We’re silent. Dustin doesn’t even crack a joke to lighten the mood.
“Aww. Listen to me ramblin’ on. I’m fine. Wipe those looks off your faces. I’ve lived a good life—my cattle, this land. And I’ll work it ’til I can’t.” He pauses, looking back down the road toward the repair at the crossing. “Things like yesterday’s storm show me I’m closer tocan’tthan I usually like to admit.”
“You look pretty good to me,” Dustin says. “I hope I’ll be hauling hay at your age.”
Mr. Calhoun smiles. Then he looks Dustin square in the eyes. “Son, life changes whether we vote for it or not. You justgotta decide which parts of it you want to cling to and which parts don’t matter a lick in the long run.”
He might be looking at Dustin, but his words pierce me right between the ribs. A dull ache fills the space, tugging at me and pulling me off balance.
“Well, I’d better let you get to it,” Mr. Calhoun says. “Thanks again for patchin’ up our road and for feeding my girls with me.”
“Anytime,” I tell him. And I mean it.
On the ride back, Dustin’s full of energy, his knee bounces with enough vibration that I feel it from the front seat. He’s buzzing over his newly hatched plan to surprise Emberleigh by popping into the bakery to take her to lunch. He texts Sydney to work out the details.
“You’d better hop in the station shower if you want this to be a good surprise,” Grey warns Dustin.
“She loves me when I’m messy,” is his answer, even though we all know he wouldn’t dare show up caked in mud and smelling like a field of cattle.
“A shower sounds just right,” I say to Grey.
“And a nap,” he adds.
We ride in silence. Usually I’m more talkative, but Mr. Calhoun’s words still rumble around in my head, that dull ache between my ribs lessening, but still tugging at me like a child demanding attention.
The radio crackles and our dispatcher comes on. Grey unclips the dash mic.
“Non-emergency,” Gina says. “Anyone available to swing by Waterford Elementary? Goat’s in the pickup line.”
Greyson mutters, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” before pressing the button to respond. He looks over at me, brows raised in question. I nod silently. “Brush Truck One. We’ll take the call.”
Everything’s quiet for a beat and then dispatch comesthrough again. “It appears the goat is unsupervised … and attempting to enter the building. We’ve got a goat breaking-and-entering situation here.”
Greyson’s expression doesn’t change. “Copy. Goat breaking and entering unsupervised.”
“We’ve lost visual on the goat,” the dispatcher says.
Greyson takes his thumb off the mic button. His jaw flexes. He presses the button, lifting the mic to his mouth again. “Brush Truck One. Keep us posted.”
“Unclear if the goat has gone to school or cut class.” The dispatcher snorts at her own joke.
“Seriously, Gina?” Greyson says, his facade cracking.
“What? I’m just telling it like I hear it,” Gina answers.
I chuckle.
Greyson hangs the mic back in its cradle. Dustin grasps the back of our headrests, peeks his head through the opening to the front cab, then sighs audibly.
“Don’t worry Romeo,” Grey says. “We’ll drop you at the station. This isn’t a three-man job.”
“Grey, you’re a softie under all that asphalt,” Dustin says with a full smile. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Grey doesn’t even dignify Dustin with a comeback.
“Think it’s Jenny?” I ask Grey, referring to a goat who causes enough trouble around here to have a town-wide reputation.
“Probably.”
