“Guess I’ll get out of your way,” he says, walking past me to the barn doors. Then he glances back and points in the opposite direction. “You said two miles that way, right?”
I let out an exaggerated breath. “If you plan on jumping barbed wire and cutting through hay fields.”
“Great. Seven miles on the road it is,” he says before turning back to the doors.
I glance at the sky, just starting to lighten.
“Wait, Waylon,” I call. “Cabe’ll be back at any minute from riding the fence line. He’s got some secret breakfast date in town. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind dropping you off on his way.”
“That’d be awesome. Not sure I’m up for that walk.”
“Just wait by the front of the barn. You don’t want Grandma Evelyn to catch sight of you through the kitchen window. You’d get a tongue-lashing or dragged inside for breakfast. No way to tell which way it’d go.”
“That’s a terrifying thought.”
He continues forward, dripping water onto the concrete, and pauses at the barn door. “Hey, Shelby.”
I look at him despite myself.
“Still feisty,” he says. “Some things don’t change.”
I lift the hose again.
He laughs and ducks out into the cold morning.
And just like that, Waylon Ludlow is back in my life—wet, hungover, and exactly the kind of complication I don’t need right now.
And with a Ruby. Figures.
I sigh, turn back to the horses, and mutter, “This day has already been too damn long.”
Ilean my shoulder into the splintered wood of the barn and let the cold bite where it wants. The boards are rough through my flannel, little picks catching threads.
Fuck, it’s cold.
I forgot how different the late September weather is in the Wyoming mountains versus the Nevada desert.
I’m gonna need to get Ruby some warmer clothes.Shit, there are so many things to think about when you’re responsible for a little human.
My breath comes out in puffs of white, and I shove my hands deep into my pockets because they won’t stop shaking. Could be the cold. Could be the fact that I’m soaked to the bone. Probably a combination of both.
The morning smells like hay and horses and damp earth. Honest smells. I like them better than the sour bite of whiskey that won’t quite leave my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I had a hangover. But I’m definitely feeling the effects of last night. My head throbs in time with my pulse. Every sound feels too loud—the wind skimming the roof, a distant door creaking open somewhere, the light stomp of a horse shifting its weight inside the barn as it eats its breakfast.
Hoofbeats cut through it all.
I lift my head just as Cabe rides up. He takes me in with one slow look—from my boots, caked in mud, to my hay-littered jeans and sopping wet hair. His mouth twists into a smirk.
“Geezus, Way,” he says. “You look like crap.”
I huff out a laugh that hurts my temples. “Good to see you too, buddy.”
He swings down from the saddle and loops the reins over a post.
He squints at me, then at the sky, then back at me again.
“What the hell are you doing here so early?” he asks.
I straighten a little, wincing when my spine protests. “Waiting on you.”
