A mud-coated, Maisey-shaped figure is limping out from behind a thicket of scrub brush.
“Mom?Mom!”
June’s sprinting like she didn’t already run an entire soccer game. I’m not far behind.
“Oh my God,that bear,” Maisey says as June tackles her in a massive hug, mud and all. “Where did it go? Is it okay?”
“Is thebearokay?” June gasps.
“It’s abear,” I agree. Why is my heart in my throat, and why do I want to grab her and hug her too and make sure she’s okay?
Because we’re friends,I answer myself.
My dick snorts in utter amusement at the bald-faced lie.
“What the hell happened toyou?” I ask her.
“And her hair,” Opal murmurs as she catches up to us. “That’s gonna take one hell of a shampoo. Oh, honey. Come in tomorrow. I’ll squeeze you in again.”
Maisey hugs June back. “I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s fine. I—” She stops, looks at me, then at my aunt, then to the west. And then she’s hugging her daughter all over again. “Oh, Junie. Oh, baby, I missed your game.I’m so sorry. I should’ve been—you smell like sweat.Oh my God.You played. You played, didn’t you? And I missed it.”
I want to be mad, but there is clearly a story here.
Also?
Now that I know she’s safe, Maisey Spencer covered in mud is giving me terrible, awful, filthy ideas.
Fucking haircut.
Fucking dress.
Fuckingcompetence. Who knew I had a thing for women who could swing a sledgehammer and win a battle with a mud puddle?
And it’s not just the sledgehammer.
I know she’s been all over town helping patch roofs and tackle a plumbing job here and there and painting rooms and repairing that damn light fixture over my favorite table at Iron Moose.
She’s right.
She played the fool on that show, but she knows what she’s doing.
More importantly at the moment, though—where the hell didmudcome from?
It hasn’t rained here in at least ten days, and that last rain barely counted as rain.
“Are you covered in literal shit?” June lets her go but still hovers close, like she’s afraid something worse than a normally lazy, nonconfrontational bear and some form of dirt are about to happen to her mother. Her nose quivers, and she lifts her own arm to sniff the mud. “Did that bearshit on you?”
“No, no, honey. I’m fine. It’s fine. How was your game? Tell me all about your game. Did you play?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like you knew I would,” June mutters.
“I had an alarm set so I wouldn’t miss it. I did. I—oh, crap.” Maisey’s patting her hips near about where her pockets should be. “My phone. I lost my phone.”
“Why are you covered in shit?” June asks.
“It’s mud! It’s mud, honey. It’s just really stinky mud. I think. I hope. I was nowherenearthe septic tank, but—” She cuts herself off, waving a hand. “Come inside. I’ll get cleaned up, and you can tell me about your game, and I’ll make you dinner. And maybe we can use your phone to find mine.”
“I thought youdied,” June whispers.
