At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(125)

“Excellent work in there, young man.” A good old boy, about seventy years old, leans his arms on the fence and peers in at Jonas’s steer.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Jonas fiddles with the stall door latch, letting himself out with a grating, metal-on-metal squeal. It clangs shut, scaring a pair of women walking by.

“Nice-looking animal. You gonna be selling him come fall?”

Jonas nods, stoic. “Sure will. At the auction in November.”

Seems like yesterday he was raising his first livestock as a 4-H project. No matter how prepared Whit and I thought he was for the auction, he sobbed the entire drive home—utterly inconsolable. I genuinely thought that was about to be the end of his 4-H career, but the next year he begged us to agree to another livestock project. And he’s been hooked ever since.

“Sure love to see the kids carrying on tradition like this.” The old man looks over at me. “You must be so proud of your son.”

Not the first time somebody has assumed we’re father and son, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Jonas’s reaction depends on the day—at best, he ignores it, and at worst, he immediately corrects them.

I, however, roll with it every time. Technically he’s my stepson, since Whit and I got married last summer, but to-may-to, to-mah-to.

“Sure am.” I clap a hand against Jonas’s back. “He’s an incredible kid. His mom and I are extremely proud.”

Biting back a smile, Jonas glances over at me. “Thanks, Dad.”

Oh, okay. I remind myself not to panic. Not to make a big deal about it. Definitely not to cry, because God knows he’d bully me relentlessly about it.

Alex has always been consistent like a bad rash. He pops up to wreak havoc and fuck with Jonas’s routine, then after some treatment—in the form of Whit telling him where to go and how to get there—he fades into the shadows again. Unfortunately, it’s been the same shit with Fern and the little boy they share together. Fortunately, Fern turned out to be pretty cool, and that relieved Whit’s fear of Jonas never getting to be around his sibling. In fact, during the school year he babysits three evenings a week.

My fingers find the back of Jonas’s neck, and I give a squeeze to acknowledge his words, adjusting my cowboy hat with my other hand.

“Well, keep up the good work, kid.” The old man takes one last look at the steer before carrying on to the next animal.

Jonas turns to me with bunched eyebrows. “Are you going to cry over that?”

See? Bully.

“No.” I make a disgusted face, blinking away the burning behind my eyeballs. “You just smell so much like cowshit it was making my eyes water.”

He brushes his hands over his clean jeans. “Rich, coming from you.”

I pinch my T-shirt in the middle of my chest, drawing the fabric toward my nose to take a quick sniff. I’ve definitely smelled better before, but that’s what you get for loading and transporting and getting cattle ready to show.

“I got clean clothes back at the truck. We should probably change, or Whit’s gonna act like she doesn’t know us.”

“Better be fast, ’cause we’ll be murdered if we miss Odessa’s showtime.”

“Shit. Okay, let’s get going.” I’m already moving, and thankfully he’s quick to catch up. We weave through the crowd inside the barn, then step into the harsh sun. Sweat’s beading along my hairline within seconds.

I look over at Jonas. “Bet that steer is going to bring in three times as much money as every other animal at the auction. You’ve done a great job.”

He snorts. “You might want to lower your expectations a bit.”

“Too late, kid. You’ve already got them sky high.” I nudge his shoulder with mine, willfully ignoring the way my vision is glassy again. “We really are proud of you, in case you didn’t know.”

“I know.” His Adam’s apple bobs—when the hell did this kid get an Adam’s apple? “Thank you…by the way. For everything.”

“Bud, you don’t gotta thank me.” I hook my arm around his neck. “This is what I’m here for. But…if you really feel compelled to thank me, you could shave this creepy little ’stache you got going on.”

I drag a finger over his upper lip, and he shoves me away with a laugh. “Screw you.”

“You used to give me so much shit for mine. It’s only fair.”

Once we get to the truck, it turns out I’m the only one who thought to bring spare clothes to a cattle show. Somehow Jonas seemed to think he would stay perfectly clean, apparently.

I toss Jonas a shirt, and he groans when he looks at the front of it. “Anything but the silly goose on the loose, please.”

A grin sweeps my face. “Okay, okay. I also have…a capybara shirt, the one that says ‘Dilfin’ Ain’t Easy,’ and…” I rummage through the pile of clothes. “That’s it.”

“What’s a capybara?”

I hold up the light gray shirt. “It’s this. The world’s largest rodent.”

He grimaces, shaking his head with annoyance. “Guess I’m being a silly goose.”

With one hand, I pull my dirty shirt over my head and slip into my DILF shirt—a gift from Whit that makes Jonas cringe every time I wear it. Because he’s fifteen and perpetually annoyed with us, I like to wear it often. One of these days, I’m sure it’ll accidentally go missing and turn up in the trash.