CHAPTER THREE: WEATHERED OUT

Followed the track of my needle
Tried to be good to my people
So why's there no peace?
No break no relief?

Can I be blamed if I'm angry?
Can I be saved if I'm barely clinging to hope?

(Morning Comes , Delta Rae)

MONDAY
ALICE

I don't want to work today.

I've managed to catch another hour or two of sleep after the cabin conundrum, but it's far from enough. I'm exhausted. I'm sore. I'm angry. My eyes sting and my skin itches from the mud I failed to wash off in my hasty shower last night.

I don't want to work today.

Inspiration and hope have both abandoned me, replaced by a jittery sense of uncertainty. Our first shoot was supposed to start at ten. I had planned for a slow morning — an early rise, a quick breakfast, a few hours spent decorating models to a picture perfect ideal — this is not possible now. I'll have to spend the morning cleaning and steaming all the clothes that got drenched last night. My whole creative process has been thrown out of whack. I hate it. Stupid freakin' Mother Nature. Stupid Texas.

I let out an exasperated huff and roll over, burying my face in the pillows. I want to scream, or sleep, or evaporate altogether. I can't do any of that. I have to get up. Now. I have no choice. If my models slink out of their rooms to find me missing and my cabin half taken down by a tree, they'll dive into full on panic. I've got to make an appearance. At the very least, I'll go tell them our schedule has been pushed back by a few hours. Show them that I'm still alive. To do all that, I've got to leave this wonderfully comfortable bed. Jasper's sister — Rose, I think he said — is a very lucky woman. These sheets feel like Egyptian cotton, the pillows like clouds. Considering everything else around here is so rural, this bedroom is a special kind of luxury. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I eventually convince my body into a hot shower and wash the remnants of last night down the drain. I wash my hair and clean my face, hoping that good hygiene will pass off as restfulness. After that, I dig through the bathroom cabinets, hoping to find a hairdryer hidden somewhere behind this woman's five million creams and endless pink towels. I'm out of luck. I can smell like eucalyptus or cherry blossom or s'mores, if I want to, but my hair will just have to dry out in the sun, like a damn pioneer. I want to feel resentful, and I do, but I don't know who — or what — to direct that energy towards. It's not Jasper's fault, for sure, and I certainly don't feel comfortable blaming an inanimate object like a hairdryer a tree or an old, decrepit cabin. My anger is pointless. I breathe in that realization, and breathe out negativity.

Another silver lining: I don't have to be in front of the camera. It doesn't matter what I look like today. That softens my homicidal mood. A little.

I'm forced to wear whatever I can source out from the large white dresser in the bedroom, which ends up being a pair of athletic shorts and an old track and field t-shirt. Both items read Beaumont High in bright, collegiate lettering, printed clear across the back; which screams class, really.

It's going to be a great day.

Deciding it's far too early for a drink, I settle for a shot of emotional support instead. There is a string of unopened messages from my family waiting patiently on my phone and I pause long enough to read them, hoping their words of support will carry me through the morning.

Congratulations, sweetheart. We miss you already.

Esme.

So truly excited for you, dear Alice. Your mother misses you, so give her a call when you can!

Carlisle.

Don't have too much fun.

Edward.

The texts have the opposite of the intended affect. I miss home so badly it hurts.

As I read through each text on repeat, sucking all the joy and love and normalcy from each word, I wonder how worth it my dream really is. Am I crazy coming here? Who at twenty-three thinks they have the know-all to release their first line? You almost died your first night here — are you really in control of anything? It's only going to go downhill from here. You're wasting time. You're wasting money. How did you manage to convince anyone you were talented enough to do this? I'm starting to spiral. No, actually, I'm deep-spiral. I'm seconds away from calling my parents and crying mercy.

I need air. I need to look outside and remind myself that the world has not ended — that the sun has come up and will continue to shine despite my biggest, loudest worries. I drag my jittery body towards the far wall off the room, where a pair of white linen curtains hang closed. There's a window there, I think, so I reach to pull back the curtain and realign myself with the rest of the world.

Oh.

It's not a window. I've uncovered a set of glass paned doors, leading out to an expansive wooden balcony. Morning light pours in the panels unencumbered, a shock to my tired eyes. The sun's immense, warm glow encourages me to open the doors, so I do. The balcony creaks under my bare feet, its panels slightly damp from the storm last night. My tense muscles relax against the cool morning breeze.

