The tightness in my throat returns with a vengeance. “It wasn’t cute.”
“Can we play it again right now? Pretty please?”
Part of me really, really wants to say yes. I loved revisiting my favorite old songs with her.
Right now, though, my feelings are a flashing neon sign that saysDanger, danger. Uncharted territory.
“Another time,” I manage. “I understand your daddy’s thought process—why he wants an in-house bookkeeper. I just can’t figure out why he thoughtyou’dbe right for the job. Clearly you’re not meant for an office gig.”
Billie turns to look at me for a second. I get why she’s confused. I had fun playing that singing game too. But we’re not kids anymore, and I need to keep some boundaries in place here. Hence the reroute back to the original thread of our conversation.
“I’m gonna find out, you know,” Billie says.
“What’s that?”
“Why you’re afraid to play.” She turns back to the windshield. “So anyway, I think my parents don’t believe it’s ‘proper’ for a girl to do the kind of things I like doing.” Her smile fades. “Dad keeps saying I’ll get used to working at a desk. I want to make him proud and do right by my family. I just…”
She’s not able to finish the thought because we have to turn again. That’s when I realize my hands are still on hers even though she’s clearly gotten the hang of driving. This definitely isn’t the first time Billie’s driven a tractor.
It is, however, the first time she’s confided in me. Questioned me.
Called me out.
I like her brazenness just a little too much.
CHAPTER 7
Where There’s Smoke
RYDER
“Hey, dickhead. Thanks for the invite.”
Looking up from packing the ATV, I nearly have a heart attack when I see Colt standing inside the barn.
Not because I’m surprised he’s here. But because I may or may not have tugged one out the other day while thinking about coming on his sister’s tits.
I’m going straight to hell.
“Hey.” I straighten, groaning inwardly when I see that, like me, Colt is also dressed head to toe in camo. Hell, even his blind case and hat are printed in the green and brown pattern. I’d hoped to go hunting alone today—clear my head some—but obviously that’s not going to happen now. “What’re you doing here? Doesn’t Dean have soccer?”
“I’m keeping you company. Mom and Dad have Dean today.” He strides across the barn and sets his gun case in the back of the ATV next to mine. Then he squints at me. “Why’re you sneaking around like this? Going hunting all by your lonesome? Makes me think you’re hiding something.”
My pulse picks up pace. “Uh?—”
“I’m just kidding, dude.” His face splits into a smile. “Wyatt said you ditched the herd to hunt, so figured I’d keep you company. How the hell are you? I know today’s a tough one for y’all. I brought some cigars. Tequila too”—he pats his chest pocket—“so we could pour one out for Robbie and Anne.”
It’s been thirteen years to the day since my parents passed. But hearing their names said out loudstillmakes my chest hurt.
Add that to the fact that my friend came to be with me on a shit day, and my eyes are misting over. I blink hard. Try to breathe around the lump in my throat.
I woke up after a shitty night’s sleep feeling like I got run over. I expected to toss and turn; it’s the same rigamarole on this day every year.
What’s not the same? How staying busy hasn’t eased the ache deep in my center. Usually I can spend a few hours working cattle or mowing hay, and I’ll feel better.
Less flattened, at least.
Today, though? Today I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. Like my grief threatens to burn me alive from the inside out.
