Mustang Summer (The Walker Five #2)

Chapter 1

B rock hefted the oil filters under his arm and shifted his feet. The auto parts store was always a place that challenged every lesson his mother had taught him. Since his days in high school were long over, it topped his worst experience list.

Eye contact, Brockie. The people, not the floor.

He forced his gaze to the laughing older man behind the counter.

“Get it?” Dale asked. “Because you Walker boys own all different brands of vehicles.”

Smile. He’s telling you a joke.

Brock pasted a smile on his face. Pickups. He could talk pickups. “Ford’s quality can’t be beat.”

Dale waved him off. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. How’s your grandma doing?”

“Fine.”

Dale waited.

Elaborate. It’s a leading question, Brockie.

How was he supposed to elaborate this time? Gram was fine.

“She’s doing okay after the vandalism on your cousin’s property and the shop burning down?” Dale prompted.

Brock nodded.

Dale chuckled and shook his head. “You’d make a great secret agent. Tight-lipped and expressionless. I bet you kill it in poker.”

“I don’t play.”

Another man strode out from behind an aisle stocked with windshield wipers. “Well, if it isn’t the Walker Five’s best set of hands.”

Brock cringed. What did that even mean?

Greet someone new. His mom might’ve moved out of town, but Brock took her standard here’s-how-you-deal-with-people phrases everywhere.

He nodded toward Mac. Mac’s real name was something like Donnie, but he was big and loud, like a Mack truck. Brock missed many nuances, but that comparison he got.

Mac rested his girth on the countertop, the buttons of his striped shirt straining. “How do the crops look?”

“Fine.”

Dale reached over his side of the counter and swatted Mac. “There he goes again. Hey, Brock, if one of them Mustangs of yours fell on your toe, would you say you were fine?”

“It’d crush a lot more than my toe,” Brock replied.

Mac and Dale roared. Brock backed up a step. Loud engine noises didn’t bother him, but rowdy guffaws set his teeth on edge. At least at places like the bar, he knew they usually weren’t aimed at him. And he didn’t have to try and figure out why they were laughing.

Mac adjusted his Proud Motors trucker’s hat. “I drove past your west quarter the other day. The corn’s looking good. Knee-high by the fourth of July—looked like your fields are right on track.”

“It’s been a good year.” Brock’s grip on his load loosened. He was back in comfortable territory. The only thing he liked talking about nearly as much as his cars was farming. “If we can stay hail free and the markets stay up, we’re looking at a good year. But the weather has the final say.”

His dad had always said the same. Weather was king in farming.

Mac nodded. “That’s right. Don’t count your chickens before them suckers hatch.”

“I never count my chickens until it’s time to butcher.”

Dale guffawed, and Mac laughed and shook his head. Brock stared behind them at the tractor calendars lining the walls. Sometimes it wasn’t worth figuring out what was so funny.

He switched his gaze to the register. Dale, who was usually more attuned to his discomfort, took the hint.

“We’ll throw it on your account, Brock.” Dale waved him off. “Hope the AC is working in your shop on a day like today.”

“It’s always on in the long garage.” Brock dropped his eyes to the floor and made his way out of the store.

Humid Minnesota heat enveloped him. Only the first of July, and June’s mellow days were long forgotten as the temperature was on target to hit the mid-nineties.

Brock crawled into his Ford F250 and dropped his cache on the passenger seat. At least his cab was cool. Shutting off a diesel for a quick errand was foolish. His truck ran constantly unless it would be parked for hours. He might not know people, but he knew how to handle anything with an engine.

On the Fourth of July, he’d be wishing he could sit in his truck all day as his family dragged him to the annual parade.

Brock winced just thinking about it. Almost without fail, the day of the parade usually dawned without a cloud in the sky.

His cousins always went an hour early to get a good spot, and because they usually had their own entry in the parade.

Brock would help out, then perch on the sidewalk the entire morning as the blazing sun rose overhead.

He threw his ride in gear and rumbled off.

How badly he wanted to tell his cousins why he hated the parade. Why he disliked street dances and only tolerated the bar in hopes he could find a girl to have a lasting relationship with.

But two decades of his mom’s insistence on secrecy had left an impression. It’s a small town. They’ll judge you and never give you a chance. Your mind works different, baby. You don’t need to justify it.

