Catch Twenty-Two Read online

  “It’s only a four-wheeler,” Nan says, rolling her eyes like an irritated teen. “Ezekiel will show you the ropes.”

  Climbing on a death trap isn’t my idea of a good time, but knowing I’m going to be spending the day with Zeke, away from the watchful eye of my nan, makes an eerie sense of foreboding fill my blood.

  The way he can torture me is endless, and I have no doubt he’s going to do his best to make sure that I know exactly where he stands by the end of the day.

  “Go on now,” Nan urges. “He’s waiting for you.”

  My cheeks heat as I walk toward the door on the barn side of the house. It’s as if I’m walking toward my own death. I don’t know why I haven’t spoken to my grandmother about who Zeke really is, but I know he doesn’t mistreat her. As much as I can’t stand him, he’s going to be the one around in a few months when my visit to Utah is over. She depends on him and his dad, and just because he doesn’t like me, doesn’t mean he won’t look out for her. She needs someone here on her side after I’m gone.

  “Have a good time!” Nan calls after me as I open the door to leave the house. “Take your time. There’s no rush to get back.”

  I roll my lips between my teeth and bite as I close the door behind me. Zeke is her favorite topic of discussion, and she hasn’t been shy about speaking to me about him.

  What do you think Ezekiel would like for supper?

  Ezekiel looks thirsty. Take him this lemonade.

  I think Ezekiel got a haircut. Doesn’t he look handsome?

  Are you excited for your date with Ezekiel?

  All day. Every day.

  If she senses my dislike for the subject of Zeke, she hasn’t taken a hint about it.

  My eyes scan the front of the barn, expecting to see Zeke out here with the machines of death, but the yard is empty. With a sighing huff, I walk toward the barn, finding him at the far end where I saw him loading hay shortly after I first arrived weeks ago. Of course he would be down here and out of sight of Nan’s prying eyes. It’s easier to abuse me and say hateful things this way.

  Despite the way light glints off of his sun-kissed hair and the tanned skin exposed from the t-shirt he’s cut the sleeves off of, I keep an irritated look on my face. I’ve learned my lesson about smiling at this boy, even though I pretend I can stand the sight of him just as well as he does each night at the supper table.

  “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, City Girl?” he snaps the second my presence is known.

  I don’t bother answering him. I’ve discovered that he likes silence most of the time, and if I keep my mouth shut, it decreases the chances of him spitting insults my direction.

  “There are two of them,” I sputter as my eyes scan the huge machines. “I thought we’d be riding together.”

  “Eager to get your arms wrapped around me?” To an outside person, his words would come across as flirting, but I know better.

  Zeke doesn’t flirt. He uses words to establish dominance and control. I serve no purpose for him other than an annoyance and an outlet for his verbal abuse.

  “I don’t want to do this at all,” I mutter.

  “Afraid you’ll end up a little dirty?”

  I didn’t even consider the possibility of that, but I should’ve, considering we had a rainstorm yesterday that thankfully served as a diversion for Nan’s insistence to talk about Zeke. Apparently, rain is a big deal in Utah.

  “More like afraid to die,” I whisper in an unguarded confession.

  He doesn’t say anything, and when I look from the four-wheeler up at him, I discover a new look on his face. I can’t tell if it’s shock or concern, but I’ve never seen him look like he cared about anything that’s come out of my mouth.

  “Come here,” he says softly but there’s no mistaking his command.

  My feet move of their own volition until I’m standing beside him.

  “By the time you’re done today, you’ll be an expert rider,” he assures me.

  My eyes narrow again, my head not allowing me to consider for a second that he’s being nice to me for any other reason than to manipulate me into a false sense of security. After all, cutting someone down when they least expect it is more rewarding than giving them exactly what they expect.

  I feel tiny as I climb on the machine when he instructs me to do so. I listen, as if my life depends on it, which to me it does, as he explains all the buttons and how to operate the four-wheeler.

