“Is that what you two talk about all the time? Molecular shit and ethics?” He’s asked questions like this before.
“Yes, and I talk about distilling.”
He snorts. “Does she listen?” I shoot him a perplexed look, but he shrugs and keeps his attention on the road. “Just saying, she likes to talk about herself a lot.”
“She has a lot going on in that brain.”
Iverson’s observations burrow into my mind like a persistent worm. She listened. Didn’t she? She’d turn the conversation back to her, but of course, she knew the important stuff, like my niece’s name. Didn’t she? I try to recall her saying it, or even asking about Kacey.
Again, that’s all water under the bridge. Despite how easy-breezy Natalie thinks my life is, I do have responsibilities. I tug on my sleeve. I don’t look like I’m a partowner in a business. Much like the old gold mine that the distillery is in, I’m just a piece of Montana that’s been dressed up a little.
I’m wearing my nicest flannel and jeans that don’t have holes. Iverson’s wearing a yellow-and-black Foster House polo with a flannel over it, jeans, and boots. That’s the most effort we’re putting in. We could use this gig and the exposure it’ll bring, but if I’d known what William was going to talk to us about, I’d have kept the clothes on that I did chores in.
Disgust prickles the back of my neck. Who the hell would cheat on his girlfriend and then marry their affair partner in his ex’s backyard? Either Stanford never cared about Campbell, or he’s obsessed with her, and I don’t like enabling the fucker.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter.
“No kidding.” Iverson grunts. “Jamison said Campbell’s avoiding the topic. Instead of telling William no outright, I figured we might as well make an appearance and stand behind Campbell when she faces her dad.”
My normal censure when it comes to her isn’t there. She should be able to handle her own battles—and her own dad—but I know about a parent bulldozing over what’s best for their kids. Yeah, we’ll stand behind Campbell.
It’s a good view at least.
I stare out the window, searching for something to take my mind off Campbell’s ass swaying in her dress last night.
In the distance, a guide on horseback leads a group of five riders through the pastures. Guests on a tour. I never led those. We weren’t classy enough. William Hawthorne needed performers to lead tours and workwith the guests, to be really showy about branding with an old-fashioned branding iron and wrangling calves by hand. He didn’t want us talking about electric branding irons or squeeze chutes that make our job quicker, easier, and usually safer. He told me once, after a long discussion about the different cuttings of hay and what they offer, that I would bore an entire tour to tears.
Resentment clouds behind my eyes. I liked working for him, but until I started at the distillery, a company I’m part owner in, I didn’t realize how unfulfilled I was.
Iverson rounds a curve, and the big house comes into view. The guest lodge makes my home look tiny. Down a small hill, there are three smaller cabins that some of the staff and seasonal workers stay in. Not far from those is a sweeping red barn and stable, then a sprawling shop. Even farther away is the bunkhouse where I used to live with Iverson, Haven, and the other guys. Another barn and shop are close to the bunkhouse.
“Do you ever miss it?” Iverson asks. We haven’t been out here together much.
“No,” I say without hesitation.
I wasn’t unhappy as a cowboy for hire. It’s honest work that leaves a guy ready to hit the hay at the end of the day. The cattle I wrangle now bear a brand I’m part owner of, and the distillery carries my name as an investor. I take pride in both things, but also comfort that there’s something for me even if I’m too beat up to get into a saddle.
“Yup,” Iverson agrees. “Can’t beat cowboying for a living, but I also like having a retirement plan.”
“Yup.” I like having something to offer someone besides my tired ass at the end of the day.
I glower at the lodge as Iverson pulls into a spot onthe far side of the parking area where the employees park. A thought hits me, and I stiffen. “That dickhead isn’t going to be here, is he?”
“Can’t Stanford?”
I nod, long familiar with Jamison’s name for her sister’s ex.
Iverson thinks for a moment before dread fills his expression. “Fuck, I hope he’s not here.”
After seeing the state Campbell was in last night, I hope not too. We get out and start for the main entrance. The employee entrance is off to the side by the kitchen, but those days are over for us.
A few guests who likely skipped the trail rides mingle along the walking paths that lead to the barn and a sitting area. There’s a sizable pavilion and a firepit behind the lodge. Staff wearing name tags roam the grounds, working on the flower beds and cleaning the dust and grit off windows and exterior doors.
Jamison and Campbell’s mom, Christine, greets us with a tight smile, her blond hair pulled back and her blue eyes bright. Her jeans don’t have a speck of dust on them, and her boots have blue and purple stitching. The bluebell-colored blouse complements her eyes and I can see each of her three daughters in her.
She nods at me and gives Iverson a quick hug. “I’m glad you left Jamison at home.”
“I’m not stopping her from doing anything,” he says lightly. “She doesn’t trust her hormones in a situation like this.”
