Wyatt and Warner say goodbye and walk back to the house, leaving me and Dakota and the world’s most awkward silence.
“So, uh… I’ll come by tomorrow morning and show you my plans, if that’s okay?” Dakota asks. “I’m certain tonight will yield plenty of ideas.” She sidesteps me and goes toward her car.
“Sounds good. See you in the morning,” I say, watching her walk away.
She gets in her car and drives off, the cloud of dust marking her progress until she reaches the paved road.
Pulling my phone from the pocket of my jeans, I pull up Jericho’s number and hit the send button.
“Sell the land to Dakota Wright,” I instruct when Jericho answers.
“Two other firms have offered more than your asking price, Wes, sight unseen,” Jericho informs me smugly, like she’s been hiding an ace in one of those stupid high heels she wears and couldn’t wait to wield it against Dakota.
“You heard me,” I nearly bark. “And I’ll be the one to tell her,” I add, then hang up. I don’t have time for Jericho’s jealous behavior toward Dakota.
This has already been the most tiring fucking day in a long time and it’s only halfway over. The cowboys are watching Troy, my family’s busy doing the hundreds of things owning a ranch necessitates they do, and even though I should go inside and help out, I’m too keyed up.
I know what I need. I turn on my heel and head for the stable. My horse, Ranger, whinnies when he sees me. He’s a chestnut-colored purebred Appaloosa stallion, and I got him the day I came back to this ranch after the Army. My first horse, Shogun, died while I was overseas.
“Let’s go for a ride, boy,” I tell him, taking my saddle down from the rack and fitting it over him. I run my hand over his white starburst facial marking and he nods his approval.
We set off, no destination in mind. Ranger always helps me think. The rhythm of the ride, whether it’s a cantor or a trot, makes life seem a little clearer. It takes the big things and makes them small again. It reaches into the center of my chest where sometimes it’s hard to breathe and makes space.
It helps me forget my final deployment, and the two people I couldn’t save.
10
Dakota
“Hey Junior,” Dad says when I walk into his hotel room. I’m fresh from a much-needed nap and shower. After drinking with Waylon last night and getting up early to meet Wes, not to mention the sheer emotional exhaustion of being around Wes, I deserved that two-hour nap.
He sets down the book he’s reading and looks up at me. “How’d it go?”
“Well, I’d say. The land is beautiful, Dad. It’s just high up enough to get amazing views of Sierra Grande, and there are these pecan trees that would be gorgeous if given the right care. I talked with someone today and got an invite to a book club meeting. I’m hoping to talk to some ladies and get ideas.”
My dad lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “I knew you’d be good in this role, Dakota, but you’re really knocking it out of the park. Is something about this town special to you? You seem to care more than the average project manager I’ve worked with.”
I swallow. “No. I just don’t want to be the kind of company who comes in and does as they please without regard. Like wearing muddy boots on white carpet.”
The pride on his face is unadulterated, the kind of pride that’s so shiny and pure only a parent can feel it for their child.
I duck my head so I don’t have to see it anymore. I don’t deserve it.
“Have you talked to Abby recently?” I ask to change the subject.
“About an hour ago. Emerson answered.” The proud grandpa look he often wears overtakes his face. “She told me about the turtle.”
Oh God. The turtle. I forgot about it.
My dad cocks his head to the side. “I remember when you girls were young and I traveled a lot for work. It was hell on me. I used to bring home a postcard for each of you from whatever city I’d been in, even if I’d been there before and you already had one.”
I smile. “I remember that. We loved racing to see who could get to you first when you walked in the door.”
He chuckles. “Those days go by quickly. Your mom used to tell me that the days are long but the years are short.”
A burning sensation pricks my nose and I turn away. I run my finger along the back of a chair and will the sensation to fade. “Do you want to get an early dinner? I saw a diner I want to try. Small-town diners are the best, right?”
Dad gives me a long look before he says, “Sure, Dakota. Small-town diner it is.”
“For the record, I was right,” I tell him, slapping down my plastic-covered menu on the chipped but clean Formica countertop.
“Oh yeah?” Dad asks, drinking his strawberry milkshake.
I tuck my freezing cold hands between my knees and lower my head to the straw of my peanut butter chocolate malt. “This is the best.”
“I agree.” He pushes his shake away like he’s trying to keep himself from having too much of it.
“Everything good here?” The waitress stops and looks at us. Her name is Cherilyn, and she has a pillowy bosom and generous arms, and she looks like she gives the best hugs.
“Best we’ve ever had,” I answer.
She hoots. “That might be true if you were from around here, but my gut is telling me you aren’t.”
Geez, what is it with the people in Sierra Grande? Do they have specialized brains groomed for the detection of outsiders? It’s not as if I’m inappropriately dressed for the landscape like Jericho with her heels in the desert terrain. I’m wearing cowgirl boots, for God’s sake. I look the part.
“I know who you are,” comes a man’s voice nearby.
I jump, turning to look at the owner, seated two seats down the counter. He’s probably as old as Waylon, and he wears a short-sleeved plaid shirt that has seen better days.
He raises an overgrown eyebrow. “I saw you in town this morning with the oldest Hayden boy. I haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”
Coon’s age? Where the hell am I? Sierra Grande might be a small town, but backwoods it is not.
Cherilyn rolls her eyes and points at the plate of chicken fried steak sitting in front of the man. “Hank, eat your dinner. You get wild when you’re hungry.”
“Hmph,” Hank says, pushing out his lips like a child. “You’d look twice if you saw a Hayden in town, too.”
“I see the youngest one often enough,” Cherilyn retorts, turning around to the kitchen window when the cook smacks the little silver bell. She lifts two plates and spins, placing them in front of me and my dad.
“Here you are.” She smiles. “Don’t let Hank scare you away from Sierra Grande with talk of the Hayden family. Their ranch was the reason this town was built and people around here would do well to remember that.” She glares pointedly at Hank before walking off, plastic water pitcher in hand.
“You know,” Hank says, leaning over to look at my dad. “This is your daughter, right?”
My dad nods, his eyes wary.