Tzu."

  "That's not a dog. It's a purse gremlin," I cut in, watching as her brows knitted for a second before a laugh bubbled up and burst out.

  "Purse gremlin," she repeated, smile stretched for one long, glorious moment, lighting up her quickly-healing face, before it fell. Like she suddenly; remembered she wasn't supposed to be happy, amused.

  And a shame, that.

  But, I figured, that was normal.

  Hell, it was still normal for me at times.

  I don't know if I could claim happy as something I knew. Contentment, sure. I was content here, peaceful, satisfied even. But happy wasn't quite the right word.

  Happy was a feeling I buried along with the old me.

  And I was okay with that.

  But, somehow, the idea of it not being a reality for Meadow's future made a knot tie in my stomach. Women like her, they should be happy. The world should get a chance to see a smile like that one.

  "I can do the collecting," she said, making me realize I'd been staring down at her for God-knew how long. But it was long enough to make her shuffle her feet, look uncomfortable. "I can even, ah, make the eggs in the morning," she volunteered.

  "You cook?"

  "I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I can do the basics."

  "We do basics around here. You get breakfast. I'll take dinner. We can alternate lunches if and when we have it."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  "And you can collect the harvest from the greenhouse. Then the garden when it gets to that point."

  "What do you grow in the greenhouse?"

  "Show you," I offered, stopping off at the house to drop off the eggs then grab the makeshift shoes I had made for her - made from a deconstructed pair of my old beat-up boots, using the rubber sole and a long strip of the leather to create a makeshift sandal for her.

  I'd been up for over an hour before I started banging around, trying to wake her up without having to go over and touch her.

  After her mostly-naked appearance in my bedroom the night before - and the undeniable way my body had responded to it - I decided that space would be smart.

  She was too tempting.

  And too close.

  And too damaged.

  There were lines you crossed, ones you toed, and ones you stayed far the fuck away from.

  Touching her was the latter.

  She was beautiful, sure. Especially now that the bruises were lightening, the swelling all but gone, showing what was beneath. Milky skin with an unexpected, charming smattering of freckles. Not just over the bridge of her nose, but peppered across the tops of her cheekbones as well, lending her already delicate face more sweetness. And against all that, her green eyes seemed brighter. If you looked closely, there were little golden flecks within them too.

  So I tried not to look.

  I tried, also, not to think about the way the swells of her breasts - a healthy handful - had been visible above the line of the towel, the way her nipples had pebbled through the fabric from the chill in my room.

  The thick material of my flannel shirt - and the way it swallowed up her much smaller frame completely - made it easier not to think of those things. That I very badly needed not to think of.

  It had been too long, I told myself. That was the reason I reacted to her when I never reacted to any of the other women who had stayed in my place.

  Hell, sometimes those women even tried to start things up. But there had never been any interest on my part. No matter how objectively gorgeous they were.

  There was just nothing tempting there.

  They were a nuisance.

  Interlopers.

  And outside of clients, I didn't see women much.

  Occasionally, when I had to make a trip into town - or even up into Navesink Bank - there would be a women. There would be an urge. I would give into it.

  Always casual on both ends.

  And always infrequent.

  I dunno... it had to be a good year at this point. Maybe even longer.

  That was all it was.

  A need left unsatisfied.

  "You made me shoes?" she asked a moment later, lips parted, gaze downward, and therefore, from my angle, unreadable.

  "Finn'll bring you real ones. I know they aren't pretty but I..."

  "They're perfect," she cut me off, head turning up, a clear warmth in those green eyes of hers, her lips tipped upward. "I can't believe you made me shoes."

  "Can't be walking around in the woods in socks. Your feet have been through enough. These might be a little awkward to get used to, but they will work for a while. Try 'em on."

  With that, she slid her feet in, flexing her toes, taking a couple fake steps.

  "If you'd have told me a month ago that I would be living in the woods, taking eggs out from under chicken butts, and - sin of all sins - wearing socks with sandals, I would have laughed in your face."

  "Life in the sticks takes a little adjustment."

  "They're more comfortable than any of the shoes I own," she told me as she fell into step with me, gaze on her feet, shaking her head.

  "Pretty hurts. Ugly does its job comfortably."

  "How far out is this place?" she asked a while later, swatting a branch out of her way.

  "I set it up near the river, so watering doesn't involve carrying buckets back and forth. Has a good break from the canopies too. He's just going to play in the water," I told her when she watched Captain bound off with the other guys who had followed us, her eyes a little worried. "He'll come back when we go. Here," I said, pulling open the door to the tall semi-translucent structure.

  "Oh, wow. You have a lot in here."

  I did.

  It took a while to get the greenhouse how I wanted it, having to haul in giant black drums filled with water to warm up in the sun then let off steam at night to help keep it warm in the winter without having to try to set up a solar heater to it.

  Once I got the temperature right, things started to flourish. All the greens - lettuce, spinach, kale, chard. The berries - blue, raspberry, blackberry.

