She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’mtrying.”
“Well, let’s find out where he is and send him something. Flowers seem awkward. Maybe a cookie bouquet?”
Gretchen nods, writing on the notepad balanced on her knee. “Got it. What else? Is the house okay?”
I look around at the kitchen. In the light of day, I can see everything better. The wall below the upper cabinets is painted a buttery shade of yellow. While I’d never choose that color myself, it looks good in here. It complements the view from the kitchen window, which is of a tree line comprised of skinny-trunked trees. “All good,” I tell Gretchen, giving the screen a thumbs up. “Just call me when you hear from the mayor. I’m going to keep unpacking.” Last night I’d been so tired I only unpacked the necessities.
We hang up and I eat my breakfast and finish unpacking. I still haven’t heard back from Gretchen, so I wander outside and down to the river. It’s not huge, or fast moving, and the sound is just right. Peaceful. I sit down and close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I’m sitting that way, but it’s a while. My ears have become attuned to the sound of the water, so when there’s a rustling noise behind me, my heart leaps from my chest and I whip around.
It’s gray. Small. Skinny. Its rib bones push against its coat. The dog stares at me, wary but hopeful. That’s kind of how I feel about life right now. Wary but hopeful.
“Hello,” I say quietly, sinking to my knees, hoping the dog won’t see me as threatening. I hold out an open hand. It stares at me, and I feel it deep down in my chest. It’s deciding if I’m trustworthy.
It must think I’m okay, because it takes a cautious step closer. Then two more, until it’s only a foot away from me.
“I won’t hurt you,” I tell it. I can’t believe I’m talking to a dog. Does it even understand me? It looks like he might. Maybe it’s my tone of voice, not my words, that he comprehends.
It takes another step and I notice something I somehow missed. The dog has a limp.
“Are you hurt?” I stand up and it freezes. I look away, and start for the house, careful not to make eye contact with it even though I’m dying to look back. When I return, it’s in the exact same spot and I take a peek between its legs.Girl. I break off a piece of cheese and toss it beside her. She gobbles it and looks at me for more. This time I throw the food a few feet in front of us. She’s too hungry to be scared of me, or maybe she sees the food as a promise, because she comes forward and eats it. We do this over and over, until we’re standing beside Pearl’s open passenger door.
When I reach for her, my arms moving closer at an excruciatingly slow pace, she allows it. She’s too blissed out on cheese to mind. I scoop her up gently and place her in the passenger seat. I stand back and look at her, realizing I’ve made a mistake. What if she goes to the bathroom on my seat?
“Stay,” I instruct, though I have no idea if she knows commands. I sprint into the house and grab a bathroom towel, my heart banging against my chest by the time I get back to the car. She hasn’t moved. I slip the towel under her and get in the driver’s seat. I’m searching the internet for vets in Sierra Grande when I hear the sound of water that I know cannot be water because we’re not close enough to the river to hear it.
The dog is peeing.
Thank God for the towel.
6
Warner
My truck slowsto stop in front of the homestead. I’m just about to hop out when something small and round rolls across the passenger floorboard and gets stuck under a book. I reach for it, tossing the paperback on the passenger seat and examining the small metal tube in my hand.
Mango flavored lip balm?
Must be Peyton’s, though I don’t recall buying it for her. It probably fell from her backpack when she’d grabbed it out of the front seat just now. She’d been in a rush, the first bell ringing just as we pulled up in front of school.
Or maybe it’s Morgan’s. It could’ve fallen from her purse when I gave her a ride yesterday.
I’d put the woman out of my mind the second I climbed back into my truck and got on the highway to Sierra Grande. Or, I attempted to, anyway. It wasn’t easy, not with my fingers still tasting of that spicy sweet candy and my truck smelling like her. It was a mix, something flowery and vanilla, and it was enough to overpower the new car smell for a little while. It wasn’tbadthough. Not at all.
Twisting off the small tin lid, I bring the lip balm to my nose and sniff. Oh, yes. And this. This was definitely a part of Morgan’s scent. I don’t want to leave it in here, so I pocket it with plans to toss it in the trash at my cabin. My brothers have a habit of driving my truck around the ranch. I complained once, and my older brother Wes asked me if I wanted a tissue to wipe my crocodile tears.
He’s usually an asshole, but he’s calmed down since he married Dakota. Can’t blame the guy for his behavior before Dakota. Twelve years in the Army fucked him up. A few months ago, he told me he’s been going to PTSD group therapy, though according to him it’s really just a bunch of old broke dicks sitting around shooting the shit. His words, not mine. I don’t know what a broke dick is, but I don’t think I want to be one. Whatever he wants to call it, therapy has been about as helpful as Dakota in taming him.
Sometimes I wonder if my younger brother, Wyatt, needs something like that, minus the PTSD diagnosis. I don’t know what he’d have to be traumatized by. He lived nearly the same childhood as me, and when Wes left for the military, we grew closer. Then one day, he stopped coming home every night. Fewer family dinners at the homestead. It was like one piece of our family unit broke off and traveled parallel to us instead of with us. Anna and I were knee deep in raising two little kids by then and I didn’t have time to figure out Wyatt’s problem. I feel more guilt over that now that my kids are a little older and I have more time. Whatever bothered Wyatt seems to have had a lasting effect, because he still comes and goes at random, doing whatever the fuck it is he does. The real mystery is why the hell my parents haven’t kicked his ass into gear yet. I’d blame it on him being the baby of the family, except he’s only the youngest of us three boys.
Jessie completes the Hayden siblings, our only sister who’s far younger than us all. She’s nearing the end of her freshman year at Arizona State University. When it comes to her, I like to stick my head in the sand and pretend she’s an angel, though that couldn’t be further from the truth. She’s always had a wildness about her, and I thank God every day that Peyton seems to be her aunt Jessie’s polar opposite. I’d be dead of a heart attack before forty if my little girl were like my wild sister. There’s a reason we call her Calamity Jessie, and it’s not because she’s meek or mild. I think having three big brothers made her tough and bold.
My palm brushes the tin of mango lip balm tucked into my pocket as I walk into my parent’s house, and I picture the woman on the roadside in the middle of nowhere. That fully restored ’76 Bronco, painted deep green with a black Bimini top, is a vintage car enthusiast’s wet dream. And driven by a beautiful woman? Probably just about every red-blooded straight man’s fantasy.
I’ll admit to having thought of Morgan a handful of times since waking up this morning. Not only was she beyond attractive, but she looked familiar.
Now it’s time to put the mysterious, gorgeous stranger out of my mind. Wes hates when I show up distracted, and since he’s pretty much running the ranch now, he’s technically my boss and won’t hesitate to kick my ass. Figuratively. In the literal sense, we’re a good match for each other.
