“No problem.” My mom smiles, but there’s something false in it. “Have fun tonight. And if your father asks, I fixed the sink myself.”
I say goodbye and leave the house. I need to go back to my place and shower before I meet Dakota. I’m ten feet away from the homestead when my dad calls my name.
“Hey, Dad,” I respond, walking closer to the round pen where he’s standing. Wyatt’s in the ring, working with a horse. Of everyone on this ranch, Wyatt is the best with the horses, especially the temperamental ones. “Are you supposed to be out here so soon after surgery?”
The look on his face clearly says I’ll kick your ass right this second. He ignores my question and asks one of his own. “You going to see Dakota soon?”
“Tonight. Why?”
“I went to the feed store today. Saw Dakota coming out of the hardware store with that shit-for-brains Dixon.” His expression is grim. “You’d better warn her to stay away from him.”
“She knows, Dad.” I think back to the day Dixon was in Cowboy House, the way he touched Dakota. “She knows what he’s about.”
He makes a hmph sound in his throat. “Make sure she knows, Wes. The guy is a hair’s breadth away from jail on any given day. The sheriff’s son is in rehab because of him and people have been talking about some petty crimes happening around town, and I’d bet my last stud it’s him.”
Wyatt walks up, holding on to the mollified horse’s reins. “Dixon’s cooking up there somewhere.” He motions generally out to the mountains.
Dad pins him with an ice cold glare. “And you would know this how?”
Wyatt lifts a hand in silent protest of his innocence. “Rumors, Dad.”
Wyatt might be right. Dixon has to be getting his drugs from somewhere, and maybe that somewhere is from his own two hands. It’s entirely possible he’s in charge of it all. He’s smart enough, which is what makes him dangerous.
“Just tell Dakota what I said,” Dad instructs, his voice harsh.
“Will do, Dad.” I turn to leave but remember what my mom said about the sink. “By the way, Mom fixed the sink.”
A small smile turns up one of his wrinkled, tanned cheeks. “Guess I owe her twenty bucks.”
Chuckling, I turn away and head for my cabin. My mom and dad aren’t perfect, but man, do they have a good marriage. And then my smile dies because I’m setting myself up for an empty proposal to Dakota so I can get the one thing I’ve wanted my entire life.
My parents have led with a good example, but I’m obviously not following it.
24
Dakota
“What do you think, Boss? Are you happy with the progress we’re making out here?” Scott’s gloved hand grips the wooden shaft of his shovel, his steel-toed boot resting on the flat edge of the blade. As contractors go, my dad said Scott’s the best he has ever met. Despite my limited experience, I’m inclined to agree. I can’t imagine a contractor working alongside his crews the way Scott does. And the fact that he calls me boss helps me think of him favorably, too. We’re probably around the same age and he doesn’t appear to have any asinine male pride about me being the one in charge. Unlike Brandt. One of the unexpected positives of working in Sierra Grande is that I don’t have to see that guy every day.
I look around at the site. “Things are going well. I’m happy with the progress. I think we may even be ahead of schedule.”
Scott makes a face. “It’s bad luck to say that. Now something is bound to go wrong.”
“I don’t believe in luck, Scott.”
He nods. “Well, whatever it is you believe in, do what’s needed to keep it happy.”
“Noted.” I glance at my watch. “Scott, feel free to tell the guys they can finish up a couple hours early today, since we’re, you know, not ahead of schedule.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No can do, Boss. We need to finish framing today.” He points to where three guys are hammering nails into boards. “Can’t leave the structure partially finished. It needs the support of all the beams to stay upright.”
“Right, of course,” I say hastily, embarrassment heating the back of my neck. I knew that. I mean, I think I knew that. Scott doesn’t know this is my first project on my own, and though I wasn’t planning on telling him, the holes in my knowledge might do the job for me. “I need to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” he answers, giving me a two-finger salute and walking to his truck, where he tosses the shovel in the bed.
I climb in my car and hurry to the hotel. I don’t have much time to get showered and dressed before Wes arrives, but I make it with fewer than three minutes to spare.
On my way through the lobby, I cross paths with Jo, the server from the first night I arrived in Sierra Grande with my dad. I’ve seen her two other times, each from afar, as she was working in the restaurant. She smiles at me blandly, then recognition lights up her eyes and a genuine smile takes over her face.
“Hi…” she says, searching for my name.
“Dakota.” I point to myself. “Jo, right?”
She nods. “Good memory. I take it your meeting with the Haydens went well that day? Seeing as how you’re still here.”
My gaze flits to the front door where I’m sure Wes will be any second. “Yes, it did. My family’s company is building at the edge of town.”
“How exciting!”
She seems genuinely happy for me, and her reaction makes me miss having a girlfriend to talk to.
“Well, listen, I have to get in there for my shift.” She motions with her thumb at the restaurant, and I notice she’s clutching an apron in her hand. “But it was nice seeing you again.”
We say goodbye and part ways. I find Wes out front, standing beside the trunk of a mature cottonwood tree. He wears jeans, a ball cap, and the softest looking gray T-shirt I’ve ever seen.
“Hi.” My eyes lock with his and my stomach muscles coil.
“Hey.” His gaze is deep and dark, and his deep voice drifts across the twelve inches that separate us, curling into my airway like smoke.
People walk by, and cars pass.
Every second I spend with Wes makes me feel like we’re balanced on a tightrope, and we’ve yet to determine our rhythm. We need to get our routine figured out, before someone falls.
“This way,” I tell him, tugging lightly on his hand. He walks beside me and doesn’t let go of my hand. He’s quiet.
“You’re good at this, you know?” I squeeze his hand to let him know what I’m talking about.
He looks at me with amusement. “Holding hands? It’s not very advanced as romantic gestures go.”
My head shakes. “That’s where you’re wrong. It could be a lazy hold.” My hand goes limp to show him what I mean. “Or it could be a death grip.” I tighten my hold. “You see? Wide margin for error. You have to get it just right.”
“And I got it just right?”
I nod. “You sure did.”
A smile lifts one corner of his mouth. It’s a little aw shucks mixed with thank you kindly, ma’am.