Chapter 18
I’M MEETIN’ MOM
I sip my coffee and scratch at the side of my jaw, trying to be very patient.
“When’s she comin’ down?” Sadie whines, scooping a spoonful of Lucky Charms. We’re out of milk, and money’s been tight.
Even tighter than normal. I skipped pancakes this morning in favor of an apple off the tree out back and gave Sadie a bowl from the emergency box of cereal.
The eggs I collected this morning were no good, every single one of them failing the float test in the kitchen sink.
I’m trying to tell myself those chickens aren’t sick and that selling my eggs a few times a week—one of my only sources of reliable income—isn’t about to evaporate.
I’m not sure, though, and I have less than five weeks to go until I win that money. I’m not even letting myself consider not winning.
It’s not even on the table.
Outside, the school bus rolls up. “Sadie Ruth, the bus is here.”
“But I didn’t get to say goodbye to Miss Quinn!” she complains, and I nod, helping her out of her chair while tugging her backpack off the hook.
“I know it, but you two will have the whole afternoon together. All right?” I place my thumb on the corner of her mouth, where a frown is hanging, and say, “Magic tap.” Her lips curve into a smile, and I kiss her forehead.
“Have a good day, sweetheart. And I promise, you can stay with Miss Quinn this afternoon while she films, okay?”
She nods, and after a wet kiss on my cheek, runs off, joining Petunia as they climb the steps to the bus. Tate strolls over, ready for a day of work, but not at Vaughn Ranch.
“Mendin’ a fence for Mabel at the inn today,” he says, waving at our girls as the bus tugs away from us.
I nod back to the house, thinking of a very brief conversation Quinn and I had last night.
She shared that she wanted to tell her mom and sister about the plan, about the marriage.
But after Sadie had a nightmare, we never revisited, and this morning, she’s holed up in her room or mine.
Because it’s on my mind, I tell Tate. “Quinn has decided we should tell her mom and sister about us.”
He frowns, looking puzzled. “Why tell them at all? I mean, if she’s just gonna annul this thing after the Montgomerys back down, no need to disturb the peace.”
I swallow, finding a knot of discomfort in my throat. I tug at the collar of my T-shirt, because it’s snug against my windpipe. Tate steps back, smiling at me in a way that has irritation coursing through my veins.
“Don’t,” I deadpan, and he knows exactly what I’m referring to.
“Oh my god, she actually fell in love with you, didn’t she?” He takes his hat off, making a production of fanning himself. “Lord Almighty, I don’t know how you did it, but you got that girl to fall in love with your grouchy old ass.”
I spit on the ground and adjust my belt. “We’re the same damn age, you fool.”
“I’m two days younger, lest you forget.”
I shrug. “She doesn’t like lying to the people she cares about, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I refuse to meet his eyes as I observe the rising sun and the orange-and-pink sky. Tate pokes my shoulder. “Landry.”
Finally, I caution a glance at my best friend and find all the teasing gone from his face, and I think I’d rather have him make fun of me than get serious with me. “You thinkin’ of making this thing real with her?”
Instinct tells me to answer “No” out of fear of rejection, out of wanting to deny the thing I want in case I don’t get it— that way I’ve protected myself. But instead of answering, I pause, and I truly consider his question. If there’s a person to be square with, it’s Tatum.
“No,” I finally answer. Maybe not what’s in my heart, but it’s the logical answer that takes up residency in my brain.
“My goal’s the same as it always was: go to court and show the judge I’m a family man, win that damn rodeo to save my family’s house and land, then take the money from the film and rodeo to pay off the loans, fertilize the land, repair things around here, annul the marriage, and move on.
” I finally face my friend. “I just need to save my place, and keep my girl. Then Quinn can… go back to California.”
Tate doesn’t push, or say much otherwise, but agrees to meet me later for training.
Then I head inside and upstairs, and before I even open the door to my room, I know Quinn is inside.
I swear I feel her footfalls vibrating from the first floor.
I push inside and find her in her pajamas—a cropped T-shirt with Britney Spears on the front and boxer shorts rolled at the waist a trillion times.
Her blonde hair is in one of those wads that women call a bun, and when she stops in front of the window, sunlight illuminates her freckles.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, because I can’t not tell her, that’s how overwhelming her beauty is. She blinks at me, her bottom lip wobbles, and then she erupts into tears.
Tears do something to a man. They shuffle his brain around, I think, because I had no intention of coming up here to touch her and yet the moment she starts crying, she’s in my arms, in my lap, while I sit on the edge of my bed.
“What’s the matter, baby?” I stroke my fingers through her hair, but the calluses have gotten thick from all my hours on Tate’s bronc lately, and her hair sticks. Still, I drag them through as best I can, hoping my arms and words bring her comfort.
She clings to my shirt and I let her, and finally when she’s caught her breath, two mossy eyes blink up at me.
“I feel so bad,” she sniffles. “I haven’t told my mom and sister about us.
I mean, it’s not just that I haven’t told them, it’s that I went and did the most sacred, precious thing ever and didn’t even invite them! ”
I want to make some good counter points.
For one, I want to remind her that this marriage is fake, and that missing out on a courthouse marriage that has a decided lifespan isn’t that big of a deal.
But somehow I don’t feel like pointing that out.
In fact, pointing that out makes my stomach twist and my energy go all haywire inside.
I could also nudge her to calm by telling her Tate’s take, which is that if we’re planning to annul this thing, she could forgo telling them altogether. What they don’t know can’t hurt them.
But none of that is the right thing to say, because she wouldn’t be stewing over this if it weren’t for me.
So I say the only right thing to say. “I’m sorry, Quinn.
I’m sorry I put you in this position and that it’s causing you strife.
” I press a kiss to her hairline, and that seems to break the spell.
She twists out of my arms and gets to her feet, and I stay on the edge of the bed, watching her.
“Can I tell my mom the truth? She won’t tell anyone, Laney won’t tell anyone, I promise they won’t. And I can make them sign an NDA or something. I mean, I don’t just walk around with a blank one but I—”
I grab her wrist and tug her back down to my lap. “Of course we can tell them the truth. They don’t need to sign anything.” I motion to her phone. “Let’s call them up.”
She nods but then stops. “Video call?”
I shrug. “Sure.”