My stomach knots. If this escalates before I have proof, this whole thing burns.
And we’re walking straight onto Blackwell’s ground.
Chapter
Five
ARLO
“My neighbor. The problem, Martin Blackwell, owns the feed store,” Leonora says, shifting into third gear as we merge onto Four Eighty-Eight.
“Not the feed store in Hollister.”
“We’re not headed to Hollister.”
“Jackson, then?”
“Thought you already knew that. Thought that’s why you invited yourself along.”
“Could be,” I answer flatly.
“You really don’t say much, do you?” She side-eyes me, cheeks going pink, though I try to blame it on the cold.
“I’m a ranch hand, not a poet.”
“Good thing.” The corners of her mouth turn down. “The last guy never stopped talking. Talked himself right out of a job.”
I run a hand over my beard, already knowing the story well. The last ranch hand went to work for Blackwell. But I wait for her to tell me.
Her lips tighten into a thin line. “Didn’t need him, anyway.”
I remove my hat, raking fingers through my hair. “Tough to run a ranch alone.”
“You keep saying that.” Her eyes narrow at me. “Only if you’re notusedto the work.”
My throat thickens, not sure where she’s headed with this. “Figure if ranches were easy to run alone, wouldn’t be any ranch hands.”
“Or cowboy poets,” she quips.
“Just stubborn cowgirls,” I grumble under my breath.
“Stubborn?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
She pulls the emergency brake up tight and hard as we park in front of the feed store, making the truck lurch. Her jaw tightens, cut with determination, and I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to stop what’s coming.
The store is dark, dusty, and smells of feed and hay. Ag calendars line one wall where the cash register is set up. Rows and rows of shelves hold animal food and supplies of every kind. Chicken scratch. Chick starter. Hen layer. Dog food of every stripe and color. Horse feed. Pig feed. Rabbit pellets and Timothy straw.
“We’ll take one of those,” she says, nodding toward a green bale. “Rabbits love it. And?—”
“Speak of the devil,” a sharp male voice says behind us. We turn, facing a man in flashy Western wear with a blingy rodeo belt.
“Clyde,” Leonora spits.
“What can I do you for?”
She stops, placing her hands on her hips. “Here for colostrum, selenium, now Timothy grass, and batteries. Lots of batteries for my trail cams.”
