At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(15)
“It’s how I stay so sweet.” I stir the heaping spoonful into my drink, turning to bat my eyelashes at him.
“Your mommy tell you that?”
I shoot him a finger gun with a supporting wink. “Yours did.”
Denny’s cackle echoes through the small kitchen space, and he pushes between Rob and me to grab a coffee mug. “You walked right into that, Rob.”
“Fuck you both,” Rob sneers.
I click my tongue at him. “That’s no way to talk to your new stepdaddy.”
Yanking open the fridge, I stare blankly at the lack of food inside. We get bagged lunch from the women in the big house every day—the main ranch house with a massive kitchen—but my metabolism still thinks I’m a teenage boy, and I need breakfast. Guess an apple with a few bruises and some of the snacks I keep in my room will have to do today.
“Speaking of stepdaddy.” He leans against the counter and slurps his coffee loudly. “Your shadow gonna be here again today?”
A quick glance over at Denny confirms that, yes, Jonas will be here today. Lost track of how often he’s been here lately—what started as Denny trying to win back the heart of his ex-girlfriend became Colt the nanny. Finding chores for a ten-year-old who’s never spent time on a ranch before is a job all on its own, though the barn walls and floor have never been this clean.
“I talked to Whit last night—told her we’d keep him busy all summer, actually. So he’ll be around a lot,” Denny says.
“Got any ideas for chores to give him?” I raise an eyebrow at Denny. “He’s gonna wash the paint right off the barn walls pretty soon.”
“Actually, yeah. We’re tarping the silage pit today. He can help move tires.”
Rob chuckles. “Good way to get rid of your shadow in a fucking hurry. Kid probably only weighs as much as those tires.”
A few hours later, I’m chugging coffee on the tailgate of my truck and waiting for Jonas when my ears perk at a car rattling over the cattle guard. I tip forward to see who it is, and Betty takes that as a sign that I’m handing over my snack. Her teeth delicately graze my knuckles as she engulfs my peanut butter oatmeal bar, along with half of my hand.
“Hey! You jerk,” I scoff, tossing the tiny chunk still pinched between my fingers.
Betty’s snuffling around in the rocks when I slide my ass off the end of my truck and start toward the big house. With any luck, the girls will have something I can eat to give me enough energy to survive until lunch.
Testing her luck, Betty follows, nipping at my heels the closer I get to the house. She fucking loves it here, thanks to Jackson and Kate Wells’s kids constantly leaving food unattended. Sure enough, she ditches me the second she sees their six-year-old, Odessa, playing in the flower beds.
“Be good,” I call after the dog. And I guess the kid, too. Betty’s bark is noncommittal.
I knock the dust from my boots on the slow climb up the front steps and swing open the screen door, letting it fall closed behind me with a slam. Cheerful voices and country music carry through the home, stretching down the long hallway and pulling me in. My stomach rumbles at the scent of freshly baked bread, and my strides lengthen. Here’s hoping I can snag a warm slice with some butter.
“Hey,” I announce my presence, sneaking up behind where one of the ranch owners, Austin, is snacking on sliced cheese.
When his hand slides away from the plate, I grab a piece of Swiss for myself. Austin gives me a look, shaking his head, and I continue surveying the goods spread over the counter.
“Are y’all having a party I didn’t know about?” I grab a handful of crackers and slices of cheese, tossing a piece of cheddar into my mouth as I carry on down the island.
Austin’s fiancée, Cecily, hands me a plate. “Our wedding…”
Drumming my fingers on the edge of the counter, I say, “Oh, right.”
Not sure how my mind temporarily spaced on that when Austin and Cecily’s wedding is all the women have been talking about around here for weeks.
I take a place at the extra-long table—big enough to seat the Wells family and then some—and eat enough cheese and crackers to feed an entire preschool. When Jonas saunters into the kitchen a few minutes later, Kate hands him a plate and nudges him toward me.
For a kid who seemingly keeps coming back here by choice, he sure doesn’t appear thrilled. His expression reminds me a little too much of the look his mom gave me when I showed up there to pick him up last week. Whit cut me down with a single glance, and damn it if I didn’t love it.
“What are we doing today?” Jonas scopes out the goodies on his plate.
“Better eat your Wheaties.” I present my own stack of layered Monterey Jack and crackers. “Those tiny bean poles you call arms are gonna need all the help they can get.”
Austin tilts his head, slowly raising his coffee mug to his mouth.
“Tarping silage,” I explain, earning a knowing nod from him as he sips.
“Here, kiddo.” Kate sets a brown paper bag on the table next to Jonas’s plate. “Packed you extra snacks. Bring lots of water, too. It’s a hot one today.”
Not long after, the two of us are traipsing out of the house, each carrying two brown paper bags chock-full of sandwiches, granola bars, fruit, and spare water bottles. The sun has sweat prickling my back in an instant, and I tilt my cowboy hat to shield my eyes. In silence, we head along the gravel driveway, past the barn and cabins and bunkhouses.