At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(8)

“Hey, yeah, Colt.” Flustered, I scrub my right palm over the front of my shirt and reach out to shake her hand.

I grew up a couple hours from Wells Canyon—moved here to start working on the ranch a few years back—so I suppose it’s not surprising that we’ve never formally met, but how the hell have I never seen her before? Never looked her over in a crowd or caught a glimpse in passing; I haven’t laid eyes on this woman a single damn time. In a small town, that shouldn’t be possible. People run into each other whether they want to or not. A face as beautiful as hers should’ve stopped me in my tracks long before today.

“Whit…” she says tentatively, assessing me with a slow scan of her vibrant green eyes as she slowly pulls her soft, warm hand away from mine.

To somebody dumber than myself, it might seem like she’s checking me out right now. But I’m aware she’s picking me apart without words, making a mental note of every bad quality with the sneering twitch of her nose.

Finally bringing her repulsed gaze to meet mine, she asks, “What are you wearing?”

Glancing down, I realize my mistake. After the texts from Denny, I had a speedy shower and tossed on the easiest clean clothes to grab. Which turned out to be faded blue jeans and an old T-shirt I cut the sleeves off of with a pocketknife.

More specifically, it’s a shirt with a picture of—

“A stripper? Seriously? You thought you’d come pick up my ten-year-old son while wearing a shirt with a stripper on it?”

“I wasn’t really think—”

“And not just a stripper…it has to say ‘I Support Single Moms’ below it?” She shakes her head, half closing the door.

“W-well, I do support single moms, for what it’s worth,” I blurt out. “I mean—I don’t mean I support single moms who strip for— No. No, I do support that, too. Sex positivity. Body confidence. Women’s rights.”

My hands are awkwardly flailing around, punctuating each word, digging the hole deeper. With a thud, they fall at my sides and I sheepishly smile at the ice queen in front of me.

Against my better judgment, I continue. “I don’t like…support the strippers, if you know what I mean. But I support their choice to do that, you know?”

“Right.” Wow. She does not sound amused. “The outfit choice doesn’t exactly instill confidence in me that you’ll be able to take care of my son. So don’t worry about it. It was, uh…nice to meet you. I’ll call Denny and let him know that Jonas can stay home with me today.”

I nearly crumple under the weight of her stare. Sharp pinpricks of sweat stipple up my spine. Once again, I could really use a cool breeze. Denny doesn’t get mad often, but I don’t think he’s going to be too understanding if I turn up on the ranch without this kid.

“Bad call on the shirt. Totally understood. Let me just”—I grab the hem and yank it over my head—“swap it around, and nobody will be any the wiser.”

Under her unimpressed gaze, I flip the fabric inside out and put the shirt back on. Giving a Vanna White–esque hand motion over my front, I grin at her.

“There. Fixed.”

“I can still see the outli—”

“Only if you squint really hard.” I tuck my arms back inside the sleeveless shirt and spin it around so whatever faint outline still exists of a woman dancing on a pole is now firmly in the center of my back. “I have my first aid certification and a clean driving record. I don’t smoke and I’m not a big drinker. Also, Denny might shoot me if I go back solo.”

Her short, painted black nails drum on the door, and though her lips remain steadfast, there’s a smile playing at the corners of her eyes. “You’re heading straight to the ranch with him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stands quietly for a moment, rocking on her heels and mulling over my answer. Turning to look over her shoulder, she shouts, “Jonas, let’s go.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, watching her anxiously bite her bottom lip as the kid replies with something I can’t quite make out.

Whit turns back to face me, exhaling hard through her nose. “He’ll be a minute. Thank you for giving him something to do today.”

“No problem.”

At her side, a skinny kid with dirty-blond hair pops up, backpack slung over one shoulder. And he’s definitely Whit’s kid, considering the way he sizes me up. Damn, I don’t think a ten-year-old has ever intimidated me like this. But this one seems like he’s one wrong remark away from putting sugar in my gas tank.

“You must be Jonas?” I ask.

“Your shirt’s inside out,” he replies with a judgmental look. “Why?”

My eyes flicker between him and his mom. Aside from the shared uncanny ability to make me want to tuck tail and run from a single look, they appear nothing alike.

“Oh, um…got food on the front.”

He raises an eyebrow, then turns to Whit. “You can’t seriously be sending me with this guy.”

She ushers Jonas out the door. “You’ll be fine…I think.”

Eager to get rid of her kid for the afternoon is an understatement; Whit closes the door so fast I finally catch that breeze I’ve been needing.

Jonas lumbers toward my idling pickup, stopping short of the passenger door.