Page 22 of Colt

“No time for fun.” I pluck one of the Macanudos from her grip and rip open the package. “But some days are tougher to get through than others. The bourbon keeps you warm when it’s cold.”

Lainey glances out the window at the arid landscape, which has begun to shimmer with the approaching midday heat. “Does it ever get cold here?”

“Dead of February at four a.m.? Yeah, it’s cold.”

“But what about when it’s not cold? What’s your excuse for drinking then?”

Without thinking, I glance in the rearview mirror at Dean’s booster seat. It’s covered in Goldfish crumbs and white smudges of indeterminate origin. Yogurt? Chalk? Vomit?

“Bourbon makes everything better.” I dip my hand into the well on my door, my fingers skating over the familiar shape of my cutter and lighter.

Straightening, I see Lainey looking in the rearview too. Then she looks at me, her expression one of pure shock now.

“You are a dad.”

I dip my head. “Yup.”

“How old⁠—”

“Six.”

“Are you⁠—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“I do.” I clip the tip of the cigar with the cutter and roll the Macanudo between my fingers before putting it in my mouth, using the heels of my hands to steer. “I know because that’s what everyone asks when they find out I have a kid. I’m not married, no.”

“But you⁠—”

“Were? Yes.”

She looks down at the bourbon in her hand. “No wonder you keep this in your car. Being a single parent…”

“Hold the wheel, would you? I gotta light this.”

Now Lainey is staring at me. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I need you to steer while I light my cigar because I’m not gonna survive the next however many hours you’ll be in my hair without some nicotine.”

Curling her lip, she crosses her arms. “I’m not supporting a gross habit.”

“Fine.” I lift my leg a little. “I’ll just drive with my knees. Pretty good at it actually. Until I’m not.”

Her eyes are wide. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ.” She grabs the wheel, making me chuckle as I thumb the strike on my lighter and take several quick, shallow pulls on the cigar until it lights.

“I don’t need to tell you it’s stupid and quite possibly illegal to be this much of a dick to me, right?” she asks. “Because you’re a grown-up and you hopefully know better?”

Grinning, I take the wheel from her, the earthy scent of tobacco filling the cab.

I typically don’t smoke in the truck. I also don’t smoke this early. But desperate times call for nicotine. Lots and lots of nicotine. My canister of nicotine pouches is tucked safely in my back pocket, thank fuck. Another gross habit, but again, I gotta get my kicks somewhere. If the occasional nicotine buzz is my only vice, I figure I’m doing all right.

“Didn’t you just say that I was the sheriff?” I hang my hand out the open window, the cigar smoke catching in the breeze. “That means I make the rules around here, and the rules say that you bein’ on the ranch is a waste of everyone’s time and money. I’m furious with my father for hiring you.” I shove the cigar back in my mouth in an effort not to lose my shit. “I’m furious he thinks we need to ‘shake things up.’”