My head shakes as I brush aside the nonsense question. "It doesn't matter how Wyatt looks at me, Jared. I'm a grown woman and my jeans and panties aren't going to go flying from my body just because Wyatt looks at me a certain way."
Jared, who isn't usually so stubborn, slips his hands into the pockets of his pants. "I hate to do this, Jo, but if you're not going to kick Wyatt off the job, then we're through. I can't keep spending my days at the bank knowing you're alone with him at an abandoned ranch, doing God knows what."
God knows what? Is this man serious?My hands tighten around the dishcloth I'm still holding. "I've given you no reason not to trust me."
Jared looks at me for a long moment. "I'm sorry to make you choose, Jo. It's either me, or it's him." Jared brushes a kiss on my cheek, then he walks out of the kitchen, and a moment later the front door closes.
I pour another glass of wine, sit down on the couch, and call Jared. He answers on the second ring. His window must be down while he’s driving, because the air makes it hard to hear him.
“Hang on,” he says, and in a few seconds it’s back to normal. “Are you calling to tell me to come back?”
I blink. “No, Jared. I’m sorry, I’m not. I’m calling to tell you it’s not necessary to drag this on. I think you and I are better off as friends.”
He sucks in a breath. “Classic. Wyatt Hayden stole my girlfriend. I don’t think anyone will be surprised by that.”
I bristle. “That’s not what happened, Jared. We aren't right together, and it has nothing to do with Wyatt.”
“I’ve never thought of you as a liar, but here you are, lying.”
“I’m going to go now, Jared, before you say something you regret.”
The line goes dead.
My head falls back against the couch. A small tear rolls down my cheek. If I am lying, it’s not to Jared. What I said to him was the truth.
But when it comes to Wyatt? He seems to be able to coax strong emotions from me.
Emotions a person just might lie to themselves about.
16
Wyatt
I takethe lumber off the cart, sliding it into my truck bed and taking care not to give myself any splinters. Normally I don't drive so far for lumber, but I wanted to make Mrs. Calhoun's raised planter out of cedar, and for that, I had to travel.
Since I was here, I also grabbed everything I'd need to replace Jo's sagging front porch and the stairs. I don't want her having to avoid the weak spots like she has been. What if she forgets one day?
I finish loading, then hop in my truck, shifting into reverse and immediately hitting my brakes.
"What the fuck is this?" I say to myself, staring at the sight in my rearview mirror. Dan Howard, also known as the useless Sierra Grande police officer, is one lane over, working with two other men to fill their trucks with lumber.
It's a fuck ton of wood for people who don't drive work trucks. Dan is dressed in plain clothes, a basic T-shirt and jeans, but the guys he's with look like they've seen better days. I can't see details from here, but my hackles are raised. Something about this is off.
Dan glances around, trying way too hard to be nonchalant. He climbs into a sedan, the other two guys get into their respective trucks. Dan leaves first, and almost five minutes later, the first truck pulls out, followed by the second.
Followed by me.
All the wayto Sierra Grande they go. They skirt the town, taking the turnoff that will eventually lead them to the HCC if they stay on the winding road leading up in elevation. But I have a feeling that's not what's going to happen.
I'm right. Up ahead, at a small bend in the road, they ease their trucks onto a nearly grown-over side road. It'd be easy to dismiss it as a relic of days gone by, a place nobody goes because how could anybody get there?
Except I know where it leads.
A few years ago, I'd watched Dixon drive this same path. I was on horseback, taking Wes's horse Ranger out for exercise because he was too busy. I'd been hidden by trees when a beat-up truck went driving by, turned off the road, and ambled up the gently sloping hill.
I already knew who it was, and the red warning flags were flying. I pointed Ranger in the same direction as the truck, and we traveled parallel, hidden from view. The truck didn't have to go more than a quarter mile through that thick brush before the foliage cleared. It was as if someone had maintained the road but left the entrance overgrown to keep it from being something anybody would notice. Eventually, the dirt road ended and the driver got out.
Dixon didn't even bother looking around, so sure that nobody had followed him. He took off on foot, due north. I stayed stock still and watched him until he disappeared from my sight. I waited another ten minutes, then went back the way I came. The next day, I retraced my steps, this time with Warner's horse, and when I found no sign of Dixon's truck, I continued on in the direction he'd walked. Eventually I came upon a clearing, with a shitty little house built into the middle. The windows were painted black, so I couldn't see in, and I knew better than to open the door. By then I'd surmised it was a meth lab, though I couldn't be sure it was operational.
