Reno paused and Dillon groaned as comprehension struck. “You’ve been talking to Hank about me. What did he say?”
“He and I have been talking about you. Along with Mom and Dad. Unfortunately, I drew the short straw when we all decided who was gonna talk to you about you.”
Dillon winced and braced himself. He’d seen Reno argue a case once in court, and it had been brutal. He’d let a witness lie under oath multiple times while Reno questioned him. Only then did Reno whip out proof that the guy was lying and proceed to destroy him on the witness stand—without ever once raising his voice.
Reno finished his beer before speaking, which was alarming. What was so bad that Reno had to gird himself with liquid courage before saying it?
Finally his brother said, “I came to tell you that whatever you’ve been carrying around since Lexi left, you can put it down now. She’s gone and good riddance. It’s time to start living your life again.”
The porch light buzzed faintly. Down by the lake, the first bullfrog of the year sent its deep, resonant mating call into the night.
Dillon set his beer on the porch rail without taking a drink. “I thought everyone in the family loved Lexi.”
“She was nice enough. But totally wrong for you.” He picked up Dillon’s untouched bottle and took an appreciative swig. “Tessa Lawrence, however. Now she’s the kind of woman you need.”
“I’m not ready to be in love with her,” he said. “It’s not like that between us.”
It was the worst lie he’d told in twenty years. He could hear it for what it was the second it left his mouth. So could Reno. Neither of them said anything for a long time.
Reno finished the second beer before finally saying, “Okay.” Then he said, “I believe you omitted a critical word from that grand declaration, brother mine.”
“Oh yeah? What word?”
“Yet. You’re not ready to be in love with her yet. It’s not like that between you two, yet.” He finished off his beer with a flourish and went inside.
Dillon stood on his porch and listened to the frogs for a long time. He thought about a woman with a cow’s head in her lap and a fistful of his shirt in her hand and how she’d cried for her grandfather two thousand miles away, waiting for his mother to pick him up from school.
If he was honest with himself, there was no need to add a yet to either of his statements to Reno because neither statement was true at all. Ready or not, he was in love with her and it was like that between them.
The only thing he didn’t know for sure was what to do about it.
He didn’t go inside until the porch light snapped off on its timer and made him.
15
Monday morning, Tessa scowled from the safety of the porch at Bonnie and Clyde. The geese had chased her halfway to the chicken coop earlier and were now strolling back and forth across the lawn with the smug bearing of conquering heroes.
“Evil flying death birds,” she muttered into her coffee.
She hadn’t slept well since she told Dillon he was a man who showed up, and he kissed her.
You’re still not in the market for a man.
Yes, well.
She’d been losing that argument with herself for weeks. In fact, it was barely an argument at all anymore. Now, it was mostly a polite formality before her inevitable capitulation.
Friday after work, she’d dropped off a full grocery bag of Fern’s writing samples at Dillon’s house. Sunday, Reno’s handwriting expert declared himself ninety-nine percent sure that Fern’s signature on the letter was a forgery. Not that it had ever been in any doubt.
And not that it would stop the lawsuit. After all, the oil company didn’t actually need to win. They just needed her to go broke and give up the fight.
Her phone buzzed on the railing beside her.
She picked it up half hoping it was Dillon but knowing it wouldn’t be. He was on calls all morning. Besides, he wasn’t the chatty sort who texted at seven a.m. to comment on the weather. He was more the type to show up unannounced with the lab results in one hand and his hat pushed back. She loved that about him.
She also half hoped it was Charlotte, who’d been calling at odd hours stressing over what the New York boutique would think of the finalized portfolio of gowns.
It was neither.
