I look down at the ground, studying the way the pavers come together, the corners meeting. "She's special." I like the way she keeps me on my toes, how she calls me on my shit. I like the little mole on her hairline at the back of her neck, and the way she bites the side of her lip when she's working through a problem. Mostly I admire how brave she is, taking on a project like transforming an old ranch and being willing to learn on her feet.
"You should ask her out."
"It's just that easy, huh?" I chuckle. "She has a boyfriend."
"Bah." He waves his hand. "Don't let that stop you. Run that roadblock over with your truck. When I first met your grandma there was another boy who was sweet on her."
"What did you do?"
He snickers. "He was a roadblock I ran over with my truck."
"Don't you mean your horse-drawn carriage?"
"Fuck off. How old do you think I am?"
"Do you want me to answer that?"
He cackles. "You always were a mouthy son of a bitch."
I laugh. "Still am."
He's quiet, then he says, "This life is short, Wyatt. If you want Jo, go get her. If you want to tell your dad all the ways he's hurt you, go tell him. There'll come a day when you spend more time thinking back on what you didn't do, and less on what you actually did. Regrets are no fun, Wyatt. I guess the goal in life is to have fewer of them."
I lean back and look at him. He has less hair on his head than he used to, and it seems to have chosen to grow from his ears and nose instead. Rows of wrinkles feather his face, and brown spots speckle his skin. Still, the man is sharp as a tack. He sees what others don't, and it might not be because he has endless hours to watch us all going about our days. Maybe he's just insightful.
"Thanks for the advice, Gramps. You've given me a lot to think about."
He nods. "Get going, Wyatt. You have work to do."
I pat his leg and stand up. "Do you want help getting into the house?"
"You want your ass whooped?"
"Hah." I laugh once, loudly. "Fine. Get up on your own, old man."
"I'll get up when I'm damn well ready to," he counters. Always has to have the last word.
I leave him there where I found him, sunning himself like a rattlesnake, and keep going on my way. His words reverberate through me as I make the walk over to my place and gather my things. I get in my truck and head over to Jo's, trying to sort out my feelings as I go.
I don't recognizethe car parked next to Jo's at the Circle B. It's a Mercedes SUV, matte gunmetal gray with powder-coated rims. Definitely not a vehicle that belongs to someone living in Sierra Grande. Probably not a contractor's either, or really anybody working on a jobsite. They tend to drive trucks.
I start with the main house, looking for Jo and this mystery person. When I don't find her inside, I walk around back and hear her talking before I round the corner and see her.
Her back is to me, and she stands beside a man. She's gesturing, and he's nodding. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his suit.
Nobody in this town wears a suit, not even that banker boyfriend of Jo's.
"Hello," I say, coming to a stop a few feet from them. Jo startles and whips around. The man is slower, rotating his shoulders my way with a stoic expression.
The only way to know he recognizes me is the slight widening of his eyes. It's the asshole from the night at the Chute that landed me at the police station, and eventually, here.
"Wyatt, this is Sawyer Bennett. He's a potential investor." She smiles hard at me, like she's sayingdon't fuck this up,but the grin sweetens when she looks at Sawyer. "Mr. Bennett, this is Wyatt Hayden."
I stick out my hand for a handshake and smile like I've never seen him before. There's no fucking way I'm calling him Mr. Bennett. "Sawyer, it's nice to meet you."
"Likewise," he answers, shaking my hand. His eyes are as gray as his G-Wagon.
I believe you can learn a lot about a person by the way they shake hands, and I have to begrudgingly admit Sawyer presents himself well in that department. No limp dick handshake, as Wes would call it.
