“Anyway”—she grabs a crate of tools from the side bench—“Dad wants me to swing by the sheriff’s office. Says it’s just a quick check-in, which means I’ll be there at least an hour listening to him pretend he’s not worried about wedding details. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s the bride.”
She heads for the door, then glances back. “Just think about what I said, okay?”
Then she’s gone, her boots fading down the steps and out into the gravel lot.
The clock hits noon, and the Mustang’s still sitting there as if she’s holding her breath.
I should go home. Grab a few hours of sleep. Shower. Do something normal. But I can’t seem to make my body leave this space.
I stare at the Mustang like she might speak if I listen hard enough. But she doesn’t.
She just reminds me of Sally.
Of the way her fingers brushed mine last night. The way her laugh stuck in my ribs. Of the things I can’t let myself want.
I turn away. Head to Bay 2, where an old ‘91 Chevy’s been waiting on a brake line replacement.
It’s a good distraction. Mechanical. Familiar. The kind of job that doesn’t ask questions or feel like temptation in a tight T-shirt.
Still, every time the wind shifts through the open bay doors, carrying a whisper of wildflowers and vanilla, I glance at the clock.
It’s only 1:18.
Hell.
The unmistakable rumble of an old pickup pulls into the lot.
I don’t look up right away. I’m still elbow-deep in brake fluid and trying not to count the minutes until Sally shows.
Slow, heavy footsteps cross the concrete, like someone who doesn’t rush for anything except maybe cattle.
Then: “Hey, Nolan. George in?”
I turn and try very hard not to smirk.
Tom Sutton stands there in a flannel shirt and jeans, holding one side of his face. His mouth is slack, lower lip practically detached.
“Jesus, Sutton. You okay?”
“Denthisht,” he mumbles, clearly still numb. “Root canal. Feelsh like my thungsh been in a fight with a shovel.”
I wipe my hands on a rag. “Sounds like you lost.”
He grunts. “Came to see if George can look at the Ford. Transmission’s jumpier than a calf at branding time.”
“You could try at the sheriff’s office,” I say, grabbing a water bottle. “She was headed there, but that was a few hours ago.”
Tom nods slowly. “No time. On my way to pick up my mail-order bride.”
I stare at him. “Wait, that whole will stipulation George mentioned is real?”
“As a heart attack,” he says. Then adds, “Don’t ashk. It involves a will, a lawyer, and my mother’s twisted sense of humor. Marry or lose the ranch. Henry and Angus have already fallen into the parson’s trap, and my bride-to-be is arriving today. Delaney. Hopefully, she’s not allergic to horshes.”
“That’s your bar?” I raise an eyebrow. “No horse allergy?”
“Romance ain’t exactly a high priority when your fence lines are being cut, and barns are going up like bonfires under sushpicious circumstances,” Tom mutters, then grimaces. “Forget I said that.”
I straighten. “Yeah… George mentioned that too. About the weird stuff going on at Havenridge.”
