Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(30)
“We’ll see….”
I turn and walk backward, staring her down with a grin on my face. “See you tomorrow.”
She rolls her eyes from the sliding patio door, corners of her lips slightly upturned, blue dress billowing around her legs. “See you tomorrow.”
Blair
(fifteen years old)
Slipping the curry comb from my fingers, I turned to find Denny staring at me from the barn alley. Leaning on the stall door, he tossed a handful of something into his mouth and chewed. Even in dirty jeans and a ratty T-shirt, he looked good—definitely better than the shape I was probably in. And I frantically reached up to smooth a hand over my hair, stopping to fix the scrunchie holding up my ponytail.
“Thought your grandpa had you fixing fences?” I brushed past him, swinging a bucket of grooming supplies on my short walk to the tack room.
Denny was hot on my heels. “Finished already. Was gonna see if you wanted to go fishing?”
Fingers running along the hem of my T-shirt, I peeled the thin cotton from my damp lower back. With the weather unseasonably warm for late May, I had to stop running barrels before lunch. Which meant a full afternoon with nothing to do until Kevin, one of the ranch hands, could give me a ride home in the evening. Hanging out with Denny under the shady canopy lining the riverbank sounded perfect.
“Heck yes.”
His dimpled grin filled my chest until I could float to the barn rafters, and he held a box of Nerds candy out to me. “Want some?”
I made a face. “That’s what I imagine eating aquarium gravel is like.”
He followed behind me, chomping as loud as possible, definitely aware that each crunch was sending shivers down my spine. “Maybe in texture, but not flavor. I don’t think algae is this sugary.”
“The texture is enough to turn me off, thanks.”
“More for me.”
We walked side by side down the gravel road toward the big house to grab Denny’s fishing rod. Funnily enough—and I pointed it out to him—the rocks under our boots sounded an awful lot like the handful of Nerds jostling around inside his mouth. Without hesitation, he reached down and scooped a handful of pebbles and dirt, then shook it in his cupped hand, as if he was considering eating it.
“Denny. Gross,” I warned him with a disgusted look. “That’s probably full of horse poop and whatever else.”
“Good for the immune system.” He shrugged, lifting his hand, poised to pour the fistful of earth into his open mouth.
“Denny!” I grabbed his hand. “Stop. That’s how you get worms. Don’t be such a boy.”
“You’re one to talk, Hart.” He gestured to my body and I looked down, suddenly filled with regret about my outfit. Jeans that were dustier than his, worn so thin in the knees you could catch a glimpse of skin when the lighting was right. And a Coors Light shirt I robbed from Cassidy’s beer T-shirt collection after a sleepover séance went wrong. I clung to the frayed hem, keeping my lips compressed as I swallowed hard.
As we approached the big house, Grandpa Wells rose from the wicker chair on the front porch and cleared his throat. A strange sight to see in the middle of the day—he preferred to work with the cowboys rather than sit around twiddling his thumbs. “Denver, you, uh…best head inside. Your parents want to talk to you. Blair, hop in the truck and I’ll take you home.”
Confused, I shook my head and looked at Denny to see if he knew what was going on. His nose crinkled, and he squinted in the harsh midday sun. “I finished up the fences already—swear. Blair and I were gonna head out fishing for a bit.”
“You can fish another day.” His chin jutted toward the screen door. “Do as you’re told and go inside.”
While Grandpa Wells was the type of guy to give the shirt off his back, and he treated me and the other non-Wells kids around the ranch like his own grandchildren, we also knew better than to disobey him.
“Yes, sir,” Denny said, turning to give me a goodbye half-smile. “Guess we’ll go fishing tomorrow.”
I nodded, spinning on my heel to climb into Grandpa Wells’s rusty blue Ford.
* * *
—
I awoke with a start, my room cloaked in darkness save for the small, horse-shaped night light by the door. Wind whistled through the trees outside—a sound our house’s old single-pane windows did little to mitigate.
The storm must’ve woken me up.
Yawning, I rolled to face away from the window, tugging the comforter to my chin and willing myself back to sleep.
Thunk.
Something hit the glass, and I jolted upward, clutching the bedding for comfort. Heart racing, blood rushing behind my eardrums, and a stutter to my breath. My eyes squeezed tight, pretending that not seeing the danger would be enough to keep me safe.
Another small object hit the windowpane, and I felt around the dark bedside table for my cell phone before quickly darting fully under the covers. I blinked at the painfully bright light, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust enough to see three missed calls and ten text messages, all from Denny.
All vague.
All desperate.
Blair: R u ok?
Denny: Let me in. It’s raining
I stared at the message.