Hard As Rock (9 page)

“Yeah, well… it’s still amazing.”

He blushed a little, which was adorable. “It’s nothing. Never mind, I didn’t bring you back here to brag.”

“Well, you
should
brag. I didn’t realize you were a genius. Not like this.”

Now he was blushing a lot. “I’m not a genius.”

“Yeah, whatever. Genius.”

I hip-checked him playfully. That made him blush scarlet.

“I think it’s time for dinner,” he said uncomfortably, like a teenage boy getting attention from a girl for the first time.

“I think it’s kind of early,” I teased him.

“What time is it?”

“A little after five. Dinner’s not till seven, right?”

“Oh.”

He really didn’t know what to do. I started to feel bad – like maybe I was being a little too flirty, a little too familiar – so I headed for the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Okay… call me when it gets close to seven.”

“Okay. Genius.”

“Hush,” he said, blushing again, as I closed the door.

At five till seven we walked over to the MacCruders’. I wore a newly laundered pair of jeans, a red flannel shirt, and my cowboy boots.

When Mrs. MacCruder met me at the door, she looked me up and down approvingly. “Now that’s more like it.”

I met Mr. MacCruder, who was a weather-beaten, laconic man in his 60’s who preferred one-word responses. The only time he talked at length was when Ryan asked him about the ranch, and how everything had been holding up. He wasn’t exactly grumpy… but I don’t think I saw him smile once the entire evening. He just seemed like he was patiently biding his time until he had to go out and hunt down some cattle rustlers or something.

Dinner was a delicious stew made of beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions. There was also fresh-baked bread, sweet butter, and a tossed salad made of lettuce and vegetables fresh from the garden. Ryan had brought over a couple of bottles of wine, and we each had a couple of glasses – all except for Mr. MacCruder, who stuck with Budweiser out of a bottle. Dessert was German chocolate cake, homemade from scratch. Between that and the wine, I felt I had about died and gone to heaven.

Mrs. MacCruder chatted nonstop in her warm, outgoing way, probably grateful to have an audience who didn’t respond solely with ‘Yup’ or ‘Nope’ or ‘Mrm.’ Ryan played along and asked her all sorts of questions about the horses, the neighbors (the nearest of which was about a mile away), and her side business of selling jewelry over the internet.

It was dark outside when I heard it. I was feeling relaxed and warm, my head nice and toasty from the wine, when all of a sudden there was this faraway scream – but guttural and inhuman, like something out of
The Exorcist.
It was followed immediately by the much closer screeching and neighing of the horses out in the barn.

I almost knocked over my wine glass as I sat bolt upright and grabbed the edge of the table. “What was
that?!”

“Cougar,” Mr. MacCruder grunted.

“You hear them up in the hills sometimes at night,” Mrs. MacCruder nodded.

I looked to Ryan for confirmation.

“Don’t worry, they don’t come down here,” he soothed me.

“Much,” Mr. MacCruder added.

“Don’t worry the girl, Charles,” Mrs. MacCruder scolded him.

“I’m not worried,” I said, though anybody with eyes or ears could tell I was lying.

“They stick to the hills,” Ryan said.

“But the hills aren’t that far away, are they?” I asked, my voice unsteady.

“Nope,” Mr. MacCruder said.

“Charles,” Mrs. MacCruder snapped.

“Trust me, Kaitlyn,” Ryan smiled. “I’ve been coming here all my life, and I’ve never seen a cougar on the ranch. Ever.”

“Have
you?”
I asked Mr. MacCruder.

Mrs. MacCruder was glaring at him, though, which I think tempered his answer.

“‘Casionally,” was all he said.

Ryan had said
I’ve never seen a cougar on the ranch.

“Do you see them up in the hills?” I asked.

“Maybe once every three or four years.”

“Yeah, but you only came for a few weeks at a time,” I reminded him.

“It’s really rare to see one, Kaitlyn. They stay away from people.”

I turned to Mr. MacCruder. I figured
he
would give me the straight scoop. “What about you? How often do
you
see them up in the hills?”

He shrugged. “Some.”

Well, at least it wasn’t ‘lots.’

