Chapter 8 Heston
HESTON
June
I point my thumb to the left. The trailer inches backward but veers to the right, approaching the side of the barn rather than the spot I told her to park it in.
“Whoa!” I shout. The brake lights flash a mean red as she lurches to a stop. “Left!”
I can’t help but chuckle when she puts it in drive, attempts to recenter, and then tries backing up again. In her defense, I’m not the best at giving directions, or so I’ve been told.
When I met Hattie at the rodeo last weekend and invited her out here, I took a chance and told her she could bring her horse and ride with me through the cows if she wanted to.
I wasn’t sure what her response would be, but damn if I didn’t have to wipe the smile off of my face when she pulled up the drive with a full rig hooked up.
I stopped having girls over years ago. I’m not a big relationship guy, but I’ve given a few a try.
The part that annoyed me the most was when a girl would stay the night, then whine about me leaving her at the bunkhouse the next morning.
They don’t always understand that even on weekends, I still have to get up early to feed and check the cows, especially during calving or weaning season.
It’s probably shitty of me to set Hattie up with a deal-breaker litmus test question before we even have the opportunity to really get to know each other.
If she hated my idea of a date being a weekend at the ranch, where she wants to get out and do stuff with me instead of lying around the house, there’s nothing wrong with that.
But at least then I’d know she’s not my type.
She didn’t hesitate to bring her horse along, and as it turns out, she’s every damn bit my type. Her looks, her personality, even the little attitude as I try helping her back up the trailer. . . all of it.
I shake my thoughts and focus back on the trailer. She’s headed too far left this time. My lips press together, then I hold my hand up to point to the right. Either she doesn’t see me, or she’s more defiant than I thought, because the trailer continues in the wrong direction.
“Right, dammit!” I call out.
“Okay, Jolly Rancher. Don’t dammit me,” she quips back after stepping on the brake again. “Left or right—use your big head and pick one!”
Okay, I’ll admit, the curse word wasn’t necessary on my part. But would she rather run into the tree and go home with a dent in her fender?
I’m already learning that she wouldn’t take my shit if I wrapped it in flakes of gold and handed it to her on a plate of diamonds.
Despite scraping a hand down my face and blowing out a heavy breath, I can’t help but smirk.
I hardly recognize myself. I’m not a bubbly guy.
But this girl makes me think I might turn into someone who laughs occasionally.
The truck and trailer jolt forward as she throws it into park. I sigh and jog toward the cab. The driver’s side window is down as I stop beside it. Even with my sunglasses on, her crossed arms and pursed lips read loud and clear.
I step forward to lean my forearms on the door. “Jolly Rancher?”
“That came right off the dome,” she laughs, already giving up on pretending to be frustrated with me. “You’re a lot grumpier than you are jolly, but you might be cowboy enough to be a rancher, so I think it fits. We’ll see.”
“Might be cowboy enough,” I repeat with a scoff and stand up straight. “I can back up a twenty-four-footer without taking a tree down. More than you can say.”
She gasps, then narrows her eyes at the steering wheel and puts the truck into reverse. “If I had decent directions, this would be done by now.”
“Mmhmm.”
“You hush,” she orders, leaning back to look in the side mirror as she eases off the brake.
I step back, just enough to get out of her way and watch her put her money where her mouth is. I’d like to put my tongue where her mouth is, but we literally met a week ago, and I’ve barely said a few sentences to her since then.
My game is weak as fuck, as Tripp tells me.
But she showed up today, didn’t she? That’s got to count for something. I gave her little more than silence at the rodeo, but maybe she’s the type of girl who gives second chances.
She’s creeping in reverse at a snail’s pace as I stare at her profile. When her eyes narrow with determination and she digs her teeth into her lower lip, I think to myself for the thousandth time that Hattie Jo is the prettiest girl I have ever seen.
“I can’t see,” she says, leaning toward the passenger door to get a view from the other side mirror.
We’re going to spend the rest of the weekend waiting for her to get this thing parked, and I’ll never get to have a real conversation with her.
I push down on the crown of my hat until it bumps against the tops of my aviators, move forward to grip the handle just inside the cab, and step onto the running board.
