Page 15 of Unstable

I FLY UP THE driveway dangerously fast, spraying gravel in every direction, while poor Bourbon hunkers down in fear.

For a split second, I debated calling Merrick to ask if Keaton’s made any noise about buying up my land—after all, he was in cahoots with my mom on everything it seemed—but talked myself out of it just as fast. I’m not inflating Merrick’s ego by asking for his help on anything.

Besides, if Keaton wants to come sniffing around—I’ll be more than happy to send him on his way.

I jump out of the truck and almost slam the door, until I remember my trusty sidekick who’s done nothing wrong. “Come on boy,” I speak sweetly and pat my leg. “It’s okay, Bourbon.”

He doesn’t believe me, his doggy “sixth sense” on point. As are his ears and the hairs along his back, but he slowly obeys and hesitantly jumps out.

“Gatlin! Gatlin, where are you?” I scream, my own extra sense telling me he’s near.

“Hey,” he comes walking out of the barn, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “Why the hollering? Everything all right?”

I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head. “You tell me.”

“Okay?” He gives me a slow, fluid perusal, then meets my eyes, his own brimming with confusion. “You’re not bleeding, or crying, so yes…everything is fine?” Smartass. His lip twitches with mirth, but I don’t fall for the playful charm lighting up his face and remain guarded.

“Anybody been by, asking about buying this farm?” I’m seething, but at the same time, almost hoping he says yes. Nothing would help me release some pent-up anger like a fight with Keaton Cash.

“No, why?”

“Just asking. If anyone does, or you hear any talk, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Of course I will. What’s going on?” He cocks his head.

“Nothing. Yet. Just be sure and tell me.” My words are clipped and venomous.

“You got it. That all? I have work to do.” His tone is resigned as he turns to go.

Well shit. The day’s still young and yet I’ve managed to be rude to the two people helping me most. Because of him. I sigh and dig deep. I’m a lot of things—bitter, angry, guilt-ridden—but I’m not prideful. I owe him an apology.

“Gatlin, I’m sorry for being a bitch. It was uncalled for and not about you at all. Just, a bad day.”

“You’re not near as bitchy as you give yourself credit for, Henley. If that’s your worst, I think I’ll survive.” He turns back to me and grins. I’m forgiven.

I’m. Forgiven. A concept very foreign to me, one that even if true times before, I refused to acknowledge.

I don’t know what to do with it, so I act on habit and ignore my feelings. And quickly offer, “You hungry? I can make us some lunch.”

“I could eat. Want to go into town and grab something?”

God, no. I’d rather eat a patch of the front lawn that sit in Ashfall’s only diner, but something tells me he already knows that, and his offer was empty politeness.

“I think here’s just fine. Let me see what I can whip up.” I smile, feeling just a pinch of unfamiliar pride that I sensibly worked myself through a problem and took the reins on my reaction before it got too out of hand, as I turn toward the house. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

LUNCH CONSISTED OF TWO people in a country kitchen and was still the most “social” thing I’ve done in years. My life in San Diego? I’d worked from home and ordered in more meals than not. But, I find Gatlin easy to talk to, open up with, and never feel as though he’s judging me. And he doesn’t pressure me to say more than I’m comfortable with sharing: no loaded questions, just a warm, understanding smile, and generous listening.

After we clean up the kitchen together, Gatlin says he does actually need to run into town, for what I don’t ask, so I decide to give Bourbon the trip around the farm I’d promised him. Can’t hurt to turn the cows into the back pasture and let them graze there for a while before winter hits and nothing’s green, and I know my canine companion will eagerly help me round them up.

Bourbon and I load up in my truck and head out…and while I make the drive, something dawns on me. I’m about to tackle a “farming task” all by myself. Well not all by myself, but I don’t think Bourbon will mind if I hog the credit. I’ll be damned, perhaps I paid more attention than I thought, my subconscious absorbing knowledge of what had to be done, when, and how—without my knowledge.

Maybe I could do this. Stay here and run the farm that’s been in my family for generations. I am the only one left to look out for the legacy. And no matter what’s happened in the past, it’s undeniably a legacy worth upholding, with honor.

Once I’ve driven into the field and have the north gate shut and the south gate open, I set Bourbon loose on them. If I had to guess, I’d say we’ve got close to a hundred head to move…piece of cake, right?

And as if we’ve been working together forever, the minute I start driving the truck along the left side, honking and shouting, Bourbon dashes right, barking and nipping at the cow’s legs in a warning to get moving.

“Need some help?” I hear a deep, male voice yell and look around, expecting to find Gatlin.

---