His cousins, especially the four he ran the Walker farming and ranching business with, were the only people he felt moderately comfortable around. They knew his quirks and accepted them. He was just Brock. Telling them might change that, so he stayed quiet.

He hit the highway and in minutes was turning onto the gravel road that would take him to his house. An afternoon of oil changes and an evening of working on his latest Mustang project equaled heaven in his mind.

As he turned onto the long driveway that cut through the multiple rows of trees surrounding his property, a glint of silver a few hundred yards away caught his eye.

He frowned and made a mental note to check it out.

Summer wasn’t an uncommon time to catch teenagers parking in the surrounding shelter belts for a hookup.

The rows of trees between fields concealed cars well, but didn’t make them invisible.

One time, he’d even caught one of the guys he’d gone to school with parked out there—and not with his wife.

Brock didn’t have to have a norm’s brain to know that shit ain’t right.

He ambled past the large Butler building that housed the mostly finished cars of his collection and pulled up to his old-fashioned red barn.

The back half was still dedicated to chickens, but he’d closed it off so he didn’t have to smell the coop while he tinkered.

They were currently clucking around in the large pen behind the barn.

He gathered the filters and jumped out.

The interior of the barn was the opposite of his truck. Sweltering, clinging heat engulfed him when he stepped inside. He set his items on the workbench and went to open the massive barn door.

He heard a soft scuffle of what sounded like steps on the packed dirt and spun in time to see a flash of color dart out the door.

Someone had been in his barn? Had they done something to his cars?

Brock bolted after the intruder, cursing himself that he’d quit locking up after the round of vandalisms that had plagued his cousin all spring.

But the perpetrator was in jail, so Brock had slacked off.

His boots dug into the driveway’s gravel.

The person had disappeared into the trees by the time Brock cleared his truck.

Pumping his arms and legs, he charged forward.

The thick bushes of the first row tore up his arms and snagged his clothing, but he ripped past them.

He dodged the narrow trunks of the green ash in the middle row and sprinted beyond the outer evergreens.

He almost slowed when his gaze landed on the figure tearing across the haying field between his home and the next shelter belt.

Because it was a nice figure. Rolling hips with toned legs that wouldn’t outdistance his height advantage. Her shoulders, bare in a white tank top, glowed in the sunlight. He kicked up his speed. He had to know what she looked like.

Josie ran like a stray cat flushed out of that damn barn she’d lingered in too long.

But the dude’s car collection… Suh-weet . Almost worth getting busted. She couldn’t get into trouble for this, not with her brother’s problems. No one would believe she only wanted to look, but if she could make it to her car, it was only her word against his that she’d been on his property.

Her lungs burned, but the pounding footfalls behind her weren’t muffled enough by the weeds and he was gaining on her. Why did she take Auto-Tec in high school instead of going out for track?

Her complaining thigh muscles informed her she hadn’t been out running nearly enough since family drama had taken over her life.

Finally, her car became visible and she wanted to shout curse words her mother would’ve chided her for, bless her soul. Her normal ride was getting repaired, but her loaner sedan was so blah and sedate, it’d make a person develop narcolepsy just looking at it.

But it was still faster than the guy behind her. He could call the cops, maybe track her license plate if he could identify it, but they’d have to find her. And still, all they had were stories. His claiming she was in his barn and hers that he’d chased her while she was out for a walk.

Aw, hell. One more set of trees between her and her wheels.

What was it with the farmers of Moore, Minnesota, and their rows of trees?

She had to be bleeding from eight hundred scratches after the last set.

Creeping through them when she’d had the stupid idea of ogling Brock Walker’s spread had been bad enough.

Balls to the wall flight had been painful.

She crunched her face up and prepped herself for another round when the equivalent of a Mustang Boss plowed into her from behind.

They both went flying and he lost his hold. She scrambled up to take off again, but he caught her legs and she toppled over him. He twisted her under him and pinned her.

She found herself staring into a pair of piercing blue eyes. Her breath would’ve frozen if her chest wasn’t heaving so badly.

His gaze was glued to her hair for a moment before traveling over her features with open interest, down to the outline of her breasts through her shirt. Then he focused back on her hair.