“Put her in drive,” I say, reaching my arm in to take the wheel.
Hattie’s chest is an inch away from my forearm. After a beat, she smirks, lifts the gear shift, and presses on the gas.
I barely tighten my grip in time to avoid getting tossed to the ground. Hattie holds her belly in a laugh, and I shake my head. As the truck slows and moves forward at a more appropriate speed, I turn the wheel with one hand to straighten out the rig.
“That’s good,” I say, voice low. “Reverse. And no funny business.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck.
Focus.
The trailer inches toward the fence, and I try to keep my eyes and my mind, for that matter, fixed on lining it up. My left hand turns the steering wheel. I let the trailer back up about a foot, then slide my palm over the wheel to spin it the other way.
After repeating this three times, it’s perfectly centered between the barn and the big oak tree. Instead of hopping down when she puts the truck in park, I give her a satisfied look.
She shrugs. “Decent.”
“What? That was perfect precision.”
“I don’t know,” she argues, twisting her mouth to the side and tilting her head. “Seemed like you overcorrected a lot. Just . . . unimpressive overall.”
“Alright, hot sauce.” I step off the running board, open the driver’s side door, and hold my hand out. “Whatever you say.”
She laughs as she turns the truck off and puts her hand in mine.
With one hop, she’s right in front of me and lifting her chin to pin me with playful, narrowed eyes.
Her soft, green t-shirt has a brand on the pocket.
My throat feels dry from scanning over how her jeans hug her thighs and then flare out where she cuffed them at the bottom.
She puts her hands on her hips and steps closer until her scuffed brown boots are nearly toe-to-toe with mine. “I’m not spicy.”
Maybe not. I can’t be sure until I taste her. But if her attitude is what she’s referring to, then she’s dead wrong.
“Sure,” I agree sarcastically.
She turns toward the bunkhouse, and like a lost puppy dog, I follow right behind her.
“So, you agree?” she asks. “You’re going to have to get creative and come up with something more accurate than hot sauce.”
She turns her body without stopping and faces me with a fake glare while walking backward. I chuckle.
No. Something tells me hot sauce is going to stick.
“Free-range donkeys,” Hattie says through a fit of laughter.
Tripp leans forward and continues the story. “I cannot make this shit up, I swear. They were feral, Hattie. I woke up to one of them hee-hawing right outside my window at least three times a week for a month. The term jackass doesn’t begin to cover it.”
She laughs even harder, bending forward and bracing a hand on my arm. I froze the first few times. Now, I just feel like I’m melting into the hardwood floor every time she does it.
It’s not a full-blown bunkhouse party, but there are a handful of people who came to shoot pool and have a few drinks after dinner, like most Friday nights.
In the five hours she’s been here, my friends have been making Hattie laugh nonstop, and she seems like she’s happy with her choice of weekend plans.
I’ve done my best to shake off my quiet habits and talk to her, too. I’m getting there. But the more she smiles over at me or walks around like she’s comfortable here, the harder I have to work to seem chill about it.
“We almost had to put in a high fence,” Gage adds. “Dr. Cates finally came and picked them up right before I was about to order the materials.”
Some people are hanging around the living room or out back, while the rest of us are across from the kitchen by the jukebox. Hattie stands next to me as I lean my hips back against the pool table. She steps closer and looks up at me.
“Who is Dr. Cates?”
I wait for one of the guys to answer before I realize that she’s asking me directly. My heart thuds as I bend toward her.
“He’s the vet around here,” I clarify.
“Yeah,” Warren chimes in as expected, “He asked if we could take the donkeys in short-term because he didn’t have room at his rehab facility at the time. They were rescued from a guy who got reported for neglect, or something like that.”
My friends talk for me or add details to the end of my sentences out of habit.
They mean well, and I know I tend to stay quiet or leave out anything beyond basic information.
I wouldn’t mind if they went and found something better to do right now, though.
It’s too easy to stay out of the conversation when they’re around.
Still, Hattie continues to look at me, eyes sparkling. She puts her hand on my arm again, and I clench my jaw.
“I’d love to meet him!” She says excitedly. “All the summer externships within range of my school are filled up. Maybe he knows of one and could point me in the right direction.”