We finished the wine and the German chocolate cake, and after awhile even Mrs. MacCruder ran out of things to say, so Ryan excused us and we toddled off back to the house. The entire time I kept glancing towards the hills, expecting to hear another one of those guttural, demon-cat howls in the dark.

“You’re completely safe, Kaitlyn,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, right,” I said, still nervously looking over my shoulder.

“You’re safer than you would be in New York City.”

“I doubt that. They don’t have giant, bloodthirsty cats prowling the streets.”

“No, just giant, crack-thirsty muggers.”

“I’ve never,
ever
been mugged, not once,” I countered.

“And I’ve never, ever been attacked by a cougar, not once.”

I looked back over my shoulder. “Yeah, but there’s always a first ti– ”

“OH MY GOD KAITLYN WATCH OUT!” Ryan shouted as he grabbed me.

I about peed my pants as I screamed and wheeled around, in instant fight-or-flight mode. I didn’t realize what was going on until Ryan staggered away from me, laughing so hard he was crying.

“You ASSHOLE!” I shouted at him, hitting him on the arm.

“Hahahahaha – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I
had
to do it – hahahahaha – ”

“YOU – BIG – JERK!” I half-yelled, half-laughed, and hit him with another flurry of blows. He took them all with the appropriate level of contrition.

“Sorry… it was just too good to pass up,” he chuckled as he put one arm over my shoulders and walked with me towards the house.

“You SUCK,” I yelled, but laughed and looped my arm around his waist.

I didn’t realize until we separated at the front door that we’d been touching each other.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that… but I liked it. That much I knew.

Ryan brought out an acoustic guitar, and after a certain amount of cajoling, coaxed me onto the porch of the house. We sat in rocking chairs, drank more wine, and watched the stars – bright and innumerable in the dark skies over the plains – as he played songs and sang along. It was like a replay of the night before, but with stars, guitar, and the threat of being eaten by a cougar.

Although I gradually relaxed about the cougar.

The wine helped.

Appropriately enough, he sang “Starry, Starry Night” by Don McLean, the song about Vincent Van Gogh. And since one Don McLean song wasn’t enough, he sang “American Pie,” with me joining in with the chorus. There was “Time Of Your Life” by Greenday, “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley, “Blackbird” by the Beatles, and “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters.

“More,” I said, exactly like a three-year-old, when he finally put down the guitar.

He smiled at me. “In a minute. I just wanted to take a second to have some wine and enjoy the stars.”

“Well, I guess I can’t begrudge you that.”

We sat there in the cool air, looking out at the night sky, enjoying the silence and peace.

“You having an okay time?” he asked.

I looked over at him in surprise. “Yes, of course!”

“I mean overall. Not bored yet?”

“No! It’s so… peaceful. It’s wonderful.”

He nodded with a smile. “Now you know why I like coming here.”

We sat there in silence until he finished his glass of wine.

“A couple more?” he asked, picking up his guitar.

“Yes!”

That night, I went to sleep with guitar notes echoing softly in my ears, and the sound of Ryan’s voice, gentle and kind, soothing the hurt in my soul.

My days and nights passed like that – reading and relaxation during the day, and wine and song at night. We dined with the MacCruders at least twice a week, but the rest of the time, Ryan cooked for us. He was really good at it, fixing everything from elaborate French dishes to a scrumptious spaghetti sauce from scratch.

On the fifth day he finally convinced me to take the horses for a ride. As I stood out in the barn and watched him expertly saddle up Albert and Bessie, I was struck by something about him: his casual, non-showy masculinity. He had the whole rock star thing on tour; he had the ‘genius musician’ part in the studio and during our sessions on the front porch. But out here he was a man’s man, doing things like saddling horses and getting ready to ride into the Black Hills. Maybe somebody who’s been around horses all their life wouldn’t have been impressed, but for a chick who grew up in the suburbs of Savannah and now lived in the urban jungle of New York City, it was kind of fascinating to see a guy who could play a bass guitar in front of 20,000 people
and
put a saddle on a horse.

I pictured Derek trying to do it and laughed.

The image ended up with Derek freaking out, throwing the saddle to the ground, and going off to find a bottle of whiskey.