The world around me is so alive. It's only half past seven in the morning, but there are people everywhere. The cowboys from the mess hall are hard at work — bringing horses out of the stables, securing pastures, picking up branches that broke against the wind, while some of them just wander back and forth, moving feed from one spot to another. That same big, Texas sun from yesterday sits among a cover of wispy white clouds like it had never left, warming the still wet ground below me. Birds sing in the distance. Animals breathe and neigh and chortle along with them.

I breathe in. I breathe out. Everything's going to be okay.

I continue to ease my way forward, eventually landing at the log rail enclosing the space. From this spot, I can see the little cabin that was intended to be my home. Jasper is there. He and someone — Peter, I think — stay put by the cabin door the whole time I watch. They're both pointing out damage, nodding their cowboy-hat-clad heads.

The sight of that roof all caved in unfurls my nervous stomach. I feel a wave of gratitude wash over my being. I'd been angry about my first night in Texas upon waking, and then anxious, but now from this vantage point I can literally see last night for what it was — that storm was going to come whether I liked it or not. That old, crooked tree was destined to fall. At the very least, no one got hurt. Everything got wet, my weary brain reminds me. But no one got hurt! I can hold on to that.

I'm still watching Jasper, trying to decipher what's shared between him and the speck of a person I assume is Peter, when my phone buzzes in my hand.

It's from James: Meet outside in 10 for breakfast?

Sounds good! I send back, feigning all enthusiasm.

That heavenly bed calls to me, but the call of the real world is even louder.

I trudge out of Rose's pristine bedroom into the upstairs hallway. It's lined by doors on one side and a wooden railing on the other, allowing me to see down into the dining room below; the very same one I'd left my belongings in the night before. I want to hurry — to get down there, out into to the breathable outdoors and to my coworkers — but I can't make myself move.

My heart squeezes its way into my throat, pounding so hard I think I might be choking.

All of my sketches, designs, plans for the look book, little doodles I'd done on the bus — all the work I'd written off as ruined after last night's flood — have been laid out across the grand, mahogany table.

I can't breathe, but somehow I'm moving. Somehow, I make it down the stairs.

It's all there. Every little scrap I'd savaged from the lake that was once my cabin floor is here, accounted for. Dry. A few of the sketches are past the point of saving — smudged beyond recognition — but others are totally unharmed, gingerly held down at the corners by household items like erasers and spoons so their edges remain unwrinkled.

Jasper must've done this. My heart is hammering in my chest, so loud I can hear it echoing around the room. I have no idea what I've done to deserve this genuinely kind and wholly tender treatment. I walk along the length of the table, running my fingers over curled paper edges, until I come across a second impossibly hospitable deed.

I've been given a treat.

I lift the muffin off the table and bring it to my nose, taking a deep inhale. Cranberry. Lemon. Walnuts, I think. A smile breaks across my face, only growing wider when I notice the note left with my breakfast.

Alice,

Didn't want you to lose all this work.

Hope you don't mind that I spread them out for you — just thought they'd dry better this way.

- J

PS: Charlotte made muffins.

I set the muffin back down and break off a piece of the top, popping it in my mouth. Holy Lord. It's warm and citrusy and tart, just as good as any twelve dollar muffin I'd scarf down on a New York City morning. Before I'm even finished my first bite, I'm picking off another chunk, suddenly ravenous for more. With each bite, my nervousness dwindles, drowned out by the affront of sugar first thing in the morning and the wholly comforting knowledge that someone out there has my back.

While I continue to snack on the muffin with one hand, I run my other fingers along the messy curves of Jasper's handwriting. Who is this man? Do people this good actually exist? Did he wake up early to set this out for me? This isn't normal, right? He's probably trying to make up for the fact that his property could've killed me last night. That's got to be it.

My brain keeps reeling, and I can't tell what's thrilling me more: the fact that most of my work has been salvaged, or that I've got a seriously attractive cowboy scavenging food for me.

Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.

It's hard to pull myself away from that spot, nestled amongst the rich decor of the living room. I want to play spy. I want to search the walls for family photos and scour this log mansion until I can decipher the blonde enigma that is Jasper Whitlock. I'm eager to piece together his behaviour, to understand how a man who has so much family and so much kindness to give could be so totally alone in this big house.

