What's His Passion 2 - Climbing the Savage Mountain (26 page)
Read What's His Passion 2 - Climbing the Savage Mountain Online
Authors: Chase T. A.
It seemed bloody miles long, and his legs were aching by the time he reached halfway. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he cursed himself for still wearing the thin coat he’d left London in. The sun was relentless in a clear blue sky, a massive difference to back home where gray dominated everything, even tingeing the edges of clouds and sometimes, he’d fancied, the planes of people’s faces. He was used to rain slaughtering the streets and everyone on them, not this weather, which had him wanting to strip naked and sunbathe.
An engine rumbled behind him. Ross stopped then turned, shading his eyes to see better. A truck, light green and with an open bed at the back, barreled up the drive. Dust spewed from beneath the tires, and the faint sounds of small stones being kicked up then falling to the drive reminded him of hail on windows.
A sudden wave of homesickness took hold of him along with trepidation that he was about to meet someone new. This was it, this was really happening. What had he been doing, then? Kidding himself that he wasn’t really here? That he hadn’t ditched everything he knew for everything he didn’t?
Fuck.
The truck slowed, the puffs of dust less billowy, then it drew up alongside him. The engine still idled, a
clack-clack-clack
giving rise to thoughts that it might be about to give up the ghost. The scent of fuel, strong as if recently spilt, settled in Ross’ nostrils. The driver—a silhouette of shoulders, head and cowboy hat all Ross could see—lifted one hand. Ross did the same, feeling like a right prick, nervous and reluctant to speak.
“You Ross?” the man asked through the open passenger window.
“Um, yeah.”
“Then jump in. I’m Grenadier.”
Ah, Grenadier, the one I applied to for the job. Such a weird fucking name.
Stuffing apprehension down into his feet and hoping it wouldn’t make them too leaden, Ross swung his suitcase into the back of the truck. He climbed in beside the man, dropping his holdall into the footwell. He glanced across. Grenadier was one hell of a size. Not an ounce of fat on him, he filled the space, his arms straining against the rolled-up sleeves of his burgundy checked shirt. His skin was as well-worn as the fence back there, creases around his eyes and either side of his mouth, but he looked about forty, those wrinkles not matching the age. Maybe the sun did that, dried out the skin and matured a person. Curly black hair peeked from beneath his hat, and dark brows arched over eyes so blue they matched the sky.
Ross cleared his throat and stared through the windscreen.
You can do this. You’ve played many roles before. This one’s no different.
The interior of the truck buzzed with something, some force or other that Ross couldn’t define. It was as weird as everything else around here, alien, forcing him to realize he didn’t have a clue as to what he’d let himself in for. Yeah, he’d thought he’d be okay taking on a job he’d be trained for as he went along. And people moved to different countries all the time. But the culture shock, coupled with the feelings of being so out of his depth…
Shit, I’ve made a mistake.
“You like what you see?” Grenadier asked.
Ross assumed he was talking about the ranch. How could Ross be honest without causing offense? He was used to skyscrapers that kissed the murky heavens and buildings so close that at times he could reach out of a window and touch the hand of someone else doing the same thing from next door. This…this emptiness, the space, that weird buzzing crap… He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that.
So why did I come here? Why didn’t I choose a city?
He knew damn well why.
“It’s certainly in the arse end of nowhere,” Ross said. “Like you told me. Bumfuck Egypt or something, you said. And I saw the pictures but didn’t really appreciate how empty it was until now.” He squirmed inside, aware that Grenadier was staring at him. “But yeah, it’s nice.” A shitty, lame word to describe someone’s pride and joy, but that was all he had. Nice.
“You’ll get used to it.”
Grenadier drove toward the ranch. Ross looked out of the side window, noting how the horses weren’t bothered by the truck. They continued to graze, one or two raising their heads to stare. The house came closer, grew bigger, and he spied a wraparound porch where a couple of men sat on rockers in the shade having a beer. Ross’ mouth watered. He swallowed and wet his parched throat. He had to get this damn coat off, feel less like he was sitting in a sauna.