  I’m doing my best to absorb everything he’s telling me, but controlling this thing with my hands instead of using my feet like my car back home is a foreign concept to me.

  Strangely, he doesn’t seem upset when I ask him the same question three times. He explains again and again and again.

  My hands are shaking, trembling under my palms when he deems me ready to ride, but I can’t seem to make myself commit.

  “Here,” he says as he swings a leg over the four-wheeler, effectively planting his body against my back. His size swallows up most of the space on the seat, but it doesn’t stop me from trying to move a few inches forward. “We’ll take it slow until you get the hang of it.”

  His masculine scent engulfs me, and even though he’s still talking, my ears don’t register any sound but the thumping of my heart as it struggles to pump blood to the areas of my body he isn’t touching.

  “Like this,” he says as his hand closes over mine on the handlebar. His other hand casually reaches around my waist, but there isn’t anything casual about my response to him. My breath hitches as my eyes widen. Despite the warm sun blazing down on us, chills spread across my body.

  He doesn’t snicker or make a rude comment about how I’m desperate for his touch. He doesn’t make fun of me for the way I react to having a guy this close to me, and hopefully when he guides my hand to crank the machine, the moan that escapes my throat from the vibration between my legs is hidden by the roar of the four-wheeler.

  “Just like this.” His hand over mine controls everything, and when we jolt forward, I lose those precious couple of inches I initially created between our bodies. This is its own special kind of hell.

  His thighs line up beside mine, and as I stare down at the skin below my shorts, I find myself wishing he wasn’t wearing jeans. His arm is still around my waist, anchoring me to him and somehow making me feel safe, when moments ago I was sure my life was going to end in a matter of minutes.

  He maneuvers us around the side of the barn, going slow until we cross through an opening at the south side of the property. We rumble over the cattle guard, but once we clear the fence, we take off like a shot.

  The wind swirls around us, and belatedly I regret not tying my hair up. I can only imagine it’s hitting Zeke in the face and making it harder for him to steer, but I’m not brave enough to pull my hands from the handlebars long enough to get it under control, despite the fact that he’s the one controlling everything.

  Fear spikes deep in my gut when he pulls his hand from mine, but it’s the absence of the one on my stomach that concerns me the most. After he gathers my dark brown hair in his fist, he shoves it down the back of my shirt before resting his chin on my shoulder and returning his arm around my stomach. Only this time his touch is lower, less under my ribs and more to the spot just below my belly button. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, swooping with each dip the four-wheeler makes on the rough terrain.

  I’m grinning like a fool as he makes a wide circle on the property before turning us back around and shooting us toward the barn.

  It’s over long before I want it to be, but I’d never speak those words out loud. We are back at the barn within minutes of us leaving, and I can’t help but feel cheated and disappointed.

  “Feel better about it now?”

  His voice is huskier than I’ve ever heard before, and even though he’s turned the four-wheeler off, I can still feel the vibrations in my lower half, making me curl my toes in my shoes. He hasn’t pulled his arm from around me nor his head from
my shoulder. His breath skates over the strap of my tank top, cooling the warm skin of my exposed shoulder. He doesn’t move an inch, and I stare ahead unsure of how to act or what to say.

  “Frankie?”

  I swallow thickly, certain this is the first time he’s said my actual name out of earshot of Nan. City Girl is his go-to, and although alone it’s not very insulting, it’s his meaning behind it that makes me hate it.

  “Hmm?” I finally manage.

  “Do you think you can do it alone now? I technically have work to do.”

  My jaw hinges, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water several times before I realize that no sound is coming out. I learned to talk at an early age. I’ve been doing it incessantly for a very long time, so why now am I unable to form words? I’m torn between lying and telling him I can’t do it alone, and knowing that if I do so, he’ll only find a way to use it against me another time.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I can do it alone.”

  “You sure?” His arms pull back slightly, the tips of his fingers running circles on my lower stomach, revealing that he’s just as reluctant to pull away as I am to confess my ability to handle the four-wheeler. “You’re still shaking.”