Work beckons with a resounding ding from my phone, letting me know the first of endless daily correspondence has arrived in my email. My search will have to wait for another, less chaotic day. The fashion world is awake, and I've got shit to do.

I'm barely at the cabins when the vultures descend. Irina, Kate, James, Peter, and Jasper are all waiting with overflowing mouths, their talking an impenetrable wall of sound. I blink in reply and tuck my hair away from my face, trying to take in their concerns one by one, but impossible to process any of what they're saying when they're all this frantic.

"— And good morning to you, too," I snark.

Peter laughs. He's the only one who does. I throw him an appreciative — if not totally exhausted — smile.

I can tell that my models are about a second away from exploding. I take a deep breath and very briefly explain, "everyone can relax for awhile. As you can probably tell, things got a little out of whack last night." I motion towards my damaged roof as evidence. "So we're pushing our first shoot 'til this afternoon. Okay? But I just need five minutes to —" I wave a hand towards Jasper and Peter and say, "to just figure stuff out. Can I have that? Please? I'll fill you all in after that."

I've never been this sharp with them before. James is smiling full force. "Sure thing, boss," he says. I can't tell what's behind his voice — sarcasm? Genuine respect? I doubt that.

The girls look far from amused, but James ushers them back towards his cabin.

I turn back to Jasper and his ranch foreman, offering a clenched smile. "God, I'm so sorry," I say, trying to excuse my sharp tongue, "I'm just —"

"Don't you worry about a thing," Peter assures me, chuckling. "They came down like a pack of wolves."

I breathe out a laugh and shake my head. I don't bother mentioning that he and Jasper had done the same thing.

Jasper clears his throat, directing our attention back towards himself. I barely even look at the man and my entire body flushes a deep red, remembering all the time he's spent worrying over me in the last twelve hours.

"Now — I don't want to make your day any more complicated than it already is," Jasper drawls, and Peter's face goes from pleasant to solemn. I say nothing in response. That segue can only lead to bad news. The flush in my cheeks fades fast.

"The storm took down trees just like this all across the property. I've got men cleanin' up everything we can, but it's goin' to take us a little while to clear the fields y'all wanted to use for the shoot today," Jasper says.

I cross my arms over my t-shirt clad chest, literally trying to hold myself together. "How long?" I nervously ask.

"Oh — we could probably get it done in the next few hours."

I relax. Just barely.

"That's not a problem. It might take me that long to get everyone ready anyways."

"Well — "

My posture falters against the weight of realization. That was just Jasper's opener. That was the softball. That was the good news before the bad.

"Its not just the wind damage. It's the fields. They just — they need the day to dry," Jasper sheepishly admits. "There's puddles big as craters out there 'n mud so thick you'd think its quicksand. Y'all might be better off just waitin' for — "

"No," I shoot back, shaking my head. "No, no. I'm sorry — I can't wait for the sun to do its thing here. We've got way too much to get done today and after last night, we're way behind schedule. I can wait until this afternoon, but that's it. We'll be out in that meadow come Hell or high water — literally! If we have to take a boat out there, I'll do it."

Jasper holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey," he says, restraining a smirk, "I'm not tryin' to upend your vision here, boss. All I'm sayin' is that I tried to get out there this mornin' to check it out and the horses wouldn't even go near it. Too muddy. Everythin's flooded, darlin'. I mean, I don't have much of a choice in goin' 'round today to mend the fences and such, but I'm sure you ladies would prefer —"

I pull a face and start to dive headfirst into my usual 'I can do anything you can do' rant, but Jasper stops me two words in. "Alright, alright — don't get yourself all worked up, I'm not gonna try 'n stop you." His lips — chapped, plump, pink as ever — threaten to pull into a smile. "I guess I can send one of the cowboys up with you," he relents, "maybe Seth'll go. But it's your funeral - there's not much he can do if the ground swallows you whole. I can't even promise you'll get up that hill without fallin' on your ass."

My eyes narrow in response, arms crossing tighter around my front. "We'll be fine," I insist. "It'll probably be dry by then anyways."

"Well you'd charge Hell with a bucket of ice water, wouldn't you?" Jasper throws back. I'd complain, but he seems delighted.

