At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(17)

“I don’t have any money.” His nose crinkles.

“I think an ice cream is the least of what you deserve after today. That was some seriously hard labor, and you killed it, dude.”

With a bashful grin, he stands up. “Thanks.”

I scoop my shirt from the ground and my nose turns up immediately. “On second thought, let’s hit the showers in the bunkhouse first. I don’t think they’ll even let us into the ice cream shop smelling like we do.”

Jonas smells his armpit and comes away with a disgusted look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I smell like roses.”

“Bullshit. I can smell you from here.”

“I don’t have any clean clothes, so I’ll wait until I get home.”

“Suit yourself. But if you start stinking up my truck, you’re riding to town on the flat deck of my pickup.”

I start toward the bunkhouse, Jonas and Betty hot on my heels. With each lumbering stride, my muscles relax and the roaring pain searing through my body dulls to the typical ache. Turns out being a ranch hand for your entire adult life is a touch hard on the body.

“You back here tomorrow?” I ask. “Was planning on going fishing.”

A darkness falls over his face, and he drops his eyes to the ground. “Nah, hanging out with my dad.”

“That’ll be a lot of fun, I bet.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Knowing what I do about this kid and his apparent disdain for conversation, I don’t push for more. Not after the day we had.

When he reaches for the knob on the front door of the bunkhouse, he sucks a hiss through gritted teeth.

“Ouch. I think I got a blister.” Jonas picks at the bubbled skin on his palm. He nearly trips over a chair while navigating through the bunkhouse—all his attention focused on inspecting his delicate fingers.

“By the end of the summer, you’ll have hands as callused as mine.” I hold a work-hardened hand up and point out the thick skin on my palm and fingers. “Then you’re basically invincible.”

Jonas gawks at me. “What do I do with it until then?”

“Wash it good, so it doesn’t get infected. Maybe throw a Band-Aid over it when you get home.” I grab a washcloth from the hall closet and toss it to him, shaking my head at the way he awkwardly fumbles it to avoid having anything touch his delicate injury. “I’ll have a quick shower, then we’ll head out.”

“For ice cream, right?” He perks up, forgetting about his hand for a second.

“All you can eat.”





Whit


The sound of a rumbling truck in the driveway interrupts my tunnel vision, and I blink at the clock in the corner of my computer screen.

“Oh, shit. How is it five o’clock already?” I say to myself, racing to save my work so I can log off before a coworker sees me online and asks for something.

The vibrations of voices reverberate up through the floor, one most definitely belonging to a grown man, rather than a ten-year-old. Plunking my blue-light glasses down, I push back from my desk and head downstairs to thank Denny for dropping Jonas off. One hand finishes tugging my hair loose from my scrunchie while the other grips the stair rail, and I step onto the cool hardwood of the open-concept main floor.

“Hey, thanks for—” My sentence falls short as I find myself face to face with Colt, rather than Denny. “Oh, hi. I thought it would be Denny dropping him off again. Um, thanks though.”

Jonas ducks under my arm to jet up the stairs. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, kiddo.” I give his hair a fleeting tousle as he passes by, my gaze perusing the tall man standing in my doorway. Thankfully, he’s wearing a child-appropriate vintage Bob Ross T-shirt today. A well-worn cowboy hat’s held at his side, tapping against his knee with each flick of his wrist.

“Denny was busy, so I offered to bring him home,” Colt says.

From the top of the stairwell, Jonas bellows, “Mom, I told Colt he could stay for dinner. He doesn’t believe I can catch fish in my game, so I’m gonna show him.”

Colt shakes his head. “No need to feed me.”

“No, you can stay…. Um, I lost track of time while I was working, but I’ll figure something out for dinner.” I fidget with the bow on my emerald-green tie-waist blouse. “Come on in.”

After hanging his hat on a coat hook, he saunters in with an easy smile, and I’m extra thankful Jonas wasn’t home today because the place is clean and shockingly doesn’t smell like a ten-year-old boy lives here. A rarity.

“Want something to drink? Beer? Wine?” I offer to Colt.

Jonas’s feet thud overhead as he grabs things from his bedroom.

Colt leans a hip against the edge of my kitchen island, running the backs of his knuckles down his harsh jawline. “Water’s great, actually.”

I set a full glass of cold water in front of him, and Colt’s voice is surprisingly soft when he thanks me for the drink. For the most excruciating few heartbeats, my stomach flip-flops as if I’m on a boat, sent rocking through ocean waves thanks to his squinty-eyed smile. Needing something to keep my hands busy while the two of us awkwardly wait for Jonas to come back, I reach for a cloth to wipe nonexistent crumbs from the countertop.