“Hi yourself,” she says.
“I’ve been meaning to check with you. How is everything going? Are you enjoying it here?”
She presses a hand to her chest like she’s trying to contain the excitement bubbling out of her. “I just had the most amazing meeting.”
“With Jaxon Moss?”
Her eyes go wide. “Yes. How did you—”
“I ran into him as he was leaving,” I say.
“And?”
“And he told me your one o’clock meeting lasted three and a half hours.”
She winces slightly. “Oh gosh, I hope that wasn’t a bad thing.”
“No. He was quite pleased. Apparently, you charmed him into signing another five-year contract.”
Her smile widens. “I sure did.”
Her excitement is infectious. The kind that makes you want to laugh even if you don’t know why.
“That’s incredible,” I say. “Good work.”
“Thank you.”
She bounces on her toes. “I had all these ideas, and I was so nervous he’d think they were ridiculous, but he loved them, and we started brainstorming, and then we just kept talking and—”
Her words start tumbling out faster and faster as we walk together through the parking lot.
She’s practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Which is refreshing.
“And then we got to the part about the ranch tours, and I told him about Wildhaven Storm, and he said that would be perfect for the heritage panel and—”
She stops abruptly.
Right beside an old blue truck.
I glance down at it.
Then back at her.
“Is this yours?”
Her smile turns proud. “It sure is.”
She pats the hood affectionately. “Meet Blue Bessie.”
I blink. “Blue Bessie?”
“She’s a 1952 Chevrolet 3100.”
I step closer, taking it in.
The paint is a faded dusty blue—the kind of color that must have been bright once, but has softened under decades of Wyoming sun.
The surface isn’t perfect.