Hours later we meet Seth: a sweet, unnaturally over-enthusiastic, seventeen-year-old boy who works full time on the ranch. He's tall and tanned, and wears his long black hair in a braid down the back of his neck. Seth is built purely of muscle and sunshine — the kid's smile alone would be strong enough to power the whole of New York City. Happy-go-lucky Seth proves a massive help in getting the eight of us — six dressed in expensive chiffon, satin, pearls — to the wide open meadow of wildflowers I'd scouted as our first shoot location. He's knowledgable and funny, and helps each and every done up model through the thicket with genuine concern for what he's doing. I adore this man. I'd take him home with me, if I could.

But with the clearing in sight, I come to a hard realization: Seth's infectiously bright attitude can't do anything to protect us against the upcoming onslaught of mud. The clearing I see is no longer a beautiful array of pastel coloured flowers. It's a swamp. A brutal, miserably wet hole that stretches for a mile in every direction; and for the first time in a very long time, my gut instinct has been proven utterly wrong. I should've listened to my knowledgeable cowboy.

Irina complains first, of course. They all do in time, save for Angela. Bless her heart.

I make a big show of continuing forward, toeing my way towards the bright spot of sun in the middle of the field. I play like it's easy — like I'm not struggling to pry my foot from the ground with every sticky step — and I ask them to push through just the same. This location isn't what we expected, not really, but the clean line of trees in the distance and the crystal blue sky above will still make for some beautiful shots.

"Just be careful where you're walking!" I instruct, glancing over my shoulder to display my totally natural smile. See? If I can do it, so can you!

The mud only gets thicker as I walk further into the clearing. Puddles are wider and deeper and closer together, surrounded by pathetic patches of wilted grass. It feels a cruel joke that the sun is so unforgivingly present today — low-hanging and hot above me — like this spot has never seen a drop of rain in its existence. I'm looking up, shooting silent death threats to Mother Nature, when my foot sinks into a puddle and drops, like the earth has given out below me. I'm up to my shin in sludge. Water seeps into my shoe, through my sock. I can feel mud between my toes.

Okay — enough is enough. I'm done. Time to go home. A girl can only be expected to handle so much dirt in one day.

I sigh out my frustration and turn to face my peers, only to find that Angela is rushing towards me, stepping around puddles as if they were landmines. I throw my hands up at her and shake my head. "Wait! Angela, don't —" before I can say any more, the model sinks into a mud puddle of her own.

"Oh my God!" I screech, abandoning my own attempt at escape to council Angela. She's far more important. I'm dressed in grimy gym shorts — she's wearing thousands of dollars worth of embroidered Swarovski crystals. "Don't move! Don't move!" I loudly beg, dropping the tote bag of extra makeup and stilettos I have slung over my shoulder to the ground. Unencumbered I try to stand again and succeed, begging Angela to stay still all the while. She doesn't listen to me. Angela struggles against the mud and eventually loses her balance, falling forward with a surprised yelp. She reaches out her hands to stop herself from face planting, but not before I'm down on my knees in front of her, hands out, ready to stop her fall.

"Alice, I'm so sorry," Angela groans, trying desperately to get herself back up. My eyes follow hers as we take in damage done. Her chiffon, knee-length dress is muddied from the waist down and gets progressively dirtier as she struggles. I can't think about it. I can't. If I focus on that dress getting stained, I'm going to snap. I shake it off and ignore her apologies in favour of helping her find balance again. We're half way to standing up, but my damn muddy shoes refuse to grip the slick ground. I move to stand again and again only to fall back down, like a hamster stuck on a wheel. Angela is awkwardly positioned to my left, now trying to help me instead of rectifying her own situation.

It all happens in a second, but it feels like hours before James and Seth finally come to our aid. They're laughing all the while, and I struggle to find any humour in this situation. My face twists into a scowl. Seth goes to Angela's aid and James to mine, one hand outstretched in a show of help while the other cradles his favourite camera. I sourly accept his help and try to stand, moving slow — like I'm on ice. My feet give out against the mud again. I fall hard on my ass and James comes tumbling down with me, shouting out a resounding fuck!

His camera hits the ground before he does.

The shoot is effectively done for the day after that.

We return to the hub of Whitlock Ranch looking like a joke. Everyone is coated in mud — our guide included — and pulling faces that range from mild entertainment (Seth) to my full on rage.

The cowboys hoot and holler as we walk past the main pasture, where they're all standing by as the horses take water.

"Good Hell, Seth — didja make them wrestle for you?" One of them asks.

I'm past my boiling point. That smart-mouthed cowboy is going to get a good talking to.

