“I think...” She swallows. “I think I got puke on my dress.”
It’s in her hair too. “It’s fine. I’ll clean up everything in the morning. Let me get you home.”
She still doesn’t move. “I don’t want to go home.” She sniffles.
“Where else are you going to go?” I snap.
Her shiny eyes fill with tears, and there’s a weird twist in my chest. “I can’t go home like this.”
“What were you planning to do when you were pounding shots?”
She sniffs, but a couple of tears roll down her cheeks. Maybe they’re just from the effort of heaving her night of fun onto the pavement. “I would’ve figured it out. I can take care of myself, Durban.”
“It looks like it.”
She huffs out a breath. “I’ve made it this far without you.”
“And without me, you’d have made it under one or all three of those guys. Does that sound better?”
More tears gather, and she looks away. The tip of her nose matches the flush of her cheeks. “Maybe I should just sleep it off in my car.”
“Where those assholes can find you?”
She scrunches her nose. “I’ll sleep in the back. They won’t be able to see me.” She smacks her lips and pulls a face. “I need mouthwash and a shower.” Her expression turns stricken. “I guess I should go home.”
I can understand her earlier trepidation. If her dad saw her like this, he’d lose his shit. He’s uptight on a normal day, but something about the meetings at the ranch this weekend has him wound tighter than a bowline knot.
I can’t bother Iverson and Jamison. As impetuous as Campbell is, she’d never forgive herself if Jamison stressed herself over this. Avery, the middle Hawthorne sister, lives outside of Salt Lake City.
“Get in,” I say.
Her expression crumples, but she recovers as much pride as a puke-stained drunk woman can summon. She holds her skirt and climbs into the pickup. She nearly slips out, and I move to catch her, but she plants herself in the seat before I can help her.
I close the door and round the pickup. I stop to toe some dirt over the vomit splatter, not worrying about covering it entirely. It joins one of many soaking into Bootleg’s parking lot, and Campbell’s pukefest may not be the last of the night.
I hop into the driver’s seat and start the engine. The soft weight of her gaze rests on me as I pull out of the parking lot.
When I turn in the opposite direction from Hawthorne Ranch, she peers out the window. “Where are we going?”
“You can stay at my place, use my shower, and I’m sure I’ve got a spare toothbrush somewhere.” From all those times Natalie couldn’t come visit.
“I can’t. You’ve already...” She erratically waves a hand.
“You got a better option?”
She hunches her shoulders. I know I’m being hard on her, but come on. We don’t say anything until I pull up in front of my house. I built this place a few years ago, after the major renovations on Foster House’s second facility, Foster House Gold, were done.
A foolish part of me wishes she could see it in the daylight. Would she admire the size? Be impressed that a simple distiller like me could afford a place like this? I was the hired help for part of her life when I worked for her dad on the working side of his ranch. He had theguest ranch that was for show, and then the real cow-calf operation to supplement his income.
She’s probably seen my place before. Iverson and Sunny have probably given her the grand tour of our family land, the legacy my father left behind. But my headlights only light up the sprawling two-story log cabin. I made sure it had a deck that faces west so I can watch the sunset over the mountains.
I hit the button for the garage door and pull inside. My space is neat and orderly. I’m working at the distillery much of the day, but I have a few chickens and some cattle my brothers and I run grazing the forty acres between us in town.
“Nice place,” she says quietly.
“Thanks.” I climb out of my pickup, and her feet are hitting the ground before I’m on the other side.
My chest damn near puffs up with pride when I lead her from the garage into the house. The entry space doubles as both mudroom and laundry room, and I gave it more square footage than necessary. After years of living in a bunkhouse with a bunch of cowboys, I like being able to spread my shit out without anyone else’s ratty underwear hanging in my face.