Ryan looked over. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just imagining Derek trying to do what you’re doing now.”

“Yeah, good luck with even getting him to try. His idea of the great outdoors is playing at Coachella.” He watched my face carefully. “You know, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you mention his name while you were happy.”

The pain returned, like the jab of a needle in my heart. “Yeah, well… it was a fluke.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything else.

Outside the barn, Ryan helped boost me into the saddle and gave me simple instructions. “Bessie’s used to kids, so she’ll be gentle with you. She’ll basically just go along easily unless you tell her different. If you want her to stop, say ‘Whoa’ loud and clear. That’ll usually do it. If she doesn’t stop – ”

“What do you mean, ‘
if
she doesn’t stop’?!”

“Maybe you didn’t say it loud enough,” he teased me, “so pull back on the reins gently but firmly. You won’t need to exert much pressure. And be careful not to press your legs into her sides when you do it.”

“Why?” I asked, panicking. Images of her rearing up on her hind legs filled my brain.

“Pressing your legs into her side is the same as telling her to go, so you’d be sending her mixed messages.”

“Oh.”

“If you want her to turn right, pull gently on the right rein, and if you want her to go left, pull gently on the left. If you want her to go faster – ”

“I don’t think that’s in the cards today.”

He grinned. “Well, just in case, you can press her sides with your legs, like I said before. If she doesn’t go faster, press a little harder. Or you can say ‘Giddyap,’ or you can flick the reins a little and go – ” and here he
chk chked
with his tongue clicking in his mouth.

“Noooo, I don’t think I’ll need any of those. Ever.”

He laughed, placed his foot in the stirrup, and swung up effortlessly into his saddle. “We’ll change your mind eventually.”

“Suuuure you will.”

He was right about Bessie being gentle, though. She just kind of loped along at an easy pace, never going faster or slower. Which was fine by me.

Ryan rode beside me. Fat Albert was a lot more spirited, and tended to fight him a little. But Ryan handled him expertly, and the horse settled down.

That first day we didn’t go far – just across the ranch, and along the fences that formed its borders. But we started to ride every day, at least for an hour or two, and gradually moved up into the hills among the rocks and trees. At first I was afraid of cougars – I basically saw one at every turn, until I realized it was a squirrel or a shadow – but my fear began to fade as the days went past and the big cats turned out to be just as elusive as Ryan had promised.

The beauty of the place quieted my fears, too. It was pristine, unspoiled… absolutely beautiful. We took one especially long ride and ate a picnic lunch of cold fried chicken and potato salad by an open field of wildflowers, all purple and white and yellow.
That
was a gorgeous day.

But more than the scenery, I loved talking to Ryan. We spent hours and hours just telling each other stories. His were about Mara and Casey, and how they had spent summer afternoons playing hide and seek in the barn and around the house. His first kiss at fifteen, which he’d shared with a rancher’s daughter who had lived five miles away from his grandparents. His first girlfriend back in Athens. The argument he’d had with his parents when he quit college to play fulltime with Bigger. His friendship with Riley.

At first he danced around the topic of Derek, but the more he saw that I was healing, the more he would tell me about him. The stories were always good – none of his womanizing, nothing crude. There were more stories from before Bigger got famous than after, and most of them were before Killian and Riley even joined the band. Just two friends who shared a love of music and a dream to make their own someday.

In turn, I told him stories, too. About growing up with my two brothers. All of us watching horror movies when I was babysitting them, and how we all got the crap scared out of us. How I decided what I wanted to be when I grew up: I read an article about Sebastian Junger, the journalist who wrote
The Perfect Storm
and later was embedded with the U.S. Army in Afghanistan, and suddenly I knew. My years at Syracuse. My first year on my own in New York. My first boyfriend, Kevin. How Derek and I met. And how we had parted four years ago, outside the doughnut shop on Highway 78.

It was like therapy for me. In talking to him, I gradually released a burden I didn’t know I had been carrying. I cried during some of the stories… but Ryan was always quiet and supportive, listening attentively to everything I said.

I repeatedly asked him if he didn’t want to hear this stuff. I didn’t add,
Because I know how you feel about me,
but he understood the subtext.