"Hell yeah!" Kate calls back, much to my dismay. She throws a huge smile on her face and flounces over, showing off her almost totally clean — and very low cut — dress. Her legs are covered in mud and her wild, blonde curls are a mess, but otherwise Kate looks perfect. Photo ready. I feel a twinge of jealousy at her good looks and even more envious of her laissez faire approach with every passerby.

"I took 'em all down," she jokes, "cleaned the floor with Alice before she knew what was coming."

I can feel their eyes boring into me, taking in the mud I wear from head to toe. Someone wolf-whistles. I'm flustered. I'm frustrated. I want to run and hide. I can't … not without running directly past the group of men. Between their staring eyes and the jokes and the dirtied dresses and the broken camera and all the damn mud, I'm seconds away from a full on tantrum — foot stomping and all.

I hate Texas. I hate it. I hate it Texas with all my —

"What in the Hell happened to you?"

Jasper seems to appear from the centre of the sun, as he always does. He's surrounded by its golden light, his hair and eyes and skin all radiating warmth. With every step in my direction his sunny halo grows smaller and smaller behind him, until I'm finally able to separate him as his own entity. Jasper is wearing much the same as yesterday, but his jean and plaid uniform is splattered with mud same as my own clothes.

"It's nothing," I quickly answer, bowing my head so he can't see my frustration.

"You bit the mud and the mud bit back, huh?" Jasper concludes.

I peek up to see him hovering nearby, tall enough to cast shade far past me. He raises a hand to rub a speck of dirt off his face, and I follow the movement, stopping abruptly on his amused hazel eyes. That's when I realize that he's laughing at me, too. When I say nothing in return, Jasper goes on.

" — I don't know what you expected," he drawls.

I'm done. "Enough!" I snap, "that's enough!"

Jasper takes a full step back in surprise. I stand a little taller and storm right past him and the half dozen cowboys hanging around the pasture.

"Alice! Wait!" Jasper calls.

None of this is his fault, but I can't handle the man right now. I feel bad for snapping, but God, it feels so good to just up and walk away from them all. I need space. I need to breathe. I need to call my parents and whine and maybe drink a bottle of wine. Or two.

"Don't, man. She needs—" I can hear James say. Then I'm out of hearing distance. I hope they listen — whoever James is talking to.

I storm up the steps of the back porch and in through the dining room, past Jasper's kind display from this morning. I kick off my shoes and dart through the room, careful not to spread mud everywhere as I do.

The back door swings open behind me.

"Alice, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

I turn around to see Jasper following me, his face that of a face of a kicked puppy. I grunt in response and head for the stairs, hoping my aggravated noises are hint enough. Jasper follows, cowboy hat in hand and boots clunking against the hardwoods. The gall -

"Alice?" Jasper asks again.

I turn, all a flurry.

"Dont," I insist, waving him off. "I'm fine." I start my ascent up the stairs, counting down the seconds until I'll be in the warm embrace a shower. It's the only thing that'll calm me down now. That, and a good talk with Carlisle. Hopefully he's around.

Jasper insists on trailing me up the stairs, closing the distance between us with every long-legged step. I huff and puff all the way to Rose's bedroom door, hoping my know-it-all-cowboy will get the hint and leave me alone. I shove the door open with all my might, leaving a big, muddy handprint for good measure.

"Can I at least —?" Before Jasper can ask his question, I close the door square in his face.

It's rude. It's totally unnecessary. But after the day I've had, it feels so damn good. The stern face I've been holding relaxes. Tears spring forward in my eyes. I'm about to turn away from the door, to let myself fall into this black hole kind of mood, when I hear Jasper's persistent, honey soft voice echo through the wood.

"It's just a little mud is all," I hear him say. When I don't reply, Jasper tries again. "If it's any consolation, I fell on my ass 'bout ten times today."

He goes quiet, waiting for my response, but when nothing comes he lets out a heavy breath and says, "look - nothin' fixes a bad mood like a full belly. At least come to dinner, alright?"

I don't answer.

"Alright," he concludes on my behalf.

Then - finally - I'm left alone.

AN: GUYS! I know I said twice a week and that was like, literally a week ago, but I've been a busy little bee. This chapter was also almost impossible for me to write, because I just want to start getting into the good meaty parts. I know this is super long winded but stay with me fam we'll get to some hot southern romance soon !