He’s a head shorter than me and tattoos wind up his arms. He’s got his Stetson on, covering his mop of blond hair and is smiling so big that his dimples make divots the size of Texas in his cheeks.
“Hey, Tripp. You haven’t changed a bit.”
He steps back and scrutinizes me with raised eyebrows. “Well, I can’t say the same about you. What the hell are you wearing? Don’t tell me you’re working cattle with me in that getup.” His eyes hit on the pair of designer jeans and polo I’m sporting.
My cheeks heat in embarrassment at the razzing. Why hadn’t I just grabbed some clothes before coming out here? I should have known this wouldn’t fly for ranch attire.
I shake the keys to the Chevy in Tripp’s face. “Pops already let me know I was overdressed. I’m heading into town to grab the essentials. Need anything?”
He smirks from under his Stetson. “You haven’t even been here a full 24 hours, and you’re already taking a day off? Sounds like someone’s scared to get back in the saddle, so to speak.”
My head tips toward the sky. “Bullshit.”
“I guess we’ll find out if you’ve still got it tomorrow.”
“I’ve still got it,” I mumble. It’s been years since I’ve had to rope and tie anything, but it's like riding a bike. It'll come right back.
“You’d better. We could use all the help we can get.” He glances back toward the house and takes a step closer to me. “Pops isn’t getting around like he used to, and he doesn’t like us telling him to sit things out.”
I glance back toward the house. It’s no surprise that Pops is slowing down at the age he is. It only validates the reason Dad sent me here.
“It’ll be good to have an extra set of hands around here. You should come to town and grab a beer with me at Herds later,” he presses.
I don’t have the heart to correct him, to tell him I wasn’t staying for long, and I’d be back in the city before that mud on his boots dried. So, I slap his back and give him the answer I know he wants. “Sure.”
I nod farewell before hopping into the old blue truck and making the ten-mile drive into town to get the necessities.
The coffee Pops made tastes terrible, and by the time I make it to Main Street, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only thing I’ll be doing with this coffee is dumping it down the drain. The rumble of the truck tapers off when I cut the ignition in front of the Cottonwood Creek Market.
The store front is dark and my shoulders slump when I glance at the dashboard and note that it’s only seven o’clock and the market doesn't open until eight. My head hits the back of the headrest as I groan in frustration.
The market sits right next to the Cowboy Corner Café on the two-block stretch of shops that Cottonwood Creek calls downtown. One good thing about a small town is that practically every store and business I might need is right on this strip of road.
I stare at my undrinkable cup of coffee and eye the lit-up café like it’s my saving grace. Being this close to the best pastries in the state, it’simpossible not to stop in for a coffee and a little something to fill my belly this morning. The heart healthy cold cereal Pops was eating barely looked edible.
I had hoped I could hit the local farm supply store for my clothes and be on my way with everyone else none the wiser about me being back here, at least until I go to Herds with Tripp tonight. But with the market closed, I’m stuck in the heart of town and the likelihood of being seen by the town’s busybodies, who are too nosy for their own good, has increased tenfold.
The smell of coffee and baked goods floods my nostrils when I step inside the little coffee shop on the corner. A group of men around Pops’ age sit at the table by the window. They all glance my way when the bell on the door chimes, and eyes bore into the back of my head as I make my way to the counter.
I recognize the owner, Mrs. Mackey, behind it as she smiles at me, barely taller than the pastry cases with hair that’s fully gray and curled. She’s the best baker around and so many of my weekends in town were spent begging her for sweets and running across the street to the mini mall while Pops chatted with his friends.
“Well, Wes Dawson. Isn’t this a surprise? Vern told me you were coming back to the ranch when we were playing cards the other night.”
“Hi Mrs. Mackey. It’s good to see you.” I slip my hands into my pockets.
I was glad to hear Pops was still going to those weekly pitch tournaments. I wasn’t sure if he would after Grams died. It was something they always did together with their friends. They gathered in each other’s small living rooms, card tables set up buffet style with snacks and drinks and a good time ready to be had. Grams had lived for pitch nights with her friends.
My throat tightened at the memory of playing pitch in the kitchen with Pops and Grams during the summer evenings when Quinn and I were still too young to drive.
“You should come to our game tonight, Wes. I’m sure everyone would love to see your handsome face.”
I blink back to the present and give her a regretful smile. “I have plans with Tripp tonight. Sorry, Mrs. Mackey.”
“Next time then. We’re always looking for some fresh faces. I'll make sure to bake up some extra goodies to bring when we play.”
“Well, then I’ll be there. I could never say no to your baking.” I refrain from telling her I plan on leaving next week before their next weekly pitch night.
“Are you seeing anyone right now?”
