"In your dreams," I say, tapping the armrest.
"Every night, darlin'," he replies.
I stare at the dashboard so hard I might burn a hole in it, and he chuckles as we pull into the parking lot.
The feed store smells of sweet molasses, leather, and alfalfa, and the second we walk in, three men at the register turn around like a flock of birds responding to a noise.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in,” one of them says, scratching his head.
Another lifts his chin our way. "Aldridge."
"Boys," Beck says back, tipping his hat.
The oldest one, a guy in his sixties with a white mustache that rivals Sam Elliot’s, leans on the counter. "You manage to stay off the hay bales this week, son?"
"Working on it."
"That's progress."
Beck huffs. "That's what I keep telling Doc."
There’s a round of low laughter. Beck takes it the way a man takes a slap on the back from an old friend. He rolls with it, that easy grin already on. I notice howwornthat grin is. Not fake, exactly. More like a path through grass that's been walked a thousand times.
The youngest of the three, a guy maybe my age with a gold wedding band and droopy eyes, gives Beck a once-over. "How's the ankle?"
"Attached," Beck answers.
"You bring a date?" the mustache asks, eyes sliding to me.
"This is Laurel Dempsey. She's working Riot for me while I’m out of commission."
“Is she now?” he says, eyebrows climbing.
“Keep it to yourself, Earl,” Beck tells him, while the others snicker.
“What?”
Beck shakes his head. “I’m tellin’ ya. She’s got that damn horse eatin’ right outta her hand.”
They all seem impressed.
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am." Earl tips his cap to me, but his eyes are dancing. "You hang on to your hat around this one."
“Among other things,” I say, and they all chuckle.
“I like her,” Earl says, and Beck glances down at me with something like pride.
We buy the feed and Beck tries to help load it, but I shoulder past him with a fifty-pound sack, telling him to sit the hell down before he undoes two weeks of healing.
He plops down on a stack of bagged shavings and pouts.
"Knock it off," I say, hauling the second bag, then dropping it in the truck bed, trying not to laugh.
We decide to get lunch at the Switchback Café before heading back to the cabin.
The bell over the door jingles as we walk in, and a wave of cinnamon washes over me. A woman behind the counter—mid-fifties, gray streak in her dark hair, apron tied twice around her waist—glances up and breaks into a smile.
"Beck Aldridge, as I live and breathe."
