“Nice diversion,” she said with a wry smile. “I was visiting Uncle Stone.”
“Cool, how’s he doing?”
“He and Brighton are expecting again,” she said, shaking her head, clearly aware he was still diverting.
“Isn’t he, like, too old for that?”
She arched an eyebrow. “He’s only a few years older than your dad.”
“Exactly.” Owen knew Dad was sensitive about his age. “Uncle Stone’ll need a walker to get to his kid’s graduation.”
Mom yanked a towel from where it hung on the oven handle and snapped it at him. “You menace.”
Laughing, he held up his hands. “Seriously,” he said around a laugh. “I’m glad he’s happy.” He remembered the brooding Uncle Stone too well, and the tension radiating through the family after the scandal broke. “So, was it just a casual chat or was this about the trafficking shelter?”
She nodded, peeling an orange. “He asked if I could work my connections on the Hill to make some more headway on improving anti-trafficking laws.”
“Yeah?” He wolfed down the bar and pitched the wrapper. “You going to do it?”
She drew her hair into a ponytail, a sure sign she was getting down to business. He’d need to bug out before it got tense in here. “Not sure. I know it needs to be done, but I’m not sure I have the time in my schedule to do it justice. Agreed I’d look into it.” And then, just like that, she folded her arms and launched her heat-seeking missile. “So, you’re home. Since Rangers didn’t work out…what’re you planning?”
What little air was left in his chest deflated. “Mom, c’mon. I’m home ten minutes and?—”
“I know you, Owen Navas, and the longer you think about something, the worse it gets. You’re like your father—a man of action. Sitting around doesn’t help.”
That was the thing of it—he wasn’t like Dad. God knows he’d tried to be. Believed that same tough mettle was in him, but Uncle Sam disagreed. Selection board disagreed. “Just let a guy breathe, ’kay?”
Quiet settled between them, but that blaze in her eyes said she wasn’t going to leave it alone. “You’re not a failure.”
Bam—right for the heart. “I, uh…” He aimed for the living room. “Gotta get the rest of my gear from the truck and grab a shower before heading to the ranch.” He kept moving, not looking back. Avoiding the Mom look. Mom guilt. She was an expert at it.
Later that night, he made his way out to the Neeley ranch. Long before turning off the county road, he spotted the raging bonfire. That and the fifty or so cars lining the gravel driveway. “What in blue blazes…?” he muttered as he lumbered past the many vehicles. Finally found a place to park his Raptor, cut the engine, and stared out beyond the hood that even now caught the firelight in the reflection.
The old barn had been converted into a wedding and party venue, staying pretty busy. Soph had helped her mom with the business and had a good head and eye for it. Light and music filtered out from the buzzing barn, spreading its revelry toward the riding corral. A lot of people—way too many, in his opinion—loitered there.
For a half second, he wondered if sitting at home and getting an earful from Mom might be less painful than this. Probably.
A lone figure striding toward him squelched the idea, especially when she waved at him. Soph. Wearing jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, she let her hair loose in waves down past her shoulders. She looked pretty.
Abandoning the thought of bugging out, he exited the truck and met her halfway.
She leapt at him, wrapping thin arms around his neck, and laughed. “You made it!” Her blonde hair smelled of smoke from the bonfire. “About doggone time.”
“You didn’t give me much warning,” he said, releasing her.
She swung around behind him, caught his shoulders, and hiked up on his back for a piggyback. Arms looped around his neck, she rested her face near his. “Someone didn’t tell me he’d be coming home. Or I would’ve had it all planned, the million ways you can save me at the party.”
“Huh. Wonder why he didn’t tell you…”
She lightly popped the other side of his head. “How long you here for?”
“Couple weeks.” Arms hooked behind her legs, he hoisted her into a better position. “Ben or Dill here?”
“Ben, yes, but as usual, he’s ticked at Dad and pouting in some corner, no doubt. But Dillon…”
At her tone, he angled to look into her eyes. “What?”
“Your parents haven’t told you?”
