Colt #2
“Only if you squint really hard.” I tuck my arms back inside the sleeveless shirt and spin it around so whatever faint outline still exists of a woman dancing on a pole is now firmly in the center of my back.
“I have my first aid certification and a clean driving record. I don’t smoke and I’m not a big drinker.
Also, Denny might shoot me if I go back solo. ”
Her short, painted black nails drum on the door, and though her lips remain steadfast, there’s a smile playing at the corners of her eyes. “You’re heading straight to the ranch with him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stands quietly for a moment, rocking on her heels and mulling over my answer. Turning to look over her shoulder, she shouts, “Jonas, let’s go.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, watching her anxiously bite her bottom lip as the kid replies with something I can’t quite make out.
Whit turns back to face me, exhaling hard through her nose. “He’ll be a minute. Thank you for giving him something to do today.”
“No problem.”
At her side, a skinny kid with dirty-blond hair pops up, backpack slung over one shoulder.
And he’s definitely Whit’s kid, considering the way he sizes me up.
Damn, I don’t think a ten-year-old has ever intimidated me like this.
But this one seems like he’s one wrong remark away from putting sugar in my gas tank.
“You must be Jonas?” I ask.
“Your shirt’s inside out,” he replies with a judgmental look. “Why?”
My eyes flicker between him and his mom. Aside from the shared uncanny ability to make me want to tuck tail and run from a single look, they appear nothing alike.
“Oh, um…got food on the front.”
He raises an eyebrow, then turns to Whit. “You can’t seriously be sending me with this guy.”
She ushers Jonas out the door. “You’ll be fine…I think.”
Eager to get rid of her kid for the afternoon is an understatement; Whit closes the door so fast I finally catch that breeze I’ve been needing.
Jonas lumbers toward my idling pickup, stopping short of the passenger door.
“You have a dog?” There’s no denying the fleeting joy in his tone.
“That’s Betty,” I reply to the kid, whose expression’s back to being stone-cold. “You like dogs?”
“They’re okay.”
I climb into the truck and grab Betty by the collar to pry her away from the passenger seat. She’s not entirely thrilled about giving up window access, but she can deal with it. I like to remind her from time to time that other humans can ride in here with us—keep her ego in check.
I watch Jonas out of the corner of my eye to confirm he’s capable of buckling his own seatbelt, then pull away from the house, turning up the stereo dial to drown out the awkward silence.
Tapping my thumbs along to a country song, I spot a singular available parking stall directly in front of Anette’s Bakery. Without a second thought, I crank the wheel hard and come to an abrupt stop.
I know I told Whit we were heading straight to the ranch, but I’m torn between two pissed-off women, and right now I’m more worried about keeping Betty happy.
Jonas grabs his door handle. “I’m thirsty. Can I get a drink, too?”
“Sure. You got money?”
The kid looks flabbergasted by my simple question. “N-no.”
“Then I don’t know what you’d be planning to get. Be right back,” I say, already halfway out the door. “Are you…are you allowed to sit in the truck alone for a minute?”
“Yeah, duh.”
The air outside Anette’s Bakery carries the perfect blend of coffee, fresh bread, and cinnamon-sugar aroma.
The place is so damn busy the bells hanging from the glass front door are hardly audible when I step inside, and the line to order stretches the length of the small café.
Good thing my order’s to go, since every oversized armchair, tiny table, and empty wall space to lean against has been claimed.
I dart around a trio of women shopping the assortment of locally made wares for sale on a wooden shelving unit, then nearly trip over a tiny kid toddling across the well-worn floor.
Thankfully, I tend to get special treatment around here.
As one should when they visit almost every day, tourist season or not.
Which means the silver-haired, petite café owner, Anette, gives me a wink from her station at the cash register, and one of her teenaged employees gets right to work when she spots me.
When she’s done, I slide her a ten-dollar bill, and I’m out of there before the line’s even moved a foot.
Struggling to hold my chocolate chip frappe—extra whip, always—plus Betty’s puppuccino and an ice water for Jonas, I peel open the door of my truck.
“Here you go.” I thrust the clear cup filled with water toward him, then hand over the dog treat before she tears my arm off.
“A water?” Jonas’s nose crinkles. “But you got whatever that thing is.”
“You said you were thirsty.” I shrug, bringing the blue straw sticking out of a hefty dollop of whipped cream to my lips. “And you don’t have any money. Water’s the only free thing on the menu.”
He slams the cup into an empty holder and slumps in his seat. And the kid stays pouty for the entire ride to Wells Ranch, ignoring Betty’s repeated attempts at getting him to pet her.
But when we rattle across the cattle guard, she tramples him to hang her head out the window.
After a moment of groaning as he tries to push her away, Jonas gives up and wraps an arm around her furry neck, sitting up to get a better view of the sprawling ranch.
Of the white homes and farm buildings casting shadows over tall grasses, and fields with rows of round hay bales, and horses lifting their heads to watch us roll up the driveway.
Nobody I know is immune to the ranch’s charm, and Jonas is no different, with a gleam in his eye and a half-smile on his lips.