At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(51)

He fumbles with the saddle tucked against his side. “Hey, almost forgot to tell you we’re going to a bar in Sheridan tonight.”

I guess I could get behind going out, instead of doing what I’d planned to do tonight—shower, eat some half-assed dinner with the guys in the bunkhouse, play some online Scrabble with my mom and brother, jerk off while I think about Whit, fall asleep before nine o’clock. You know, the usual.

“Where we going?”

“Not sure yet. Guess it’ll be up to Whit, since it’s her birthday.”

It’s…her what?

“Huh?”

“It’s Whit’s birthday—”

“Today?” I interrupt, my wide-eyed stare earning a weird look from him.

“I don’t know, to be honest, but we’re going out tonight to celebrate. She didn’t want to go to The Horseshoe.” Denny brushes past my bewildered body to put his saddle away. From the tack room, he yells a casual, “You coming?”

Chill. Casual. Noncommittal.

“Yeah, sure…”

I speed-walk the fuck out of the barn, kicking up dust and feeling the wind in my mustache. I’m cruising so fast down the driveway, it takes more than a couple seconds for Betty to catch up. And when she does, she’s nipping at my heels to encourage me to go faster.

“Betty Spaghetti, we gotta find Jonas.”

Thankfully, I spot him from a mile away. On top of a pile of soil Austin had trucked in last week to double the size of Cecily’s garden, Jonas and Odessa are playing with yellow metal Tonka trucks. I don’t know how Whit can be so worried about him growing up to be well-adjusted when he puts up with Odessa’s shit without so much as an eye roll or raised voice. I’m sure playing dump trucks with a six-year-old is the last thing he wants to be doing.

“Hey, dude,” I call out, approaching the dirt pile. “Is it your mom’s birthday today?”

“Uh, yeah.” He tips the dump truck, pouring soil all over Odessa’s bare foot.

“Did you get her a present?”

The look he gives me says he hasn’t even considered it. “No.”

“Shit,” I mumble.

“Swear jar,” Odessa says unhelpfully.

“We should hit up Anette’s on our way home today and buy your mom a cake.”

Odessa crosses two fingers in front of her, making the sign of a…cross? No, an X. The definitive buzzing sound that follows from her lips makes that clear. My suggestion was the wrong one.

“My mom always says mommies only want homemade presents,” Odessa says, returning to the hole she’s dug with her toy excavator.

Even though it’s way more work, and I have no idea how to bake, the six-year-old is onto something.

“Okay, in that case, give me ten minutes to shower. We’re gonna bake a cake.”

I don’t give Jonas enough time to argue or point out that I’ve lost my mind. I know I have. But I’ll be damned if I don’t give my future wife the birthday she deserves.

After ten minutes—not a second longer—I’m freshly showered and striding up the steps to the big house with Jonas reluctantly following, leaving Betty to play with Odessa. Apparently I found the one thing he enjoys less than keeping a six-year-old girl company, and that’s helping in the kitchen.

“Hey, ladies,” I shout down the hallway as the screen door slams shut behind me.

The main house, where Kate and Jackson live with their kids, is expansive and fully furnished in antiques, most of which have probably been here since the Wells family started this ranch a century ago. The space is filled with warm wood tones and the ever-present scent of freshly baked bread. Chatter springs from the kitchen, where you can always find at least a couple of the wives and girlfriends. In the mornings, they’re sipping coffee and setting out bagged lunches for the cowboys. In the afternoons, they’re drinking beer or sangria and gossiping while they bake bread for the next day’s lunches.

Sure enough, I stroll into the kitchen right as Kate’s emerging from the fridge with a dark amber bottle in her hand.

The kitchen manager, Beryl—an Indigenous Secwépemc woman with long silvery-gray hair and eyes that are constantly smiling—looks over at me and waves with a flour-coated hand. “Hey, kid. Hungry?”

She gestures to some sort of pastry-looking thing.

“Nah. I mean…yeah, fuck it. I am.” I skirt around Kate, careful not to bump her as she pops the top off her beer, and grab what turns out to be a Danish. “I actually wanted to see if Jonas and I can borrow a bit of counter space in here.”

She looks at the small boy and beams. “After he washes his hands, of course.”

Probably should’ve hosed him off first.

Jonas has spent enough time in the kitchen to know better than to question Beryl, and he immediately gets to rolling up his sleeves on his short walk to the sink.

“What do you need counter space for? Is this another science experiment?” Kate raises an eyebrow.

I shake my head vigorously. “No, no, no. I learned my lesson about Mentos and Coca-Cola. It’s Whit’s birthday, so Jonas and I wanted to make her a cake.”

“Colt wants to make her a cake,” Jonas corrects me.

Kate and Beryl stare at me. Unblinking. Knowing.