I nod, straightening up to my full height and looking him in the eye. If he's going to give me shit about it, he's going to get a mountain of shit back from me.
"Wyatt, you better be careful. Don't let guilt loosen your lips."
"She needs help, Warner. She's alone." Or she was, anyway, until those shifty grandsons of hers showed up.
"That is not our fault."
I give him aCome the fuck onlook.
"It's not," he insists. "Her son, and her grandson, made choices, like we all do. Dixon chose to cook meth in the mountains. He knew the risks."
"I'm not going to let an old lady live in a house in need of repair, no matter who she's related to."
Warner scrutinizes me, causing the small scar on his brow bone to crinkle. "Of course not," he says. "I'd never think you'd do something like that."
I'm not sure what to say. I guess I was expecting a shitty remark about how he's surprised I'm not at the bar, or something along those lines.
Warner reaches out, gripping my shoulder and working it back and forth a few times. "So, you and Jo, huh?"
Technically, there isn't a me and Jo, so I shrug it off. "It's nothing. Just a gift."
"Right," he agrees, in a tone that conveys just how much he disagrees. "One more question, and I really hope this doesn't burst your bubble if you're planning on her using this tonight, but does this place have hot water yet?"
I give him a mock salute, fully in the knowledge that if Wes were here he'd school me on the proper way to salute. "Accounted for."
Warner gets up and walks across the bathroom. "Alright, now I'm leaving. I have to go back to the homestead and tell every person I come across that you know how to install a bathtub."
"Nobody will believe you," I counter.
Warner glances back at me as he steps through the bathroom door. "That's where you're wrong, little brother." He keeps going, muttering to himself. I make out the words 'Calhoun' and 'bathtub' before he's too far away for me to hear him.
21
Wyatt
It's all set.All I need now is Jo.
I texted her twenty minutes ago, telling her there was a minor problem at Wildflower. I realize that's going to cause her some stress, but hopefully coming upon the scene I've set will make up for it.
I've been sitting here for ten minutes, watching the steam rise.
The lights from her car sweep over the bathroom window, and I quickly light the candle I've placed on a stool beside the tub.
She's walking into the house just as I come out from the hallway. Her hair is a mess, tied to the top of her head, and her eyebrows pull together in a worried 'v'.
"What's wrong?" she asks, coming toward me, stress seeping from her pores. I feel bad, knowing she has experienced stress in relation to my text. Even in this disarrayed state, I can't help but drink her in. She is perfect. Why has it taken me so long to really see her?
She fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. "And why are you here this late?"
I look out the wide front window at the final moments of dusk, where the eastern sky is dark but the western horizon still clings to the light, like lover's limbs intertwined.
"I needed a tool for a project I'm working on at home, and I noticed something." I pivot, motioning for her to follow me. Her defeated sigh filters through the air.
"At least this time, I'll have the money to repair it," she murmurs, more to herself than to me, I think.
I stop short of the bathroom and sweep my arm toward the entrance. Jo meets my gaze as she steps past me, her shoulder just inches from my chest. My hands press to my sides to keep from taking her in my arms and pressing a kiss to those beautiful lips.
"Wyatt, what is…" She walks in, her steps slowing to a halt. "What is this?" she whispers. Tentatively, she runs one finger along the length of the tub. Steam rises, swirling around her, turning the arid desert into a humid jungle.
