Brock let out a low cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. When I shot him a glare, he suddenly became very interested in the pavement.
Before Colt could push further, Wren grabbed me in a hug so tight my ribs protested. I let out a sharp squeak as the bruise from Brock’s belt buckle flared, but she didn’t notice.
“Who cares why you left early!” she squealed, shaking me a little. “You’re staying! Okay, here’s what’s happening—Redbow Days is in two weeks and they shut down Main Street for this huge street dance, plus Linda’s pie contest that’s totally rigged but we go anyway, and then we’re doing the hot springs once it cools down, and oh—there’s this vintage shop in Sheridan I’ve been dying to take you to?—”
Brock reached over and gently peeled her off me by the back of her shirt, before my ribs gave out completely.
“Wren,” he said. “Breathe.”
She pulled back, hands still on my shoulders, eyes shining. Behind her, Colt slammed his tailgate shut and ambled over, hands in his pockets.
“So now that you’re sticking around,” he said, looking at me, “any chance you could ask Outlaw to send more of those cans?”
“You’re not serious,” Brock said flatly.
“What? I’m just asking. The cherry-lime ones.”
“They sent a whole case last week.”
“Yeah, and they’re gone.” Colt shrugged. “I’ve been drinking one every morning before chores. I’m hooked on the damn things.”
Brock stared at him like he was a disappointing species of bug. “It’s a miracle you’re not glowing in the dark. Your heart’s going to explode before you’re twenty-five.”
“Then I’ll die highly caffeinated,” Colt said. “C’mon, they’re expensive. Might as well milk the sponsors while we’ve got ’em.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, already mentally drafting the email. “If I tell them we need them for product placement in video backgrounds, I can probably get a case of every flavor.”
He pressed a hand over his heart. “I’msoglad you’re staying. You’re a genius.” He clapped Brock on the back and headed for his truck. “Wren! Let’s go before you spook another horse.”
“Hard pass.” She was already reaching for the back door of Brock’s truck. “You drive like you’re being chased.”
“I do not?—”
“You took the cattle guard at forty when we left for Cheyenne. I watched my coffee leave the cup.”
“Wren.”
Brock didn’t raise his voice, but his tone stopped her cold.
"Ride with Colt."
Her eyes flicked between Brock and me. I spent my days reading what people noticed, so I knew exactly what it looked like when someone finally put the pieces together.
"O-kay," she said, drawing it into two suspicious syllables. "Wow. Fine. Enjoy your six hours."
She climbed into Colt’s truck and was still staring at us through the back window when they peeled out, gravel spitting.
We got into Brock’s truck, but he waited until they were a few minutes ahead before he started the engine.
“That was subtle,” I said.
“I didn’t want to listen to her plan for the pie contest for six hours.”
“That’s not why you sent her away.”
He put the truck in gear. "No, it's not."
The corner of his mouth twitched, slowly losing the battle as we pulled onto the highway.