  There’s no way I can confess that the trembling taking over my body has everything to do with the way he’s touching me and nothing to do with the fear of riding by myself, but I have a feeling he’s well aware of what’s going on, just as I’m aware of him at my back.

  I can’t control my reaction to his proximity, but it seems neither can he. Refusing to focus on the situation in his pants, I drop my hands to my thighs and look over my shoulder at him.

  “You have work, remember?”

  He nods as his arm falls away, and I give him as much privacy as I can as he climbs off from behind me and situates himself on his own four-wheeler. From the corner of my eye, I watch him adjust the front of his jeans, grimacing as if he’s in pain. Whatever truce we’d called is over the second his machine roars to life. He doesn’t even glance back at me to make sure I’m following him when he takes off.

  Chapter 7

  Zeke

  I will not think about the way she felt pressed against me.

  I will not think about the scent of her hair or the way I enjoyed it slapping me in the face.

  I will not think about her the way I do when I’m alone in my bed at night.

  I just won’t.

  Nothing good will come of me imagining how she would’ve responded if I had let my hand sink a few inches lower on her stomach.

  Nothing good will come of my thinking about how soft I know her skin is if my fingers had teased below the hem of her tank top.

  Nothing good will come of letting go of the hatred I feel for Frances Young.

  She’ll be gone in a matter of months, and I’ll still be here, working cattle that will never be mine on land that’s on borrowed time.

  I don’t have to look behind me to know that she followed me away from the barn. Her four-wheeler is a distant roar, gradually closing the distance between us. I let up on the throttle, slowing to give her time to catch up. Once she’s beside me, I do my best not to allow my face to mirror the broad smile on hers. She’s having a good time, and as if her beauty is sanctioned by God himself, her dark brown hair, having escaped the confines of her shirt, now flows around her as her gray eyes light with happiness.

  Getting behind her moments ago was an excuse to touch her, but more so, it was a way to calm her fears. Frankie doesn’t disclose much to me. Why should she? I’ve been nothing but nice to her face and mean when Mrs. Jacobson isn’t watching. She’s perfected the routine as much as I have over the last couple of weeks, but what this pretty girl doesn’t know is the man smiling to her face at the supper table is closer to who I really am than the jerk telling her lies when she walks me outside at night.

  But it was the unfiltered fear in her eyes at the prospect of climbing on the four-wheeler that struck a chord deep inside of me. She was truly afraid she was going to die, and after having listened to Mrs. Jacobson talk about how her friend back home was recently in a bad car accident, I couldn’t just taunt her and call her a baby for not immediately jumping on the machine and soaring away.

  Plus, I wanted to feel her against me. I’ve wanted her touch since the first time I saw her standing in her grandmother’s kitchen. I wanted to plug in the holes in my imagination of what her body against mine would be like, experience her heat unguarded. It was nothing short of a religious experience for me and telling by the hitch in her breath and the sight of her pulse pounding in her throat, she wasn’t unaffected either.

  Land burdened by the weight of several hundred head of cattle cause us to bump and bounce on our respective machines, and when her eyes widen, I slow down, giving her permission to do the same. No doubt she would’ve continued at the same speed if I hadn’t. She’s facing every challenge I shoot her way, but putting her in danger is different from watching her eyes glass over with indifference when I pull her close for her nan’s sake at night after our evening meal.

  Her nan’s sake.

  What a damn joke.

  I want her against me as much as I want to shove her away. I’ve got split personalities where this chick is concerned, and I don’t know what to do with the warring feelings I battle with every damn day.

  Work easily makes its way to the back burner as we sail across the land, kicking up mud and over-grazed soil as we make it to the once rolling river on the back of the property. The creek used to flow steadily, gurgling and overrunning its banks, but even the rain shower we were blessed with yesterday was only enough to make it trickle.

