Page 10

There’s a large pane of glass with a hand-painted script logo that says Wolverine Market with a wolverine beneath it. A single glass door leads inside, and Lincoln is already disappearing through the door. I guess he was just going to leave me here.

I pull the door handle and push my weight against it. The heavy metal door opens slowly and with a creak. The cold, winter air whips my hair into my face as I make my way to the market door, and it opens with a jingle. I glance up to see an actual bell hanging above it. Cute.

I glance around the market. It’s small, probably only four aisles. The place looks clean and well-maintained, with wood floors and bright lighting. Grabbing a blue basket from the stand near the entrance, I get started down the first aisle that has all the refrigerated items. I grab a few apples and a carton of almond milk creamer for my coffee. Moving to the next aisle, I peer around the corner, first checking to make sure Lincoln isn’t down there.

I’ve made enough conversation with the jerk today.

This aisle has pantry items and canned goods. I continue filling my basket, making sure I grab coffee beans in case the guest house at the ranch doesn’t have any. Ten minutes later, I make my way to the checkout up front with my basket in tow. Lincoln is leaning against the one open lane. He’s staring at the pretty blonde cashier. A bored expression hovers on his handsome features as she tells him all about her hair appointment.

“So, she asked if I wanted highlights, and I almost fell out of the chair!” The blonde giggles and touches his arm. “I’m a natural blonde, obviously… isn’t it obvious?”

Lincoln notices me before the woman does and stands up a little straighter, moving out of the way as I place my items on the conveyor belt.

I smile at the cashier. “Hi.”

Her eyes drop down my body, sizing me up before she glances between me and Lincoln. “Who’s this?” she asks.

Lincoln shrugs. “She’s visiting the ranch. Hank sent me for pickup.”

“My name is Hattie,” I offer. “I’m just in town for a few days.”

The woman relaxes and shoots me a forced smile. “Welcome to Honey Badger Creek.” It doesn’t sound genuine.

She scans my groceries, I pay, then to my shock, Lincoln grabs my bags for me and heads outside to the truck. He doesn’t even say goodbye to the blonde—definitely not a natural blonde—who’s clearly pining over him.

I shoot her an apologetic smile, then follow him. I meet him at the back of the pickup just in time to see him dump my groceries in the dirty truck bed beside my luggage.

I swallow back a complaint; once we make it to the ranch, I’ll be done with him.

It’s a bumpy twenty-minute drive to the ranch on dirt roads. Northern California has plenty of dirt roads, but unlike these, our roads are well-maintained and without so many bumps and divots. By the time we reach the gates of Whispering Pines Ranch, my jaw is clenched so tight I might crack a tooth.

As we drive up the—thankfully paved—driveway, I wish it was daytime so I could see the place better. From what I can see, it’s an impressive ranch with clean and tidy buildings. Until Lincoln circles around the driveway and comes to a stop in front of a small shack.

He stops the truck and steps out without a word, unlatching the back of his pickup, which falls open with a rusty squeak, then yanks my bags out.

I rush from the truck to intercept him, hoping he hasn’t scraped up my designer luggage, but the suitcases are already sitting in the damp grass.

“You carry the groceries and I’ll get your bags,” he says, picking up my largest suitcase and hauling it through the cabin’s front door.

With a sniff of indignation, I pick up the grocery bags and follow him inside.

Lincoln switches the light on, and I glance around the one-roomed cabin. There’s a queen-sized bed on a wrought iron frame on the far wall and a tiny bathroom just big enough for a porcelain vanity, toilet, and an ancient-looking claw-foot bathtub.

In the far corner of the cabin, a wood-burning stove rests on top of a stone alcove—there’s no wood burning in the stove yet, so the cabin is freezing.

Across from the bed, there’s a kitchenette along the wall closest to the door.

Everything looks dated, but clean and cozy. A lit fire and a welcome basket would’ve been a nice touch—Whispering Pines should really work on their customer service.

I place the grocery bags on the countertop, which seems to be covered with contact paper that’s supposed to look like wood. The small fridge and microwave are ancient, maybe from the 1950s. This cabin clearly hasn’t been updated for a very long time.

Which answers my question about whether my birth father is married…because if he was, no woman would allow their guest cabin to be forgotten like this.

Lincoln ducks out to grab my smaller bag while I put away my small collection of groceries. Thankfully, the fridge is running and cool.

After the cowboy dumps my last bag inside the door, he leaves without another word.

My mouth pops open as I gape at the door. I stand there in the middle of the old cabin, completely dumbfounded by his rudeness.