After the Storm

Chapter 4

Sawyer Riggs stood in the doorway to the little bathroom, watching the tall woman with straw sticking in her hair and mud on her clothes walk away from him.

"What are you doing, man," he silently asked himself. He turned into the small space, filled with the afterthoughts of a bathroom added on to a house that was not built with indoor plumbing in mind. He shut the door behind him, avoiding the eyes of the reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. He was still soaked, the combination of rain and sweat making a puddle inside his boots. "It could be worse, man, could be sand."

Riggs turned the knob on the wall of the corner shower stall, then stripped his clothes, dropping them under the tiniest sink he'd ever seen. He pulled the plexiglass door shut and let the hot water run over his head. He thought there was nothing quite as good as a hot, clean shower. He quickly soaped up his body and hair, running his hands over the stubble of a day's beard growth. He wished he had a razor, but he'd survive. Five years in the Army had trained him well in the skill of expedient showers, and he pushed the knob, turning off the flow of water. He leaned out and snagged the pink and green striped towel that was hanging on the rod beneath the little sink. Once passably dry, he set his rucksack on the closed toilet and rifled inside for clean underwear and a pair of clean jeans. He slipped a clean T-shirt over his head and by that point, the humidity in the tiny space threatened to make the fact he had showered questionable. Once the door was opened he padded out into the kitchen in bare feet with his dirty clothes wadded up. He set these and his boots outside the door.

Looking around the homey kitchen, wistfulness filled him. He had missed home, but now he did not have a home to go to. He knew he'd figure something out. He always had. He carefully sat in one of the kitchen chairs with his back in the corner, full view of the door and the archway into the rest of the house to wait for his hostess. No way was he going to spook her by wandering around her home.

He started a mental conversation with himself:

"What the hell are you thinking? The minute you realized she was alone, you should have said 'thank you, ma'am' and kept walking."

"How could I leave? She needed help with the cows."

"Looked like she had it under control."

"Yeah, but that ain't woman's work. There should be a man taking care of that work."

"It's none of your business, dude. You need to light out of here first thing in the morning, don't look back. I can guarantee a woman alone on a farm has a story, and you don't want to be part of it. What if she accuses you of rape? It's her word against yours and yours ain't much..."

This mental tirade was interrupted when a strange woman walked into the kitchen. His breath caught in his throat when she met his eyes with an innocent smile.

"Who are you and what have you done with Miss Emmaleigh," he asked, trying to be funny.

She smiled, but did not laugh. "Har-har. Why didn't you tell me I looked like I had rolled around in a manure pile?"

"My mama told me if I couldn't say anything nice, I shouldn't say anything at all," he quipped. Seeing uncertainty in her eyes, he said, "Besides, I didn't see anything wrong. You looked like a hard working woman, is all."

The small smile returned. She had blue eyes that were closely shuttered, not revealing much of what she was thinking. There were faint lines around her eyes with dark circles under them. She was a pretty woman, he could appreciate that. She had put on a gingham blouse with flowers on it and a pair of nearly indecent denim shorts.

Emma walked to the fridge and pulled it open. "What sounds good: ham sandwiches, leftover spaghetti, or fried eggs and potatoes?"

Riggs had averted his eyes from the round rear end sticking out from behind the fridge door. He answered with a dry crack to his voice, "Whatever is easy. You are already doing too much for me. I should just go to the other house and leave you alone."