  The other veggies thrived too - carrots, turnips, peppers, squash, cucumber, green beans, and about every kind of potato known to man since potatoes made just about every meal all the more filling.

  "Show me what ones are ready to pick. I can do this. And water them if you show me the way to the river. Do you always keep this going? Even when you have the garden going?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. You never know what kind of yield you are going to get, if the season will be too hot - burning everything up - or too heavy on the rain, giving everything wet feet. It's good to have a backup. When both crops are good, I just dehydrate the extra, put them in mason jars as 'just add water' soups and stews."

  "It sounds like a lot of work."

  "It is," I told her, shrugging. "But this is all there is. This work of providing for yourself in the most basic of ways. Don't gotta go and head out to work, letting that eat up eight - or more - of your hours. Simple life. But satisfying too in its own way."

  "So... if this is all you grow," she said a while later, carefully picking green beans off the plants, "how do you make full meals?"

  "Get beans and grains when I h
ead into town to fill up on supplies."

  "You couldn't grow your own? I mean... I don't know how or what you grow to make grains and pastas and whatnot, but you have the space."

  "They're a little more temperamental. And it's hard to keep the animals off them. Got cages for the garden. But grains grow big and long and high. It's harder to keep 'em protected. But I get pretty much all the grains you can get. Rices, quinoa, amaranth, barley, - what?"

  "You're forgetting the most important one," she informed me, shooting me a raised brow over her shoulder as she moved onto the blueberry bushes, popping one between her lips curiously before starting to load them into her basket. "Pasta," she informed me with an eye roll. "You can't live without pasta. Spaghetti, baked dishes, mac & cheese. Oh, well, I guess you don't have cheese..."

  "I can pick up cheese. What?" I asked when her lips pressed together, clearly wanting me to add something else to my list, but not wanting to ask for more, likely thinking I had already offered to do enough for her.

  "Chocolate?" she asked, shooting me doe eyes. I hadn't seen doe eyes in a fucking dog's age. It was no less effective than it had been in the past either. "I mean... I know you're all about that homesteading life. And I get it if..."

  "Everyone's entitled to some vices. Coffee, alcohol. Cheese and chocolate," I added, feeling the edges of my lips curve up at the smile that pulled at hers. "Would you come?" I asked as we took our harvest back toward the cabin.

  "Come where?"

  "Town," I explained. "Not anytime soon," I added when she seemed to tense up. "Finn is going to take a list and bring it in when he comes with some clothes for you. But down the road. When supplies run low."

  "Maybe?" It was a question more than a statement. "I mean, if you need a hand, I..."

  "Can do it myself if you would rather hang back," I cut her off, knowing how long it took me to be able to head into town when I first came into the woods, how I chafed at the idea of being back in society again. "The dogs stay back. You couldn't be safer. Even without me here."

  "I, ah, we'll see, I guess," she said, shrugging. "What's the matter?" she asked, body stiffening.

  "Something's wrong," I told her, shoving the basket at her, not even pausing to see if she managed to pile it on top of hers before I rushed off, throwing myself over the top of the animal pen, following a sound that sounded wrong, off.

  Bleating, but muffled.

  Pained, I figured.

  It didn't take me long to find the source, find her.

  Anya.

  One of my oldest goats.

  Too old, I thought, to be breeding. But there had been no denying the bulge out the sides of her body that got bigger by the day.

  She hadn't been a good breeder from the jump, often producing stillborns or ones too small to thrive once they were born.

  And now, it seemed, something was definitely wrong.

  First, it was too soon.

  Second, she was in too much pain, fading fast.

  "Is she in labor?" Meadow asked a while later, likely after having deposited the fruits and vegetables in the house then figuring out how to get over the fence without scraping the shit out of her bare thighs.

  "Yeah."

  "Hey, baby," she murmured, voice soft as she moved past me, dropping down to her knees in the straw by Anya's head, softly stroking her hand down her head. "Not feeling so hot, huh?" she went on, her eyes a little worried as she looked at me. "Is something wrong?"

  "Yeah," I told her, rolling up my sleeves, getting down by Anya's rear end.

  Maybe I should have told her to leave, to let me handle this. My gut was telling me that this wasn't going to have a favorable end, that I would be saying goodbye to a very sweet-natured goat. And knowing that maybe more sadness was not what she would need in her life with how fragile her mental state clearly still was.

  But, somehow, I was happy she was there, that I wouldn't have to do it alone.

  Never having been the type to need to lean on anyone before, I knew it was weird to feel that way now. But there would be time to deal with that later. When there wasn't blood and pain to deal with.

  "You're doing good, sweet girl," she consoled Anya as things got worse, as the bleeding seemed like it was never going to stop.

  She seemed to sense it too. The end. Her voice was getting higher, tenser, closer to - I worried - tears. "Let's get that baby out, so maybe we can help you get all better."

  But the light seemed to leave Anya's eyes just a moment before the kid finally came out, small, but alive. Breathing.

