15. Bishop

I watchas the combine heads down the cornfields to harvest what we'd planted in the spring and early summer. We use the corn as a supplement to the grass and legumes for hay. I feel the pit growing in my stomach, hoping we yield enough to get us through the harsher winter months. It's the same worry every year, but somehow, we always pull through. We've had more rain than drought, so the weather has been in our favor. That hasn't always been the case, which means buying from local farms that have to jack their prices to make up for their own ruined crops.

Even the cows are getting restless because they have this innate way of sensing what's coming. By the end of the week, we'll be able to move them to graze in the harvested fields, since their normal pastures have already begun to grow sparse.

The fall harvest is in full swing on the ranch, which means I've barely had time to be around Porter, let alone talk to him much outside of telling him and the other hands where they're needed most.

I smirk to myself. The fact that Porter thinks I have the upper hand is laughable. He's always had it when it comes to me. I'd drop to my knees on his command if he wanted me to. Well, as long as we're in private, which is nearly impossible these days.

Those thoughts are now left to my evenings, where I relive how his hands and mouth felt on me in the parking lot. That was reckless but so hot, I can't help being grateful it happened. But it's also a curse because now I want him all the time.

I long for him to call me boss in that secret way only I know about, and it's almost become a game between us.

"Porter, can you help Otis count the hay bales again?"

"Of course, boss," he says with that cocky grin. When our eyes meet and hold, it's a contest to see who will look away first. It's normally me because I'm hyperaware of my responsibilities and how much it would suck to let the others in on our secret. Well, other than Wade, who can totally read us but thankfully never betrays us.

When I hear a familiar sound, my head snaps toward the far field where Randy is riding our second, older combine.

I ride closer and motion to him. "Needs greasing!"

He gives me the thumbs-up as he steers the machine in my direction, but not too close so he won't spook my horse. "On it."

"Why didn't you check it before riding out?" I ask, trying to temper my reaction. The combines need lubrication at least every twenty-four hours, especially during the harvest.

"My bad. I'll head over now." Before I can respond, he steps on the gas and eases the tractor toward the barn, where our machinery is stored.

He hasn't shown up to work the past couple of days. According to him, Pixie was sick and stayed home from school, so he couldn't leave her, but given his red nose and glazed eyes, he's coming off a bender. I know better than to ask either of them. The ranch allots sick time, but if it keeps happening, I'm not gonna hold back.

I follow the tractor, reminding myself to check the nearby silo to make sure there's enough grain for winter storage. There are just too many things on our to-do list during this time, and I need the employees to take ownership of the tasks they're given.

"Something up?" Wade asks, riding up to meet me near the barn.

"Ball bearings need greasing. Don't want them to overheat out there."

All we need is a busted tractor that's out for repairs.

His hand tightens on the reins. "Sorry about that. I told him to check before riding out."

"No worries." I unclench my jaw. "It'll get done."

I watch as Randy heads inside the barn to retrieve the tools and then gets to work checking the engine. Wade dismounts to have a private conversation with him, and I can only make out his terse tone. Wade had sung Randy's praises when he was hired last fall, so I can only assume his struggles with alcohol have worsened over the summer. And if I'm right, he's got everyone covering for him, including his daughter. That doesn't sit right with me, though I know it's coming from a good place.

Speaking of Pixie, she'd been brushing Willow in the stables after school, but now here she was, eager to lend a hand or maybe watch her daddy work.

I dig out my cell to take a call from Dr. Roy, who's been keeping me abreast of the bovine fever affecting local ranchers. Thankfully, we've been spared so far.

After Randy completes the task and shuts the engine cover, Pixie bounces excitedly. "Can I ride with you?"

Randy throws me a sidelong glance. "Not sure that's a good idea."

"Please," she begs, and I get it. It's fun for the kiddos to ride the big machine and see how the thresher gives the crops a good haircut. Kids shouldn't be around heavy machinery, but we've all done it. I'm sure plenty of ranches have let it slide.

I twist the rein to turn Midnight toward the rolling pasture, realizing I'm only making the situation worse by watching them. I don't want to be the kind of boss who micromanages, let alone telling someone how to parent, and that's exactly what I would be doing now.

Fortunately, Porter and Otis ride up then. "A dozen more hay bales than the last count, boss."

I breathe out, relieved we're still on track. "Thanks."

The air feels crisper this late in the afternoon, so I lift my coat collar to combat the chill. The fall weather is gorgeous even when the temperatures fluctuate, and before we know it, the sun will be setting earlier and it'll feel dark and cold. But we have the beauty of the mountains to marvel at, and that always gets me through the winter months.

