Does Calder even know it’s there?
A lump forms in my throat. I’m not asking him. I’m not speaking to him. And he’s not speaking to me.
I embrace the task of unloading tables, wiping them down, and arranging the clothes. Sawyer found gunmetal-gray paper covers that match the color of the ball caps and shirts Ransom made for the ranch. I didn’t ask why she skipped the blue. This is Holly’s reception too, and the ranch was her home.
Once we’re finished, we step back and study our work.
“We have chips,” Sawyer says, counting on her fingers. “I assembled all the sandwiches, and you got the sides.”
“Pickles, olives, cheeses, mayo, butter, whatever.”
“And the church made a ton of bars. Cheryl said she’d bring them over when she comes.”
I secretly thought the church secretary, Cheryl, had a crush on Ram, but that doesn’t matter now. If that affection led her to bake dozens of brownies, I’m more than grateful for it.
“Think the guys are going to turn their nose up at all this? Too pedantic? Don’t get me wrong—I don’t care.”
She snickers. “What do you think they’d do differently? Grill rib eyes?”
“Filet mignon.”
“Mm. Honestly, if they did, I’d forgive them for being arrogant pricks. Bowen would have to be a wizard on the grill for me to get over the way he greeted me. His looks don’t give him a pass.”
“You think he’s good-looking?” I tease.
She scrunches her face in a fake laugh. “There’s no danger of me being under the spell of a Cross brother.” She crosses her arms. “Okay, that leaves the funeral.”
“Yeah.” The glow from our mutual teasing fades.
“Yeah.” Her swallow is audible. “This sucks, Mer. All of it.”
“Every single bit of it.”
She gives me a hug, and a small sob leaves her.
I cling to her. My vision becomes watery. I’m not going to cry. Ransom and Holly were like family to Sawyer, and she needs me. I can’t be the one breaking down before an arduous day. Too many people are counting on me.
Still, I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face.
After a moment, she pulls away and quickly wipes at her eyes. “Sorry. I’m not as strong as you.”
“You throw cows around, while I only haul a bag of grain here and there.”
Her chuckle is thready. “It’s all in the hips—and knowing when to climb the fence.”
“The rye doesn’t push back.”
She offers me a watery smile and another hug before leaving. I close the garage doors and notice the sensors. He did that the very the next day, and we don’t even know if anyone rifled through the house. Frustration overwhelms my gratitude. Temporary.
What am I going to do?
One thing at a time: the funeral, the reception, the will reading. Future planning comes later.
I trudge inside, sneak one of the sandwiches meant for tomorrow, and head upstairs. I take my time in the shower, steamy water cascading over me as I flirt with the fantasy of Calder returning home, attempting to clean up, but finding no hot water. When the vision shifts to him opening the door and stepping in, pulling his shirt off over his head, I turn off the faucet. No dwelling on Calder’s bare chest the night before the funeral.
For once, I’m getting to bed early, but when my head hits the pillow, I’m wide-awake. I toss and turn for hours. Did I remember everything for tomorrow? What if I sleep in? Will there be drama? God, I don’t want drama. Or tension. This week has been hard enough.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I could call Sawyer, but then I’d have to console her, and right now…I’d like to be the one being held.
