Page 7 of I’m Not Yours

On Tuesday morning—well, barely morning—Mr. Jezebel Rooster cock-a-doodle-doo’d again and I’d had it. I whipped on my black farm boots over my flannel pajama pants and stomped out toward that pesky rooster sitting on the top of a fence post screeching so proudly.

“I am not a country girl, you stupid rooster, and I don’t want to be up this early!” I knew that my annoyance was totally irrational and ridiculous. He tipped his head and stared at me as if I were beneath him. “Stop it! Stop your stupid cock-a-doodle-doodling!”

He was silent for a minute, then thrust his neck back and announced, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“No.” I pointed my finger at him, stalking closer. “No!”

He was quiet again, but I could tell he had an attitude about it all.

It was dark outside, with blues, pinks, and yellows skittering across the sky, and still and silent except for my ranting.

I hardly knew what to do with this silence after living in the city for so long. I hardly knew what to do with the cooing of pigeons and the wind hugging the leaves of the apple trees. When Marvin the cat meowed behind me, I about jumped out of my skin.

I had always slept like a dead woman through this part of the morning. When I did get up, mornings were stressful for me, putting together some couture outfit so I could “look the part,” commuting to work, planning my day, all the relentlessness of work ahead of me. I was on full blast.

But this tranquility, the hills golden in the distance, the mountains purple to the west, a vineyard east of me—it was truly serene, like silk and a kaleidoscope mixed together. The country calmed me down. It made me see and hear things I had not seen and heard before.

I noticed that the lights were on in a Craftsman-style home with a huge deck on top of the hill. I’d seen a moving van up there a few weeks ago.

Mr. Jezebel Rooster cock-a-doodle-doo’d again.

“Shush!” I hissed. “Oh, shush.”

When I was at my door, that rebel rooster cock-a-doodled again, and I finally laughed.

Yes indeed, I laughed.

But this I knew: You won’t win against roosters. Especially when they’re named Mr. Jezebel Rooster.

I went back to sleep, then later pulled on my boots and started hobbling around the property.

A red barn, in fairly good shape, squatted about a hundred yards from the house.

I thought of it as Spunky Joy and Leroy’s home.

I fed them their hay and grain, and gave them fresh water.

They seemed excited to see me—they neighed, swung their heads, pranced about.

A helpful neighbor, Rita Morgan, a retired FBI agent, had shown me how to saddle and how to ride and I rode them most days on a nearby horse trail, which they loved.

The barn had a hayloft and I climbed the adjacent ladder, about twelve steps, to peer into it. I had not yet done so, and I was curious.

This did not prove to be a good idea.

I heard the splintering, I heard the first crack, then the second, third, fourth, as all the rungs broke straight through and I tumbled right down, then through the air, my ankle twisting on the last remaining rung as I landed on my back.

“Oof,” I said, then let fly a few bad words, crackling pain ripping through my body.

Spot the Cat, the cat with no spots, wandered over. My leg with the purple and green bruising and the stitches had been feeling much better. My left ankle was now killing me.

I groaned and pulled up my pant leg. There were splinters everywhere and my ankle was swelling rapidly.

“Help me, Spot the Cat,” I muttered.

I felt faint for a moment, that breathless feeling you get when pain makes you sick, then I lay back down in the hay, staring at the rafters.

Two pigeons and Spot the Cat peered down at me.

Hay from the hayloft drifted down. What on earth was I doing on a farm?

Why was I on my back in a pile of hay? Mr. Jezebel Rooster cock-a-doodled on his fence post. He gets his times messed up.

I shook off the pain and told myself to buck up and go to the hospital. I lay still for another fifteen minutes or so, Spot the Cat licking my face, sitting right by me like a true friend.

I half limped, half crawled back to the house, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed to my car.

I told myself in my foggy haze of excruciating pain that Jace probably wasn’t even working.

The last time I’d been there was six days ago.

He worked twenty-four-hour shifts, then forty-eight hours off.

It would be another shift of doctors, right? I couldn’t think.

I pulled into the hospital parking lot and sat panting in my car, hands to my spinning head, both legs throbbing. I gathered my bearings, caught my breath, shook my head again to clear the awful nausea, and carefully swayed back into the hospital.

The first person I saw . . .

Dr. Jace Rios.

When Jace saw me, he instantly smiled, gently, welcoming, and I was so touched my breath became stuck in my throat.

