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."
He got to his feet and made to walk past her, but the small kitchen made him brush against her as he skirted the table. She stood quickly and tucked into the open fridge. Trying to settle the electricity that had passed between them, she said, "It's all easy, and I had a nap this afternoon. I'm partial to breakfast. Sit down, and I'll have some eggs and taters ready in a jiffy."
Shuffling his bare feet, embarrassed at his clumsiness, he answered, "That sounds fine ma'am. I'll just sit on the porch if you don't mind?"
Emma frowned but did not want to press the man. He was a stranger for goodness sake. Thinking a moment, she wondered what she was up to, inviting this mysterious, one might say dangerous, looking man into her home. A stranger who had just happened to walk up to her home in the rain, the only house down the county road it was on.
Riggs was sitting on the screened porch on the comfortable, but cliché porch swing, taking inventory of his surroundings. Off to the south he spotted an old Chevy parked haphazardly on the driveway, he could tell it was likely stuck, as its rear axle was half buried in the mud. Beyond the truck was a tinker shed, north of that a chicken coop and then the big barn where the soft lowing of the cattle could be heard over the peaceful patter of the persistent rain. Past the buildings were hundreds, if not thousands, of acres of pasture. He wasn't sure, but there might be some fields of hay further on up a rise on the prairie. The sun was setting over the pasture, making the grass shine a bright green against the gold and red just peeking out of the purple and gray clouds. It was almost as if the sun was sending a reminder it was still there.
He looked up as Emmaleigh pushed the screen door open with her hip and rolled through the door carrying two heaping plates of food. The minute the smell hit his nose, his stomach let out a loud gurgle, awakened to the fact he had not eaten since the day before.
She laughed, as she could hear the sound across the porch. "Hungry? I thought we could eat out here, there's at least a good breeze and it is cooling off."
She handed him a plate and then sat across from him in an old metal lawn chair padded with cushions. He waited until she started eating, then took a tentative bite. The potatoes were cooked to crispy perfection and his hunger got the best of him. He began to shovel the hot food as fast as his mouth could stand it.
Emma watched him as he ate, and put her fork down on her plate. She had never seen anyone eat that way. When he looked up sheepishly from the empty plate a few moments later, she said, "You want more? You can have mine. I'm not too hungry. All the hard work makes it hard to eat."
She raised her plate and offered it to him, but could tell he did not want to take it. She nudged the plate coaxingly in his direction, and said, "Really, I'm good, and you seem like you could use it."
He reluctantly reached out and took the plate from her carefully. "Thanks. It's just that with all the walking, I didn't have time to find a place to eat."
Nodding in response, she turned to look out over her farm, with a critical eye, wondering what a stranger would think of the place. All the mud didn't help things, but there was her dad's truck, still where she got it stuck in the mud in her impatience to get it turned around two days ago. The buildings could all use some paint. The old tractor sitting next to the barn would not start, and she had no inkling where to even begin to get it running. She did not have spare cash to pay anyone to fix it. If it ran, she might have been able to pull the truck out. Looking beyond, she took in one of the views that drew her back to this place. There was not a sight more beautiful to her than a sunset on the Flint Hills. Too bad this one was covered by rain clouds.
"Miss, I'm done. The least I can do is help with dishes, then I'll leave you in peace, if you'll point me in the right direction," Riggs' deep voice sent a vibration through her chest that tingled for a few moments after he had stopped talking.
"It's okay, I can get it."
"I insist," he said firmly, standing with the two plates in his hands.
She shrugged and stood, leading the way inside. She ran the sink and put in enough dish soap. She reached for the plates but he held them up and away from her grasp. "Go on, sit down. I can at least handle this."
He added some dishes from the side of the sink that looked dirty and grabbed the washrag and in a few short minutes, the dishes were neatly stacked on the drying rack. When he turned around, he found his hostess nodding off in her seat. He cleared his throat, with the rueful thought that if he were interested in anything nefarious, she'd be an easy target.
Emma jumped in her chair. "Wha?"
"All done, now if you just point me in the right direction, I'll let you get some rest."
She looked up at the stranger who seemed right at home in her kitchen, drying his hands on his jeans. She stood up and indicated he should follow her to the porch. She pointed south and said, "Just beyond the truck, the road turns and the guest house is behind the hill."
She reached to the hook on the wall inside the door and handed him the key to the guest house. Realizing she had no idea what condition the house was in, she said, "I know it'll be dry, but I can't speak to the condition it is in. I haven't had time to go and check it out. Sorry if it's a mess."
"Thank you, Miss Emmaleigh, it'll be perfect. Anything beats sleeping under a highway overpass in a rain storm." He took the key, then said, "I'll leave the key here on the table and be out of your hair in the morning. I truly appreciate your hospitality."
"Aw, it's nothing. I appreciate your help with the cows. It's the least I could do for a soldier. Thanks for your service," she said, having been raised to respect service members.
Riggs nodded in acknowledgement, but she did not miss how his eyes clouded over and she could not read the expression. It seemed that the faint lines she had noted on his face deepened and lent a haggard appearance to his handsome face. He stepped off the porch having slid his bare feet into his boots, with the rucksack on his shoulder and a wad of clothes wrapped in his poncho. He ran off in the direction she had indicated.
Watching him disappear, she sat on the porch swing next to where he had sat and rocked for a few minutes until she felt she would doze off again. She thought to herself, 'Four o'clock comes too early.'
She stood and went through the door. She was not overly trustful, though she did not feel she had anything to fear from Riggs, but she made sure she shut and bolted the door, just in case. Blue slept on the porch. He had settled onto his pile of old rags once Riggs had jogged off.