At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(69)

“I hope so. God, I hope so.”

I’ll still be mad. But, fuck, will I be relieved.

When we’ve run out of streets in town, we begin navigating dirt roads, slowly weaving our way across the hillsides overlooking Wells Canyon.

Short of trying to ride his bike all the way to the ranch—and he’s smart enough to know it’s too far from town—I can’t think of any reason why he would’ve come in this direction. But I also can’t think of anywhere else he might go.

Razors drag down my esophagus with every shallow breath, and I fight to keep tears at bay. If my vision’s too hazy, I might miss seeing Jonas along the roadside.

Wells Canyon is small. The number of roads is minimal. And long after we’ve run out of logical places to look, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my trousers. My sweaty hands immediately separate and I dig out the slippery device.


Alex: Jonas is with me.

Relief washes over me, and yet, my chest remains tight—there’s not quite enough air in this truck cab to fill the empty spaces in my lungs.

“He’s with Alex,” I say on an exhale, quickly typing a reply to let Alex know I’m on my way, then immediately letting my dad know he can stand down. “He…um, Alex lives down the highway toward Sheridan.”

With a sigh, Colt relaxes his grip on the leather steering wheel, arms no longer tense and shaking. “Thank God.”

I lean back until my throbbing skull is softened by the headrest and prod at the deeply worn divot between my bunched eyebrows. My knees draw closer to my chest with every pothole and curve in the road, as if making myself smaller will ease the pain.

He went to Alex.

I’ve officially failed so extraordinarily, my son sought out his deadbeat dad to avoid coming home to me.





Colt


I could see her unraveling with every side street we cruised down. Every minute that passed. She spent nearly two hours holding it together, but only just. I wouldn’t have blamed her for breaking down entirely, for giving in to the panic etched on her face. Hell, I was starting to panic.

When she learned Alex had Jonas, I expected her to stop stressing. Relax. Finally take a full breath. But if anything, the root of her anxiety changed. The tension never left her shoulders, the tic in her jaw remained, and her body shrank in on itself while her hands formed tight, white-knuckled fists.

Following Whit’s instruction, I stop the truck in front of a small run-down house and leave it running for Betty. The patchy grass looks brown and crispy like a batch of overcooked French fries, and the falling-apart front porch is definitely a safety hazard. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not this.

“You can wait here, if you want.” Her tiny head shake and tinier smile says she wants me to come with her, even if she’s too stubborn to ask me to. “I’ll only be a minute.”

If she genuinely wanted me to stay put, I would. Though I’d be cracking the window and eavesdropping like a son of a bitch. I’m too damn curious about her baby daddy not to. I don’t give a shit about Alex, in general, but I imagine meeting the man Whit has a child with will feel like snapping one more of her puzzle pieces into place.

My seatbelt is undone with one firm press of a thumb, and a rush of hot air floods the truck cab when I crack open the driver’s door. “Let’s go, Mama.”

We’re halfway up the pathway to the door when he steps outside. Alex.

My entire face scrunches with disbelief—I can’t help it.

First, where the fuck did the kid’s blond hair come from?

Second…this dude? I couldn’t even punch the guy because it would be the furthest thing from a fair fight. Whit’s pretty damn tall for a woman, so I assumed she would only date guys taller than her, but Alex can’t be more than five-foot-eight on a good day. My guess is one hundred and seventy pounds soaking wet. Shirt half-tucked into a pair of checkered pajama pants.

I’m having an incredibly difficult time believing this is the guy Whit and Jonas have been wishing was around more often.

“Well, if it’s not Mom of the Year. Took you long enough.” Letting the screen door slam closed behind him, Alex looks Whit up and down with a smug smile. Then his eyes cut to me. “Who’s this?”

“Colt.” I’d shake the asshole’s hand, if he were willing to step down from the safety of his porch.

“Ah, the cowboy nanny.”

My tongue runs over the front of my teeth. I stay quiet, not taking the bait. Besides, it’s not my place to get involved unless Whit asks me to.

And right now, Whit’s not asking me to step in. Instead, she calmly asks, “Where’s Jonas?”

Hooking a thumb toward the door, Alex leans against the off-white porch railing. “Inside playing video games. He showed up a while ago—didn’t want to call you until he’d calmed down. He was pretty upset.”

“You should’ve let me know the second he knocked on your door.”

“I don’t owe you shit, Whit.” Alex picks at the peeling paint, flicking specks of white onto the empty flower beds below. “You sure as hell weren’t in a hurry to tell me when he started going to some ranch every day.”

Ignoring him, Whit calls out for Jonas. When he doesn’t immediately come running, she yells again, full-naming him with that fuck around and find out tone that only moms seem to have. That gets him.