  "Oh, honey," Meadow whimpered, leaning downward, resting her head on Anya's forehead between her ears, her breath shuddering out of her, likely finally losing the battle with her tears, her grief for an animal that - prior to maybe half an hour ago - she had never had any connection with. "Did it make it?" she asked, turning her head a little to look at me, eyes red-rimmed, wet still stuck to her cheeks and lashes.

  "He's small, but he's alive," I told her, reaching to hold out the little gray/brown kit.

  The grief didn't leave her eyes at seeing him. Instead of eyeing the baby, she turned her attention back to Anya, pressing her eyes closed, resting her forehead back to hers. "We're gonna take care of your little one. Don't worry," she promised her, pressing a kiss to her soft fur before pushing back onto her heels, scooting her knees closer to me, hands reaching out.

  When I placed the kid there, she pulled him to her chest, slime and blood and all, cuddling him close.

  "Is he going to make it?" she asked.

  She was already attached. There was no denying it.

  "Maybe. He's small. If one of the other goats will..."

  "Can I?" she cut me off.

  "Can you what?"

  "Take care of him? I know it will be extra work. And I don't really know that much about it. But you have your phone, right? I can look it up. I won't make you help or anything. I promise. I will take full..."

  "Breathe," I told her, her voice getting airy as she rushed to make her case. "If you want to, you can give it a try. But he's small. It was too early. I can't make any promises that he'd survive. As for research, you'd need to bottle feed him four or five times a day for the first few weeks, then cut it down to three. Then introduce solid foods. I've raised goats for years," I explained when her brows knotted. "I've watched the process. You can give it a go. You'll need the milk from the other goats. I'll get that," I offered when her eyes went panicked at the idea of milking.

  "I can't ask..."

  "You didn't," I cut her off. "I'll handle that. And I have some bottles. They came in a starter kit I got ages ago just in case."

  "Can I keep him in the house with me?"

  "You'll have to. He's got no mama to keep him warm."

  "What happens to Anya?" she asked, looking over at the still body, eyes going a little wet again.

  Normally, I didn't waste anything. It went against my survival instinct, my dislike of waste. I would typically use the meat to dehydrate and give to the dogs as treats. But I found I couldn't tell her that. I couldn't do that.

  "I'm gonna bury her."

  It was right about then that I realized how good and fucked I was, how much this little, damaged woman was going to change things. Sure, this was a small thing in the grand scheme of things. But little things led to big things. Until, one day, everything is different.

  But, somehow, I couldn't muster the energy to care.

  "Can I wet him?"

  "Can't figure out how else you would clean him off." Cringing a little at the way her gaze ducked, like she was offended or hurt by my tone, I took a deep breath. "The moms would lick them clean. Don't soak him in a neck-high bath, but he can get a little wet. Go on. I'll handle the burial and get some milk."

  "Hey Ranger?" she called, her voice soft-sweet, and I won't lie, there was a response to it. Not in the way I had responded the night before. But something else. Something maybe even more worrisome, something that felt like a warmth in my c
hest.

  "Yeah?" I asked, looking over my shoulder at her. Standing in the doorway; the sun shone out behind her, making her glow. And that sensation in my chest grew stronger.

  "Thank you," she told me, tone heavy before turning and rushing away.

  When I saw her next about an hour later, the goat was cleaned up, as was she, dressed in another of my flannels - this time a mustard yellow and gray that I never wore. Standing in the kitchen whipping eggs in a bowl, she had the backpack Miller had shown up with turned around to hang off the front of her shoulders, the straps stretched long, so it hung around her waist, the sides half zipped upward, a little goat head poking out of the top.

  "You didn't have to make breakfast."

  "We had an agreement," she objected, shaking her head as she reached for some of the spinach, tearing it between her fingers then dropping it into the eggs.

  "We had an emergency."

  "Are you hungry?" She shot back, looking over at me.

  "Yeah," I admitted.

  "Then go get cleaned up, and we can have breakfast."

  We.

  I didn't think much of it right then.

  But as the days would go on, that word would keep coming up.

  When are we going to work on the garden?

  What should we have for lunch?

  How do we wash clothes?

  But at the moment, it was a simple comment that didn't even break my stride.

  "Did you name him?" I'd asked after watching her feed him a bottle.

  "Gadget."

  "Gadget?" I repeated, brows raising. I'd figured she'd go for something cutesy. Or a human name or some shit. Not fucking Gadget. "How'd you come up with that?"

  "Your rant from earlier."

  "I don't rant."

  "You rant," she corrected, smile a little teasing.

  "What was I ranting about?"

  "You were grumbling at your phone. It must not have been cooperating. And you were saying something about gadgets. I'm almost surprised you didn't throw in a 'newfangled' or something. It reminded me of my grandfather." Hearing the words come out of her mouth, her eyes went big. "That wasn't an insult," she insisted. "I was really close with my grandfather. He's actually why I was in the woods the, ah, second time you found me."