Jackson goes stock-still, milk soaking into his jeans above his boots. “You did not just do that.”
Backing away, Colton says, “Did.”
“Get over here.”
Colton turns and takes off, Jackson hot on his heels. I shake my head, my younger brothers attempting to bat each other off with the handles of their cleaning implements. A coupleof the ranch hands stop to stare. Remi, I notice, has his phone out.
“What’re you doing?” I ask him.
He keeps his eyes on the device. “Recording for Noah.”
“Ah.”
“Colt, I swear to God,” Jackson says at the same time Colton swipes his squeegee handle toward the heels of Jackson’s boots. Jackson goes down, landing on his back, nearly everyone letting out anoohas he’s covered in milk.
Colton sucks in a sharp breath before wincing. “I, uh… Whoops?”
A long beat of silence passes before Ash heads to Jackson’s side. He holds his hand out, trying to hide the smile on his face but failing terribly. “You did kind of have it coming, Jack.”
With a grunt, Jackson grabs onto Ash’s hand and pulls him down into the mess.
Ash barks a laugh, breaking the tension in the room. The next second, Jackson is on his feet again. He takes off after Colton, whose boots slip around as he tries his best to get out of Dodge.
“Boys!” our mom yells, her hands on her hips. “Were y’all raised in a barn?”
“Help me!” Colton shouts to the room at large.
Remi is laughing uncontrollably, still recording the whole thing. “Oh my God. I’m never deleting this.”
Colton, possibly having heard him or, I don’t know, maybe intending to use his younger brother as a shield, heads in his direction. Remi yelps and runs off faster than I’ve ever seen my brother move.
Ash is still sitting on the floor, laughing and telling Jackson toleave him be. Colton looks scared for his life, as he should.My dad is trying to shovel milk. And my mom unrolls a nearby hose, presumably to break up the scuffle.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, an empty bucket in my hands. “Can’t say it’s not interesting around here.”
Hours later, when I’m washing up in the ranch house, I get a text from Oakley. A smile springs to my lips. He sent a selfie, the man wearing thin-rimmed glasses with a wry expression on his face.
I call, and he answers right away. “Hey, you still at the ranch house?”
“I am,” I tell him. “I take it the eye appointment went well?”
He groans. “Reading glasses, Lawson. I’m getting old.”
“Had to happen sometime, Teach.”
“Nuh-uh,” he says. “That’s your nickname, not mine.”
“If you say so.”
He blows out a breath. “Things go okay with your family?”
“Haven’t told them yet,” I admit.
“No?”
“No. Milk emergency.”
There’s a pause. “Do I wanna know?”
