10. Willy #2
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it. “That’s a very cynical interpretation.”
“It’s a very dry interpretation. Or at least it was until I rolled down the window.”
Arizona presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh again. “I thought the rain would pass.”
As if the universe hears her challenge and takes it personally, thunder cracks overhead with enough force to shake the storefront windows.
We both look up.
Rain intensifies.
Arizona winces. “Okay,” she says. “In fairness, that timing was rude.”
“That’s the storm’s way of calling you optimistic.”
“And what’s your explanation for stopping?”
I glance at her, then at the notebook she’s still protecting with her entire body. “Professional concern.”
“Professional?”
“Sure. If those song lyrics dissolve, you’ll probably wander into traffic looking for replacements.”
She laughs again, shaking her head. “You’ve got a surprisingly dramatic view of me.”
“No. I have an accurate one.” I reach across the cab and unlock the passenger door. “Get in.”
Arizona climbs into the truck.
The storm follows her inside.
Water drips from her hat, her jacket, her sleeves, and probably several places that shouldn’t physically hold that much rain. Within seconds, the floor mat looks like it’s considering a career as a pond.
She notices and grimaces. “Sorry about this.”
I wave the apology away and pull back onto the street. “You’re fine.”
“I just soaked your truck.”
“This vehicle has transported sheep, cattle, chickens, three terrified goats, and one pig with serious anger management issues. You’re nowhere near the worst passenger I’ve had.”
That earns another laugh.
For reasons I don’t entirely care to examine, the sound settles somewhere pleasant in my chest.
The drive back to Dusty Spur doesn’t take long, but by the time we reach the ranch the storm has completely taken over the valley.
Rain crashes against the truck in relentless waves. Lightning flashes across the pastures, throwing fences, trees, and distant hills into brief view before darkness swallows them again.
Most of the ranch houses are dark by now. Red’s either asleep or pretending he is so nobody asks him to do anything.
Emmett is definitely in bed because Sadie manages his schedule with the efficiency of a small-scale dictator. The man might technically be her father, but she’s been running that relationship for years.
I pull to a stop outside the barn and kill the engine.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. Rain drums against the roof overhead while water races down the windshield.
I glance across at Arizona. “Still convinced standing outside was a solid plan?”
She unbuckles her seatbelt and sweeps damp hair away from her face. “I’d like the record to show you’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I earned the right.”
“You absolutely did not.”
The moment we step out of the truck, the storm seems to double in intensity. Rain lashes sideways across the yard, soaking us.
Then a bolt of lightning tears across the sky. A blinding flash strikes somewhere beyond the main house, close enough to make the ground shudder beneath our feet.
Arizona yelps and grabs my arm.
“Nope,” I say, already changing direction. “Barn.”
“Agreed.”
We sprint through the rain, boots splashing through puddles as thunder rolls overhead. Arizona is laughing again, half exhilaration, half nerves, which is probably why she nearly misses the barn entrance when I yank the big door open.
“Your rescue operation needs work,” she says as she ducks inside.
I follow her into the shelter of the barn and pull the door closed behind us. “I got you here in one piece.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
The barn wraps around us the way familiar places do.
The scent of hay and leather hangs beneath the rafters. Horses shift in their stalls, curious about the interruption.
Rain hammers the roof overhead, but inside it’s muted, pushed to the edges by walls that have weathered decades of storms.
The horses notice us the instant we step inside.
A few heads pop over stall doors, ears pricked forward with the hopeful expression of creatures who’ve convinced themselves every human arrival might involve food. One gelding gives me a look that practically screams betrayal when he realizes I’ve come empty-handed.
“Don’t start,” I tell him.
Arizona glances between me and the horse. “Was he judging you?”
“Absolutely.”
She laughs as I cross to a tack trunk and dig through it. Eventually I find a couple of old blankets and toss one her way.
She catches it neatly, then wraps herself in it so fast you’d think she’s been training for this exact moment.
Her shoulders drop. Her eyes close.
A contented sigh escapes her. “Wow.”
I settle the other blanket around my own shoulders. “What?”
Arizona burrows deeper into the fabric. “I think I’ve just experienced true happiness.”
I place a hand over my heart. “After everything we’ve been through together, you’re choosing a blanket?”
She cracks one eye open. “Don’t make this about you.”
The conversation wanders from there without either of us steering it.
Some people make talking feel like work. Every topic needs encouragement before it moves anywhere useful.
Arizona isn’t built that way. She’ll tell a story that reminds me of another story, which somehow connects to a memory from five years ago, and before long we’re jumping between subjects with no concern for how we got there.
We trade stories about bad motels, strange towns, terrible coffee, and people who probably shouldn’t have been trusted with driver’s licenses.
That’s how I learn Arizona once spent the night in a roadside motel with a bat in the bathroom.
As she lifts her arm up with excitement, I see marks on her skin. She follows my gaze and rolls her eyes. “These are lyrics.”
“Arizona, your forearm looks like a library annex.”
Her smile widens. “Where exactly am I supposed to write when inspiration hits?”
I gesture toward the notebook sitting beside her. “The notebook seems like a strong candidate.”
“I lose notebooks.”
“So your solution was to become one?”
“It works.”
Arizona sits on the tack trunk across from me, blanket pulled around her shoulders, her notebook forgotten beside her. She’s smiling about a story she just told, and I catch myself watching her longer than I should.
It’s becoming a problem.
I’ve spent days finding reasons not to think too hard about her. She’s passing through town. She has a life that stretches far beyond Colter Creek.
I have enough responsibilities without adding complicated feelings to the pile.
Unfortunately, none of those arguments seem particularly convincing when she’s sitting ten feet away laughing at her own jokes.
She catches me looking.
Instead of glancing away, she lifts an eyebrow. “What’s that expression for?”
I should probably come up with an answer.
Instead, I say, “I’m trying to decide whether you’re actually this strange or if you’ve been putting on a show.”
Arizona presses a hand to her chest. “Willy Kane, are you questioning my authenticity?”
“I’m questioning several things.”
“That’s fair.”
The smile she sends me is bright enough to make every sensible thought in my head file for retirement.
Neither of us looks away.
My pulse picks up.
Arizona’s hand lifts to my jaw, and that’s all it takes.
My lips collide with hers.
The second our mouths meet, every attempt I’ve made to keep my distance goes straight out the barn door.
Shit.