Page 15 of Saving Grace

I can’t respond. I feel out of place. Underdressed. Out of my element and altogether stupid for not checking the posting’s updates.

“Where did you say you drove from?” Louisa says, prompting me as we sit at the round dining table off from the kitchen counter.

“I, ah—” My gaze swings between them.

Ruby glances at Louisa before sipping her tea.

“Mississippi, actually.”

Louisa’s eyes widen and she returns her tea to the table with a thump. “Well now, that is anawfullong way for a job, young lady.”

Ruby studies me for a moment. I fight the heat that rises under her perusal. So much for nobody noticing my bruises.

“Lou, don’t you have that other position over at Mackinlay’s that needs filling?”

The two women share a look before Louisa sits up and gives me a warm smile. “You know, I almost forgot, we have been needin’ a carer, live-in housekeeper type, for the other ranch. You would be perfect for the job. The last three employees didn’t suit. The manager, he is... well, he’s particular.”

A grin bursts over Ruby’s face.

“Why? What’s wrong with him?” I ask, eyes darting between the two women.

Ruby tamps down a smile before squeezing my hand. “He’s just a bit of a grump after his accident. His mobility is a problem right now, hence the live-in position. I’m sure you can handle him.”

I’ve come this far. No turning back now. Besides, after Joel, I’m certain this manager couldn’t be worse. By the sounds of it, his injuries debilitate him. Safe enough, I guess. And much better than sleeping in Blue.

“Sure, when can I start?”

Louisa’s face lights up. “How does tomorrow sound?”

Chapter Four

MACK

No more nannies. Nada. None. I’m fuckin’ done. The last one actually wanted to cut up my goddamn meat like I’m some two-year-old. Besides, I can do this on my own. I donotneed a babysitter.

As if on cue, the front door opens and closes. Ma’s back.

I grip the washing basket with one hand and prop myself against the bench with my good hip, tossing dirty laundry out of the basket and into the machine with the other. The side of it digs into my bare chest, the base propped up precariously on my hip.

My left crutch slips outward, and I teeter on one foot as it, too, leaves my grasp. It clatters to the floor a meter from where I stand.

Fuck me.

Dropping the empty basket to the floor beside the traitorous crutch, I lean over and grab for the laundry detergent. The heavy box slips through my hand and crashes to the floor. White powder floods the small space, covering the wooden floor.

Sweet Jesus.

I brace against the counter and try to pick my way clear of the powder on the remaining crutch. On the second step, the crutchslips. I flail, arms flinging outward as I crash to the floor and onto my bad hip.

“Ah... Fuck you six ways to Sunday. Motherfucker!”

The pungent tang of detergent burns my nose, and the powder sticks to my now-clammy hands. It clings to my legs and covers my navy jogging shorts in its ghostly dust. Pretty sure the stuff will taint my skin for days. I may as well have rolled in the shit. I groan and close my eyes, hanging my head.

“You need a hand?” an unfamiliar soft voice fills the room.

Snapping my eyes open, I look up. A woman, young and looking as startled as I feel, stares down at me. She eyes the powder, the basket, and the crutches. It’s then I notice she is holding an armful of linen.

The new nanny.

---