I wanted to pirouette right into that man’s arms and rip off his white coat.

I must have looked frightful, though, because his expression instantly turned to deep concern. He ran over to me.

“What happened?” His voice was sharp and he put an arm around my waist as I teetered like a drunken sailor, the floor rollicking.

I leaned heavily against him and shut my eyes against another swell of pain. “I can’t believe it. I was up on the ladder to get into the hayloft . . .”

“You were what ?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Why were you on a ladder ? You have stitches in your leg.”

“I wanted to see the hayloft, and the ladder broke—” I winced. “I believe that I won the fight with the ladder. The ladder is now destroyed.”

“And your leg?”

“Part of the battlefield. The bruises on my ankle will soon be as lovely as the bruises on my thigh. I’m looking forward to an exciting blend of colors.”

“You’ll match. Right and left legs, both in various shades of blue, purple, and green, with some red thrown in. Perhaps you should stay off ladders and away from horses.”

“Perhaps. Maybe I’ll take up knitting.”

“If you can keep the needles from poking you, it might work.” He shook his head at me, those intelligent, intense eyes looking deep. “Let’s go, Allie.”

I was in the hospital room a long time. Jace took out every one of the splinters imbedded in my leg. The X-ray showed that my ankle was not broken. It was badly bruised, swollen, and truly ugly.

The X-ray did not show anything about my heart because my heart didn’t get X-rayed. I am sure it would have shown it was broken, though, yes, I am. Even after all these years . . .

“Here’s your coffee. I poured whipped cream in.” Jace handed me a chipped coffee mug, then sat down about two feet away from me on my dad’s worn gray couch, my mother’s red-and-white flowered quilt beneath us. I made a note to buy myself mugs without chips.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, and I couldn’t move, those dark eyes straight on me, intense but cheerful, happy, as if he was glad to be here. Glad to be with me.

It was late morning; Jace had finished his shift at the hospital.

He’d asked me, while holding my swollen ankle on his lap, plucking out splinters, if he could come over and check on me later in the day.

I had resisted, then I’d melted. I needed him out of my life because our past was an alarming mess, I was a mess and my grief over my dad made me messier, and somehow my dad’s death was bringing up my mom’s death, making me a black cauldron of confusion and not a little anger.

But I wanted him. I wanted to talk to him. I knew it would get my heart even more bent out of shape, but I said yes. I told myself I would talk to him, this one time, and that would be that.

He had helped me out to my car at the hospital; I leaned on his arm, and he strapped me in.

I had refused a taxi that he offered to pay for.

When I got home I showered, washed my hair, and put on clean jeans, a pink push-up bra, a white lacy camisole, and a white sweater with a deep V.

I put on silver hoop earrings, silver bracelets, and perfume that smelled like roses and vanilla.

He had seen me, not once but twice, looking as if I’d rolled through hay and taken a dive into a pig’s trough. This time would be different.

Jace had arrived with flowers, a bag of coffee beans, and whipped cream. He looked so darn cute holding those flowers, I couldn’t stop smiling. Ah, Jace.

I smiled into the chipped blue ceramic coffee cup. “I’ll admit to being a tad embarrassed about drinking whipped cream in my coffee.”

“Why be embarrassed? You like whipped cream in your coffee. You like swimming in lakes at night, biking for hours, Jane Austen and crime thrillers—which you sometimes read concurrently—locating the constellations at night, and puzzles.”

I laughed, although I didn’t do puzzles anymore. That’s what Jace and I did together. Too painful to do on my own.

“You remember.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And I remember that you also like swimming at night, biking for hours, and crime thrillers. Not so hot on Jane Austen. I remember that you like reading medical textbooks for fun, hiking, and photography—especially of wild animals in Yellowstone that you got too close to.”

He laughed, low and rumbly. “Remember that grizzly bear . . .”

And we were off and chatting, all about the summer we worked at Yellowstone. The animals, geysers, waterfalls, hiking trails, Mammoth Hot Springs, camping. Darn. Why was he so charming?

While we were talking he examined both my legs again, then made us scrambled eggs and toast. “Have you spent a lot of time outdoors in the last years?” he asked.

“No. Mainly I’ve worked. I do bike.” I could never give up biking. Biking leaves my problems in the dust, at least temporarily.

“That’s funny. It’s the one thing I do still, too.”

“It’s traveling on two wheels,” I said.

“A mini vacation.”

“The way to see details in nature. You can’t get that in a car.”