Page 69

It’s been a while. I haven’t been the steadiest since Walker died, but it feels good, being the stable one again.

“Let’s go,” I say, looping my fingers through hers.

We ditch Bobbi and Arch by the Cowboy Candle booth, but I keep them in my periphery. They can act all innocent, stuffing their faces with every churro at this festival, but I still won’t trust them. I don’t care if Arch and I can shoot the shit almost as good as me and Walker, or me and Sabrina. Being friendly doesn’t mean anything. I’m friendly, and I’ve pointed guns at people I’ve grilled fajitas with, so there you have it.

I wrap my arm around Sabrina’s waist, mostly to get her away from Arch and whatever shady shit he’s hiding, but also because I’m selfish and I like the way she feels against me.

“I can’t figure out what their game is,” I say into her ear. “If I were the Barber of Bastrop, I’d have faked being in a wheelchair to lure some poor bastard away to their death by now.”

“Or a cane. Easier to transport. You don’t want to be lugging around a wheelchair.”

Damn, she’s good.

“True.” I scan all the booths, searching for Daughters and Co., but there are tents for days. It’s worse than the farmers market. “Where the hell is this booth? At this rate, we’re gonna have to walk around the entire festival just to find it.”

My eyes land on the Ferris wheel. There’s a thought.

I grab her hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

I lead her through the crowd. “It’s gonna take forever to walk around this entire festival. We’ll be able to spot the booth better from the Ferris wheel. All the tents have their brands on top.”

Sabrina goes silent. We wait in line, which takes too long because the wrinkly lady running the ticket booth insists on telling every person her life story. By the time we make it to the entrance, Sabrina’s chewed down the edge of her thumbnail. She pays a small fortune for those manicures. I’ve never seen her chew her nails.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She looks down at our hands, and her fingers tighten around mine. “I hate this.”

“What? Pumpkin-flavored everything? Why? The lattes are incredible. I drink four of ’em a day.”

“No, not that,” she says as we hand over the ticket to the woman who looks like she’s been manning this ride since 1783. “Rickety carnival rides.”

“You don’t like heights?” I’m surprised she’s admitting a weakness.

“I don’t trust these rides. They’re put together by underpaid teenagers. All it takes is one loose bolt, and we’re falling to our deaths.”

Of course, that’s why she’s chewed her nails down to the quicks. That underpaid teenager could have a PhD in mechanical engineering, and she still wouldn’t trust them.

I examine the bolts screwed into the side. They look good to me. “Well, this Ferris wheel looks like it was put together by an underpaid engineer, so I’d say we’re in the clear.”

“I hope you have a last will and testament,” Sabrina mutters, but then her face morphs into a bright smile when she sees the old lady. “Hi! We’ll take two tickets, please.”

“Now, I don’t recognize you two,” she croaks, “and my mama, my nanna before her, and I all know everyone in this town, so you must not be from around here.”

“ ’Fraid not,” I say easily. “We’re visiting, staying at a local rental in town for a month or so.”

She perks up. “Which one? Some of these folks are buying up the town just to price-gouge the tourists, I tell you.”

“The Little Red Barn,” Sabrina says, eyeing the Ferris wheel like it’s about to come crashing down.

“Oh, I love that one! My uncle Carl, God bless him, used to own part of that land. He had a little workshop out by the windmill. It was tucked away in the woods, but there was this beautiful stream nearby. Just gorgeous. Really private too.”

Interesting.

I glance at Sabrina. A workshop Bobbi and Arch conveniently left out on their tour when they made sure to show us all six of their bathrooms? She arches a brow, clearly on the same wavelength.

“Here are your tickets,” the woman says. “You can hop in the blue cart.”