Nettie
I was nervous as hell.
This project was two years in the making.
Court had helped me every step of the way with this project, and now that the day was finally here, I was terrified that he wouldn’t like it.
It wasn’t the same truck, of course.
There was no way that it could be with the frame bent and twisted—at least that was what Court promised me.
So we’d started from scratch, and every available part that could be moved over to the new truck had been.
Now, I was staring at the restored 1987 Ford F250 with awe.
Even the paint was the correct color.
Court had done a great job.
“Come on,” I said to my girl.
She opened her sleepy eyes and blinked at me.
It was no wonder.
The low rumbling growl of the diesel engine had always put me to sleep, too.
There’d never been a time that I got in that truck and hadn’t been tempted to sleep.
She leaned into me as I pulled her from her car seat and laid her head on my shoulder.
When I stepped out of the truck, I pocketed the keys and walked inside.
I laid her in her crib and covered her with the blanket her daddy had bought her the day she’d gotten out of the hospital.
It was pink with white bears on it, and it was her absolute favorite. The worst was when I had to wash it, and she didn’t want me to. To make it all right, she had to lie in her daddy’s arms and he’d comfort her through the traumatic experience.
I was just closing the door to her room when I heard the rumble of Boone’s motorcycle.
Excitement filtered through me as I all but ran across the house toward the front door.
When I got there, he was off his bike and staring at his truck with his hands on his hips.
The leather vest on his back gleamed in the sun, and when he turned, I knew what I would see.
Awe.
Sadness.
Excitement.
And lots and lots of questions.
I slowly went down the front porch steps toward him.
When I was about six feet behind him, he slowly turned and gave me all those emotions I knew I’d see.
“What the hell, Net?”
