She turns her head over her shoulder, looking at both of us like we’re idiots.
She definitely won’t handle a hug right now.
“Can someone look at the shift on the tractor?” she asks, changing the subject. “It’s sticking. And the vacuum? It’s way, way too loud.” She pours a little cream in her coffee and stirs. “Just because y’all build motorcycles does not mean everything on this property needs to be rewired to sound like a muscle car.”
She picks up her cup and starts to walk out of the room.
“I’ll handle Bernadette, feed the horses and dogs, and pick all the tomatoes before I get started on breakfast,” she tells us. “Would someone mind bringing a load of wood up to my room sometime today? It’s getting too cold at night.”
She leaves the room, heading back upstairs, and I stare at my dad, my mouth hanging open a little.
“I’m not feeding you until the stalls are done and Shawnee’s had her work-out!” she yells as she climbs the stairs. “Let’s go!”
My dad’s eyes go wide and he pops out of his chair, stuffing the last piece of bacon in his mouth as I laugh, downing a huge gulp of orange juice before rushing out of the kitchen.
Yes, ma’am.
I finish putting a blanket over the mare and run my hand down her head, between the eyes before closing the gate and scurrying out of the barn.
I shiver. Shit, it got chilly. The sun dipped behind the peak an hour ago, and while it’s not quite dark, I’m missing its warmth. Grabbing my sweatshirt draped over the logs, I pull it over my head, fixing my hat again.
“Tiernan!” I shout, watching her step out of the greenhouse and yank the hose back over to the side. “Let’s get drunk!”
She flashes me a small smile, and I inhale, smelling the steaks on the grill.
She jogs up the steps of the house, her rain boots covered in dried mud from the last time she wore them, and I run after her, both of us heading around the deck to the back of the house.
I grab two beers out of the tub, swiping off the ice and untwisting the tops. I hand one to her as we stop next to my dad.
“It’s chilly.” She bounces up and down.
I pull off my sweatshirt and hand it to her. She’s already wearing my old blue and white flannel, but she doesn’t argue. Taking the navy-colored pullover, she slips it on and takes the extra beer I offer.
“Never too cold to grill,” my dad points out.
She smiles. “It smells good. I’m starving.”
He loads the steaks on a plate, I take the grilled corn, and Tiernan runs inside to grab the macaroni salad and potato chips.
We set everything down on the picnic table in the shop, the doors open, and the music playing as the evening air grows crisper. The beer lulls my veins, and I polish off the bottle as I reach behind me and grab the bottle of Patrón off the worktable.
I pour us each a shot, handing one to Tiernan.
“Uh, no,” she says, setting the condiments on the table.
“Yes.” I nod, placing it next to her plate. “We’re getting fucked up.”
Kaleb walks over, taking a seat, and I throw back my shot, blowing a breath at the burn. I slam the glass down and let out a yelp as it hits my stomach, leaping around the table, scooping Tiernan up, and flipping her over my shoulder.
“Because she’s ours all winter!” I spin around, hearing her squeal.
“Noah!” she barks.
But I laugh anyway. Thank fuck this day is ending better than it started. I might’ve actually had to stand up for myself and walk out of here for good.
Having her around will make this house bearable. She makes my dad bearable.
“For Christ’s sake, sit down,” Dad orders. “Eat like a family.”
I put her back on her feet, chuckling and pushing her down in her chair.
Popping another beer, I watch as her eyes lock in on the tequila and she cocks an eyebrow.
Come on. My father never drinks enough to get drunk, and Kaleb could drink my weight in Jack, Jim, and Jose together and still not feel anything.
She takes a deep breath and picks up the glass as my dad doles out the steak, and she tips it back, swallowing the entire shot in one gulp.
And without training wheels. Good girl.
I refill my glass and then hers.
“Stop.” She holds out her hand. “I don’t need to be puking.”
“Tell you what,” I say as she scoops out salad onto our plates. “I’ll make you a bet. If I clean my plate of all my food before you, you have to do two more shots.”