  Cows watch us lazily, periodically lifting their heads from grazing as we ride past. Frankie slows even more as she nears the beasts, watching them with newborn fondness as we near the stream.

  Her cheeks are kissed by the sun, red from laughing at her first real experience away from the city. She slows to a crawl as her eyes take everything in, and I wonder how she sees what’s surrounding her.

  Does she notice how brown the grass is? Does she understand that this field should be green on the tail end of spring? Does she realize that we’ve been having to supplement the cattle’s diet because the land can no longer provide what they need?

  Probably not. She doesn’t know a thing about cattle or ranches or what it’s like to have her dreams crushed long before she even graduates high school. She’ll never understand disappointment. Her perfect life won’t allow for that. She’ll have everything handed to her without the aches of hard work just like she’s always had.

  Her smiling face no longer endearing, I hit the throttle on my four-wheeler and drive across a low point on the stream. Mud kicks up behind me, and a wicked idea crosses my mind. As Frankie nears the edge of the stream, I wait on the other side until she begins to gingerly inch her four-wheeler across the spot I just crossed. Once she’s in the middle, I gun it, splashing a wave of filthy water on her.

  She screeches like a crazed person, lifting her hands to her face. I don’t bother to stick around as she sputters and spits. I take off back to the house. Mrs. Jacobson must be delusional if she thinks I can get any damn work done with this girl on my ass, but lately the old woman seems more interested in me making a love connection with Frankie than anything else. Maybe she knows we’re all using tiny buckets to bail out the water on our sinking ship.

  But unlike Frankie, I can’t just walk away from obligations. What doesn’t get done today, only piles on top of the long list of things to do tomorrow. There’s no off-time around here. Not when there’s enough work for four people and only two around to get it done. One and a half if you consider how much Dad has been absent lately. The weekends aren’t even an excuse to laze around and relax.

  I park the four-wheeler on the back side of the barn, hating myself for listening to make sure that Frankie is returning. I don’t need her smiling at me. I don’t need her thinking that anything has changed. I still
hate her, and what I just did should serve as a reminder to her. Eventually, she’ll learn not to let her guard down, but it seems today she’s still uneducated to that fact. She should be more reluctant. Giving me the benefit of the doubt at any point will only cause her pain in the long run.

  Once I’m certain she’s made it out of the field, I head to the water hose. Spraying Frankie with mud didn’t mean I made it out untouched. My work boots are covered in mud, and it’s going to suck spending the day with the legs of my pants wet, but suffering with the stench of that dirty water clinging to me isn’t an option.

  With my thumb over the end of the hose, I increase the pressure of the spray, knocking as much of the debris away as I can manage.

  “You’re the biggest jerk that ever walked the face of this earth!” she snaps as she rounds the end of the barn. “You didn’t have to do that!”

  “Afraid of a little mud, City Girl?”

  She sneers as I look up to meet her eyes, her top lip curling up in disgust, and the jacked-up part? She’s gorgeous even with her face wrenched up in anger.

  The whole left side of her body is covered in filth, but even as much as I want to laugh at how ridiculous she looks, I can also internally admit that I like the sight of her in this less than perfect state.

  Guys from school always brag about how their girlfriends love four-wheeling, fishing, and hunting. The girls from school are just as efficient in the woods as they are in the kitchen, but Frankie will never be like that. Country life and all the things that come with it will never be a part of her life.

  “It stinks,” she whines as her little button nose scrunches up.

  “That’s because it’s like sixty percent shit.” My grin widens when she snaps her eyes from her stained tank top to mine.

  “What?”

  “Cows eat, drink, and shit. That’s about it. It’s not really mud. It’s cow shit.”

  Her throat works on a swallow but it doesn’t stop her neck from flexing as she gags. She’s seconds away from retching right in front of me, and even though getting covered in cow shit doesn’t bother me, I’ll lose my damn man card if she pukes because I’ll double over and do the same if she does. I’ve always been a sympathetic puker.