I watch Jonas out of the corner of my eye to confirm he’s capable of buckling his own seatbelt, then pull away from the house, turning up the stereo dial to drown out the awkward silence.
Tapping my thumbs along to a country song, I spot a singular available parking stall directly in front of Anette’s Bakery. Without a second thought, I crank the wheel hard and come to an abrupt stop.
I know I told Whit we were heading straight to the ranch, but I’m torn between two pissed-off women, and right now I’m more worried about keeping Betty happy.
Jonas grabs his door handle. “I’m thirsty. Can I get a drink, too?”
“Sure. You got money?”
The kid looks flabbergasted by my simple question. “N-no.”
“Then I don’t know what you’d be planning to get. Be right back,” I say, already halfway out the door. “Are you…are you allowed to sit in the truck alone for a minute?”
“Yeah, duh.”
The air outside Anette’s Bakery carries the perfect blend of coffee, fresh bread, and cinnamon-sugar aroma. The place is so damn busy the bells hanging from the glass front door are hardly audible when I step inside, and the line to order stretches the length of the small café. Good thing my order’s to go, since every oversized armchair, tiny table, and empty wall space to lean against has been claimed.
I dart around a trio of women shopping the assortment of locally made wares for sale on a wooden shelving unit, then nearly trip over a tiny kid toddling across the well-worn floor.
Thankfully, I tend to get special treatment around here. As one should when they visit almost every day, tourist season or not. Which means the silver-haired, petite café owner, Anette, gives me a wink from her station at the cash register, and one of her teenaged employees gets right to work when she spots me. When she’s done, I slide her a ten-dollar bill, and I’m out of there before the line’s even moved a foot.
Struggling to hold my chocolate chip frappe—extra whip, always—plus Betty’s puppuccino and an ice water for Jonas, I peel open the door of my truck.
“Here you go.” I thrust the clear cup filled with water toward him, then hand over the dog treat before she tears my arm off.
“A water?” Jonas’s nose crinkles. “But you got whatever that thing is.”
“You said you were thirsty.” I shrug, bringing the blue straw sticking out of a hefty dollop of whipped cream to my lips. “And you don’t have any money. Water’s the only free thing on the menu.”
He slams the cup into an empty holder and slumps in his seat. And the kid stays pouty for the entire ride to Wells Ranch, ignoring Betty’s repeated attempts at getting him to pet her.
But when we rattle across the cattle guard, she tramples him to hang her head out the window. After a moment of groaning as he tries to push her away, Jonas gives up and wraps an arm around her furry neck, sitting up to get a better view of the sprawling ranch. Of the white homes and farm buildings casting shadows over tall grasses, and fields with rows of round hay bales, and horses lifting their heads to watch us roll up the driveway. Nobody I know is immune to the ranch’s charm, and Jonas is no different, with a gleam in his eye and a half-smile on his lips.
Colt
A few hours later, I’m standing with my hands in my pockets, watching the kid shovel shit in an empty barn stall. With the way he’s pinching his nostrils shut, Jonas’s voice comes out nasally. “It stinks in here.”
“I grew up on my uncle’s farm, and he used to say it’s the smell of money.”
“Gross.” He grimaces. “Are we almost done?”
“You’d be done already if you used both hands to work.” I sloppily gesture at the manure fork wobbling in his grip, threatening to dump the pile of horse crap he spent a concerning amount of time trying to pick up.
Jonas doesn’t respond, but he does pull his T-shirt over his mouth and nose so he can grab the fork with both hands to guide it toward the wheelbarrow.
For a kid brought out here to be helpful, he’s been anything but. He spent the first twenty minutes chasing a pile of manure around the stall, unable to figure out how to scoop it up effectively. And I could’ve stepped in to help, but it was too much fun watching him slowly become enraged, muttering obscenities under his breath as he struggled.
Once he got the hang of it, he spent half his time groaning and purposely dragging his feet, making the work take twice as long as it would’ve taken me to do it alone. I cleaned and organized the entire tack room while he mucked six stalls.
Slamming the last shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow, he looks up at me with a weary expression. “What now?”
“I’m sure there’s fresh poop in the first few stalls you did by now, so you could start over again.” I bite my cheek to keep from smiling, and the poor kid’s shoulders fall, but he doesn’t complain as he trudges across the concrete floor. He uses his entire body weight to slide the stall door closed behind him.
“Kidding,” I add.
The back of his hand smears dirt—at least I hope it’s dirt—across his forehead. “So…am I done?”
“You’re done. Good job,” I say with a smile, and look toward the barn door. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
