At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(68)

Blair’s phone goes straight to voicemail multiple times, implying she’s at the ranch without cell service. After confirming he still hasn’t made it home, I continue straight on to my parents’ house. At one point, my dad was Jonas’s closest confidant. Surely he was pissed off with me and thought he’d hide out here.

Barreling through the front door, I nearly knock my dad over in the hallway. He stumbles back, bewildered. “What on—”

“Is Jonas here?” On the back of a frazzled exhale, the words blend to form something barely comprehensible.

His shock gives way to confusion as he shakes his head.

“Fuck,” I mutter, swiping a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. “He—shit…I don’t know where he is. I tried calling Blair and she didn’t pick up. He got into a fight at the park, and I had to go pick him up, but I couldn’t fit his bike in my car, so I told him to ride it home, and then so much time passed, and he wasn’t…I don’t know if he’s hurt or—”

Dad grabs hold of my shoulders, which began shaking at some point during my long-winded ramble. “Okay, let me find my keys. I’ll drive.”

“No, we should split up.”

“You’re too worked up to be driving.”

“Then I’ll walk.” With a gritty swallow, I turn on my heel and step back into the sunshine. Through narrow eyes, I look up and down the quiet street, doing my best to determine where he might’ve gone.

Colt.

Odds are, he’s somewhere on horseback at the ranch, so calling him will be pointless. And besides, the last thing I want is for him to step in and help with my messy life once again. Eventually, he’s bound to decide it’s all too much. We’re too much. And we’re not worth the effort.

On the other hand, Jonas loves and trusts him. So maybe he called him somehow.

The phone only rings twice, and Colt’s voice is smothered by a blanket of background noise. His signature greeting does nothing to soothe my frayed nerves or my chest pain.

“Do you, by chance, have Jonas with you?” I start down the street toward my house, praying this is the time I walk in the door and find his shoes strewn in the entryway. “Or have you heard from him?”

Colt’s silent—whether for ten seconds or a hundred, it’s too long. The noise around him grows quieter, until I hear nothing but a gentle, “Nope, he’s not with me. Should he be?”

“No.” I sniffle, my chin quivering as I try to form words. “No, he should be at home. But—”

“Are you at home?”

“Almost,” I say through a deep inhalation of air that’s thick and humid and filled with the scents of summer.

“Stay put when you get there.” His truck door slams shut, removing the last of the ambient sound. “Just left Anette’s. I’m on my way.”

“Okay…I—uh, I don’t see his bike in the driveway. So…” I fumble pulling my keys from my pocket.

An anxious, foreboding sensation wraps tighter around my chest until every breath drags on the same way as time seems to be. And both halt entirely when, as I suspected, Jonas isn’t here. My forehead thunks against his bedroom doorframe, unbridled fear roiling in my stomach.

Colt’s voice calling my name from the open front door cuts through my turbid thoughts, and a moment later I’m following him to his truck, sliding onto the bench seat next to Betty in a daze.

“Any friends he might’ve gone to see?” Colt’s hands twist over the steering wheel as he pulls out of the driveway.

“I don’t think…no, he only ever talks about you.” When I squint against the sun, the tears welling in my eyes are knocked loose to roll in rivulets down my cheeks. My voice cracks. “I don’t know where he’d go.”

Flicking me a glance, Colt reaches out and gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze. “Hey. We’ll find him.”

The truck rumbles from side street to side street, until the small pit of anxious doubt has grown to a heavy bowling ball weighing on my chest. I wring my hands together and stare unblinking out the window, despite Betty’s best efforts to get my attention with her muzzle nudging my arm and a paw resting on my thigh.

After our fourth pass of the playground, my chest is so tight it burns. My dad texts me to say he’s checking the walking trail near our house. Cold sweat pricks at my back, and I sniff back the stinging in my nostrils. He’s not at the park. He’s not home. He’s not anywhere. He’s…

“What if he’s hurt and alone and needs his mom?” A foreign voice asks the question, and when Colt’s hand falls overtop of mine, the fog lifts enough that I realize the voice was my own. So shaky, hoarse, and thick with emotion, it’s unrecognizable.

“He’s not. He’s not, honey.”

“But he…what if…” I strangle out the words.

“Don’t talk like that.” His thumb swipes back and forth across the back of my hand. “Jonas is pissed off and doesn’t want to be grounded. I bet he’s sitting somewhere sulking.”

“I just…fuck. I should’ve tied the bike to the roof of my car or left it at the park or—”

“He. Is. Fine.” Colt enunciates each word, punctuating it with a rough tap of his thumb against my skin.