After parking up, Grenadier got out. He walked round to Ross’ side then hauled out the suitcase and took possession of it, striding to the porch with an exaggerated swagger while Ross scrabbled to join him. His holdall bumped his body with every step, and he concentrated on the steady beat of that instead of the ones pounding in his chest and throat. Head down but with his eyes lifted, Ross watched the expressions on the faces of the two beer-drinking men to gauge their reaction to some English bloke joining their ranks. One of them laughed—a dark-haired fella who slapped his thigh. The other, a blond, stared—hard—bringing on all kinds of uncomfortable feelings.
The newcomer. Again. It didn’t sit well this time either. He’d been the new kid on so many occasions before it shouldn’t have bothered him. Those times, though, he’d been safe in the knowledge that other people had his back—even though those people didn’t really want to have it.
On the porch, Grenadier said, “Joe, Limmy, this is Ross Jones.”
Ross winced at his common-as-fuck British name. He nodded as the men stood, then shook their hands. “Nice to meet you.”
There it was again. Nice.
It wasn’t—wasn’t sodding nice at all—but he could hardly say that. The urge to walk back down that drive and wait for another bus going the way he’d come was strong. He wiped his brow with his arm then undid his coat, lightheaded from being so hot.
“Ready to get your hands dirty?” Joe asked.
His short hair was so light blond it bordered on white, bringing old men to mind. A speckle of darker stubble covered his rigid, square jaw, and it looked sharp, like it would dig into skin when he kissed someone. A scar ran from his eye to one corner of his mouth, jagged, as if an assailant had changed direction when slashing his face.
What, get my hands dirty now?
“I’m ready to work the day after tomorrow, like I agreed with Grenadier,” Ross said, wanting to make sure they didn’t expect him to start early. Not after that flight and the seemingly endless bus journey. Plus there was the jet lag to come. He was tired, bloody bone weary, and just wanted to go to his room. And with it being late afternoon, he hoped work had already ended for the day anyway.
“Good.” Joe sat again, holding his beer bottle loosely at the neck. His fingers were thick, blunt-ended, and his nails were surprisingly well maintained. “Because we got ourselves a bunkhouse to finish.”
To finish?
Ross looked to Grenadier for answers.
“Yeah,” Grenadier said. “I started tearing down the old one just after you applied. Damn thing was falling apart anyway. I’d hoped to get the new one ready for when you arrived but…” He shrugged. “Shit happened.”
“Damn right shit happened,” Limmy muttered.
Ross stared at him, his mouth open a bit. Limmy’s voice had been something of a shock, very deep and gravelly, not what Ross had expected. Yet he should have. Limmy was as big as Grenadier, although he appeared a few years younger, and his dark hair and facial features looked similar. Were they brothers or cousins? A distinct waft of irritation came off Limmy, who stared at Joe from the corner of his eye, obviously waiting for him to say something.
“So,” Grenadier said, “we’re almost done. You helping out will make it get done quicker.”
He’d stated the obvious, but there was an uncomfortable air circling everyone, so maybe Grenadier had just needed something to say to clear the tension. Ross was uneasy being stared at by Joe and Limmy—Joe especially, who had streaks of dislike coming off him, ones that slapped into Ross and let him know he wasn’t wanted here. Ross shuffled his feet, wishing he hadn’t because it gave the impression he was weak.
“I’ve put you in one of the rooms here,” Grenadier said, jerking a thumb at the house. “The others are camping out the back in trailers and tents. Didn’t think it fair to expect you to do that when you’d just arrived.”
Christ, I didn’t think I’d say this, but I want to go home. Back to being a pig. Who’d have thought I’d miss that? Christ, they say you don’t miss something until you haven’t got it anymore, and they’d be bloody right.
“No, no,” Ross said. “It’s fine. I’d love a trailer. A tent. Whatever.”
