Colt:Right now? What is it?
Denny:A 10-year-old up in Wells Canyon. Bring him to the ranch and give him some chores to do.
Colt:That sounds like a crime.
Denny:Don’t make it creepy, and you’ll be fine. It’s Blair’s nephew.
My knowledge of how to take care of kids extends as far as the goat kids I raised in 4-H. Turns out, I can bottle-feed like a son of a gun. By the time I was done, I earned enough money to buy a little tin fishing boat when I sold them at auction. Pretty sure none of my vague goat knowledge is going to help me here, though.
Colt:He doesn’t need a car seat?
Denny:He’s 10…so, no.
Denny:Get him mucking stalls or something.
• • •
Betty’s head hangs out the open passenger window, tonguelolling and lapping up summer air for the entire drive into Wells Canyon.
Main Street is lined with quaint flower boxes, and overflowing floral baskets hang from the small handful of street lamps. Despite the normal population of Wells Canyon being only a few thousand full-time residents, we always seem to acquire a lot of tourists during the summer months. And a sunny, hot Friday in July? The tiny downtown is swarming with them.
I slow to let a family of four cross the road, giant ice cream cones in hand. I’d planned on stopping at the café for an iced coffee—and the promised puppuccino—but between the RVs and the motorcycles, there isn’t an available parking spot in sight.
Whether she sees or smells the café first, Betty barks: shrill and pointed, glancing over her shoulder as she begins to froth at the mouth in anticipation.
“No treats right now, Betty Spaghetti. We’ll circle back after we pick up this kid.”
When I turn off Main Street, the out-of-towners dissipate quickly, and soon I’m parked in front of a white Craftsman home. I glance at my phone to confirm I have the right address and leave the truck running for Betty.
It’s hotter than a witch’s tit outside, so I grab the hem of my shirt and wiggle it to encourage a breeze up my back on my walk to the front steps. My knuckles rap against the black door, doing my best to minimize contact with the scorching hot surface.
Then I wait.Knock again.Wait.
There’s a commotion happening inside, and if I weren’t apprehensive about pissing off Denny, I’d be hightailing it out of here. A feminine voice shouts something I can’t quite make out. She grows louder, though the words are still indistinguishable, right before the front door swings open.
“Hi,” she says with an exasperated sigh. “You must be Colt?”
The woman clutches the door’s edge like it’s the singular thing holding her up. Tall and pretty, there’s no doubt she’s Blair’s sister, with the same brown hair and fair complexion. But she seems harsher than Blair—dressed in a fitted black suit, with a sullen expression twisting the corner of her mouth into a slight frown.
Must be going to a funeral. That’s why she needs a babysitter.
“Hey, yeah, Colt.” Flustered, I scrub my right palm over the front of my shirt and reach out to shake her hand.
I grew up a couple hours from Wells Canyon—moved here to start working on the ranch a few years back—so I suppose it’s not surprising that we’ve never formally met, but how the hell have I never seen her before? Never looked her over in a crowd or caught a glimpse in passing; I haven’t laid eyes on this woman a single damn time. In a small town, that shouldn’t be possible. People run into each other whether they want to or not. A face as beautiful as hers should’ve stopped me in my tracks long before today.
“Whit…” she says tentatively, assessing me with a slow scan of her vibrant green eyes as she slowly pulls her soft, warm hand away from mine.
To somebody dumber than myself, it might seem like she’s checking me out right now. But I’m aware she’s picking me apart without words, making a mental note of every bad quality with the sneering twitch of her nose.
Finally bringing her repulsed gaze to meet mine, she asks, “What are you wearing?”
Glancing down, I realize my mistake. After the texts from Denny, I had a speedy shower and tossed on the easiest clean clothes to grab. Which turned out to be faded blue jeans and an old T-shirt I cut the sleeves off of with a pocketknife.
More specifically, it’s a shirt with a picture of—
“A stripper?Seriously?You thought you’d come pick up my ten-year-old son while wearing a shirt with a stripper on it?”
“I wasn’t really think—”
