At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(28)
The cool window cradles my pulsating temple the rest of the way to Sheridan, and Blair has to wake me when we arrive at the estate sale from the newspaper ad. A sprawling rancher on the outskirts of town, with people milling about and random household goods scattered across the yard.
“Are we looking for something in particular?” I ask Mom through a yawn so intense it makes tears dot the inner corners of my eyes.
Apparently I’m not cut out for relaxing, because somehow I’m more tired after yesterday than I would be following a full weekend of housework, errands, and carting Jonas around town.
She smiles, heading straight for a rack of vintage dresses on the front lawn. “It’s one of those know it when you find it type of shopping trips.”
Despite the early hour, it’s muggy and blistering hot, so I bypass the dresses and large furniture items outside, praying the house has air conditioning. A tall, older gentleman holds the front door open a little too preemptively, so I jog to get there quickly.
The homeowners are definitely old—quite possibly dead—based on the decor choices and amount of fine china. We’ve finally reached a point where Jonas can mostly be trusted with glassware and ceramic dishes rather than the cheap plastic with PAW Patrol characters on it, but porcelain is a long way off.
Two elderly ladies are close to throwing hands over a tea set, and I narrowly squeeze past them, risking my life for a sage Le Creuset Dutch oven I spot nestled between pots on a kitchen shelf.
Fifty dollars?! At that price, it’s basically stealing.
I tuck the heavy pot under my arm like a football player, carefully watching the tea ladies, lest they turn their attention to me and decide to team up. I’m not opposed to throwing hands for this baby, but ending up in jail over cast-iron cookware isn’t the good example I’m supposed to be setting for Jonas.
As I continue through the den, the pads of my fingers skim along a piano, pressing briefly on a key and making a middle-aged couple flinch. I bite back a smile, carrying on down a narrow hallway. Already the pot is getting heavy and awkward to carry, but I refuse to let it out of my sight until I’m home. Can’t even trust my mom or sister with it.
Meandering between endless gaudy rooms, I come across a smaller bedroom with nothing in it but clothes, though these don’t appear to be fancy or delicate like the dresses Mom was eyeing outside. I thumb the cotton and polyester, smoothing fabrics between my fingers. Disneyland ’88, one tattered sweatshirt reads. A T-shirt proudly conveying Ria Creek Golf Tournament is missing the year, but based on the font and color choices, I’d guess it’s from the 1990s.
The sharp squeal of metal clothing hangers on a metal rod makes my eye twitch, but I’m a glutton for glimpses into how strangers, whether dead or alive, lived their lives up to this point. It’s so much like flipping through a scrapbook, and I can’t help but think about somebody—with a much dirtier mind than the old biddies here—sifting through my pins after I die.
Then I see the holy grail. It’s a need. It’s a must-have.
Colt is going to die when he sees it.
Among wholesome shirts depicting family vacations, charity golf tournaments, and an annual crab boil hangs a brand-new, with tags shirt from the 1990 Wells Canyon rodeo. To be honest, I think it’s a woman’s shirt. Front and center is a raccoon wearing a cowboy hat: Hootin’ and Hollerin’.
Hootin’ and hollerin’, indeed. I hold it up to let dappled sunlight illuminate the heather gray shirt.
It would be weird to give him a T-shirt, though.
We hardly know each other. Definitely aren’t in a position where it wouldn’t be strange for me to give him a present without a clear gift-giving holiday attached to it. And after the way he looked at me yesterday—the way we looked at each other—the last thing I want to do is give him the wrong impression.
I place the hanger back on the rack, pushing it out of my mind and telling myself that I can’t possibly try to carry anything else if I’m going to shop the rest of the house.
Sorry, raccoon cowboy, but my coveted Dutch oven is more important.
For another ten minutes, I wander the halls, catching the envious eye of more than one person who wishes they’d been lucky enough to score my shopping find. My fingers ache in their locked position around the cookware, and I start walking toward the man collecting money at a small desk near the front door.
“Can I sneak by ya?” I quietly ask a stout elderly lady in the middle of a tight archway, mouthing a thank you when she lets me pass.
Waiting in line to pay, I study my fellow shoppers. This isn’t the hootin’ and hollerin’ type of crowd. If I don’t buy that shirt, it’ll end up at the dump or local thrift store, unless Colt happens to be out shopping with his mom today, too.
I’ll hang on to it until Christmas or his birthday.
“Besides,” I say to myself while walking down the empty hallway, “a goofy graphic tee screams ‘Welcome to the friend zone.’?”
A giddy, bubbly feeling fizzes in my stomach when I spot the light gray shirtsleeve poking out from the full rack. I pull it aside for one final inspection. It really is the perfect thing for Colt.
If only I had Jonas here. I could manipulate the situation to make Jonas think it’s his idea to buy the shirt, and Colt would be none the wiser.
Before I can overthink it any longer, I awkwardly slip the shirt from the hanger with one hand. Then pay the man by the front door and scurry out to a shady spot below a towering oak tree to wait for my mom and sister.