“Scooch over,” he says, his hand nudging my hip. “I’m supposed to be helping you with the dishes, not standing here watching.”
My momentary paralysis breaks, and I shuffle over to let Wes rinse the dishes off while I load. We’re standing hip to hip, our shoulders bumping whenever I turn to grab another dish from him. The close contact makes my skin jump and twitch like a horse trying to rid itself of flies.
“I’m glad Pops has someone close by who checks in on him,” Wes admits.
I grit my teeth and try to bite back my snarky reply, but it’s no use. “Would be nice if some family would come check up on him occasionally, too.”
I’ve grown protective of Pops, especially since his heart attack. He’s been an important figure in my life, and his family should care more for him than they have.
I didn’t know my own grandfather. My mom had grown up with an abusive father and took off with my dad the second she was old enough to get married. She had me less than a year later. My dad—if he can even be called that—left us when I still had training wheels on my bike. I don’t remember him much, and he never came looking for me.
Mom moved us out here to give us a fresh start. Housing here was affordable, and it was a safe place to raise your kids. She’s since moved to Arizona with her new husband.
She always said something about the rolling sandhills and prairie called to her.It calls to me the same way. It feels like a place where you can be free. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Doing anything else.
“Anyone ever tell you that you can be a bit prickly?”
I give him an expressionless stare. “Never.”
His lips twitch, but he has the sense not to smile at me. “I know maybe you don’t understand, but I have a job and a life back in the city.”
“At a company your daddy built. I have a feeling he’d give you a couple days off if you asked to go visit your lonely and ailing grandfather.”
He blows out an exasperated breath. But I’m not about to apologize for speaking the truth. He’s only mad because he knows I’m right. If he wanted to visit, he could, but he’s been too caught up at his desk job in some fancy office to worry about the man left behind—the father whose son moved to the city, whose wife died, and whose grandkids grew up and moved on without a second thought. Pops is the best man I know, and he deserves better than what his family has given him these past fifteen years.
He grips a bowl, his knuckles whitening with the strain of keeping his temper in check. “You know, I’m trying really hard not to be offended but—”
“Go ahead and be offended. It’s no skin off my back if what I say doesn’t sit right with you.”
Wes might be trying to keep his cool to be polite, but I have no such qualms. This is my house, and I’m not going to be disingenuous.
“Why are you being so difficult? I’m here helping now, and I’m trying to do the rightthing.”
“You’re trying to talk him into selling the ranch that’s been in his family for three generations. Being without that place would kill Pops.”
I have no doubt about that. He’s said as much to me on a number of occasions. The ranch gives him a purpose. He’d waste away in the city without the wide-open spaces and the smell of fresh-cut hay.
“Have you met the man? You can’t talk him into anything he doesn’t already want to do. He’s damn stubborn.”
“Must be a Dawson family trait,” I mutter under my breath.
“Why are you always picking fights with me?” he asks, irritated by my attitude.
“Me?” I gesture toward my chest, feigning innocence.
I can’t help it. This man irks me with his stupid hair and those stupid designer jeans and that idiotic little smirk that’s playing on his lips right now. He looks smug, and I can’t stand it.
His hands go to his hips and his head tips up to the ceiling like he’s saying a prayer for patience. “Yes, you. You’re being a dang brat. I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”
Maybe Iambeing a brat, but it’s easier to argue with Wes than anything else. He can pretend he knows what’s best, but the truth is, he’s clueless. About Pops and about the state of the ranch.
It takes every ounce of strength I have left not to keep taking tiny bites out of him. Instead, I shoot him an icy look. “Maybe it’d be better if you just went back to the ranch. I’m sure you’re sore from today, and a full day in the saddle tomorrow isn’t likely to do you any favors.”
“Suit yourself,” he grumbles and wipes his wet hands on the dish towel before he stalks off.
The door swings shut, and I’m left alone in my kitchen with half a sink full of dishes and a bad taste in my mouth.
Dead Wrong