I can feel Porter's gaze pressing in on me as I check my messages. He knows how stressful this time of year is, and I'd give anything to take off with him right now to our secret place and get an orgasm out of the deal.

His voice is hesitant when he says, "My chores are checked off for the day, so if it's all right…"

I nod because I already know what he's gonna say. "Just double-check with Wade before you're off to the horses."

"Will do."

When Arrow pads closer to the foreman, I look at Otis. "Check the grain feed with me?"

Just as we're about to trot toward the silos, I hear the roar of the tractor engine again. I turn to see Randy steering toward the field as a sullen Pixie remains behind. I feel momentarily guilty that he didn't take her for a ride, but work comes first, and given the health and safety concerns, let alone our insurance premiums, his decision was a sound one.

"Need a ride back to the stables?" Porter asks Pixie.

Her eyes light up. "Are you working with Storm again?"

"I'm sure as heck gonna try."

She smirks. "He's ornery today. Didn't want the apple I offered him."

"He passed up a sweet treat?" he teases. "Must be because our stable assistant is grumpy too. Who wants to hang around grumpy people?"

Her lips try and fail to resist a grin. "Well, you should know."

"Oooh," Wade says with a laugh.

"That's how we're gonna play it?" Porter waves a hand. "Okay, forget the ride I offered you."

He pulls on the reins to turn the gelding in the opposite direction.

Hands on her hips, she shouts, "Hey! No fair."

He laughs as he offers her a hand. She plants a foot to lift herself and sits astride the horse in front of him.

My heart squeezes watching them. He's growing sweet on her, not that he'll ever admit that. My gaze meets Wade's, and he gives me a knowing look.

Otis and I complete one more chore, and by dinnertime, I'm famished. Lloyd is gone for the day, but not before preparing our family a delicious chicken paprikash, his mother's Hungarian recipe. I can't help wondering how much Porter must miss his mom's cooking, let alone her company. Another thing that weighs on me where he's concerned. And just another thing for Porter to resent me about. I have my parents—both of them—and given the chance, he won't let me forget it.

That thought stuck in my mind, I welcome the stiff drink my father offers me afterward in front of a warm fire. We catch up on the day and discuss the upcoming cattle auction, where we'll let some of our best go, hopefully not for less than market value.

"Maybe we should weigh the bulls before the sale?" I say. "See where we stand and what we might get for them?"

"Good idea. Heard the Colemans' ranch got a pretty penny for one of their bulls last month."

That's when I hear Mom's voice in the kitchen. "Now, you know I'm a miserable cook, but I still love to bake."

"Yes, ma'am," Porter replies, and I stiffen.

"This sweet-potato pie is your mother's recipe. I thought you might enjoy a slice."

There's no response as I stand and make my way to the kitchen. What was Mom thinking?

When I enter the room, Porter is seated at the table, blinking at the slice of pie in front of him, as if lost in some memory.

"What's going on?" I ask in a tight voice.

"Hi, honey. This just came out of the oven, and when I saw Porter through the window, I waved him inside."

He won't meet my eyes, so I don't know if he's upset or simply speechless. He's always been quiet around my parents, or maybe uncomfortable is the better word.

"Mrs. Dixon would make this pie after every fall harvest."

"I remember," Porter says in a rough voice. "And she'd bring one home for us too."

I step forward. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea?—"

Porter cuts me off. "No, it's all right. I appreciate the gesture. Just haven't thought about my momma's cooking in a long time."

When I reply, "She was the best," his gaze softens briefly.

Mom bites her bottom lip, suddenly seeming unsure. "I didn't mean to overstep. I just thought… I miss your momma something awful, and I…" She props herself against the counter. "Well, I don't rightly know. We haven't spoken properly since you returned, and I hoped we could have a good chat over your momma's pie."

There are warring emotions in Porter's eyes. I can't tell if he wants to flee or stay put, and it occurs to me that my presence is not making his decision any easier.

I turn toward the living room. "I'll leave you to it, then."

I walk numbly toward the fireplace and sink down in the wingback chair across from my father.

He reaches forward with the decanter to top off my whiskey. "Is that Porter in the kitchen?"

"Yeah. Mom made Mrs. Dixon's sweet-potato pie and invited him to have a slice."

He winces. "She means well."

"I know." I take a slow sip, and it burns going down. "I think he does too."

"He's a hard worker, damn good with the stock horses, and seems to be getting along fine with the other hands."

Except Randy, I want to say. But I don't have the energy. Instead, I grow silent and get lost in the murmurs coming from the other room.

If I close my eyes, I can pretend it's just like old times.

Before everything went to shit.