Grenadier widened his eyes. “For real? Well, then, if you’re sure?”
“Very sure.” Sleeping in the house with strangers wasn’t Ross’ idea of a good time. Being by himself as he settled in appealed more. He could sleep off the jet lag, snore, shit and piss in peace.
“All right. You need feeding?” Grenadier cocked his head. “I heard planes don’t exactly give a man a feast these days.”
“No, they don’t. A sandwich or something would be great, thanks.”
“Then go on in and speak to Tessa. She’s our cook and housekeeper. You’ll find all you need to know from her about meals and whatever.”
Ross put his holdall beside his suitcase then walked toward the open front door, the tense air getting tenser, tightening around him. He fought off turning tail and running, returning to the Big Smoke and ironing out the problems he’d escaped from. He resisted glancing over his shoulder at Joe and Limmy to see if they looked relieved that he was getting out of their space. But he didn’t need to glimpse their faces to know he didn’t belong.
Inside, Ross walked down a long, cool hallway, the walls dotted with pictures of men on the ranch. The sweat started drying, giving his skin a taut feel. A large empty living room was to the right, a staircase to his left, and ahead stood a closed door. He knocked then entered, expecting to find a kitchen full of men tucking into their meals. Instead, a woman standing at the sink, about thirty, red hair streaming from beneath a black bandana, spun to face him.
“Grenadier sent me,” Ross said. “For a sandwich. I’m Ross.”
“Well, howdy!” she said, striding toward him, the hem of her pink apron flapping over her slim-fit jeans. She hugged him close then drew back, keeping her hands on his biceps. “And look at you, a real Englishman. I ain’t never seen one in the flesh before.”
Ross smiled, feeling properly welcomed at last. He studied her tanned face, her bright green eyes, and the freckles over her nose. She reminded him of his sister, and he warned himself not to get attached, not to rely on this woman as he had with Beth. He was buggered if he’d repeat the same pattern here.
“I’d say you’d want a cold drink first,” Tessa said and stepped to a large, double-wide fridge. “Beer, lemonade or Coke?”
The idea of any of them had his mouth aching. “Whatever is easiest for you, thanks.”
“Sit down.” She gestured to the large wooden table that could seat about twenty. She got out a can of Coke then handed it to him. “You’re just the cutest thing. I can’t get over us having a real British boy here.”
Ross was about to reply, but Joe came in.
“Best you get over it pretty darn quick,” Joe said, his glare fixed on Tessa. “He’s here to work, remember that.”
Tessa blushed but stiffened her spine. “As we all are, but being friendly doesn’t hurt.”
“Best you see it doesn’t,” Joe said. He walked to the fridge to take out three beers. “Make the kid something to eat. I’ve got to show him to a trailer in a few and I don’t want to hang around all evening waiting.”
Ross stared from one to the other. What, were they married or something?
“Don’t you tell me what to do, Joe,” Tessa said. She turned to bump him out of her way with a slender hip then rummaged in the fridge. “This boy’s just traveled thousands of miles. The least we can all do is be nice—
if
you can even
be
that for five minutes.”
Nice. Again.
Somehow, Ross didn’t think Joe could manage it for one second.
About the Author
There is beauty in every kind of love, so why not live a life without boundaries? Experiencing everything the world offers fascinates T.A. and writing about the things that make each of us unique is how she shares those insights. When not writing, T.A.’s watching movies, reading and living life to the fullest.
Email:
[email protected]
T.A. loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.pride-publishing.com
.
Also by T.A. Chase
The Beasor Chronicles: Gypsies
Every Shattered Dream: Part One
Every Shattered Dream: Part Two
Every Shattered Dream: Part Three
Every Shattered Dream: Part Four
Every Shattered Dream: Part Five
Rags to Riches: Remove the Empty Spaces
Rags to Riches: Close the Distance
Rags to Riches: Following His Footsteps