Page 11 of Up in Smoke

“Yes! B will be so happy.” Savannah smiles and pulls me in for a hug. “And me too, of course. I’ll send you the address. Is seven good for you?”

“Isn’t that a little late at night for a dress fitting?”

“Well, the planner wants to see the dresses and suits tried on together. The boys work until after dark this time of year. They missed all their appointments at the tailor—shocker—and this is kind of our last option. You can come earlier if you want, though. I’ll be there.”

I shrug. “Seven is fine, I guess. Drop me a pin.”

My phone chimes with a notification a second later, and I pick it up to save the location she sent. My stomach drops like a block of cement sinking to the muddy bottom of a lake when I see the batch of emails and app-related project notifications right under it.

The filtered sunlight creeping in through my wavy old windows feels too bright, all of a sudden. Every heartbeat thuds in my chest loud enough to drown out the sound of the wine bottle opening just a few feet away.

It’s silly to be stuck in a state of overwhelm like this when it comes to work. I’m tougher than that. But I’m also nearing thirty years old, which means I’ve learned enough about myself as a person to recognize what sparks joy and what doesn’t.

Banning romantic entanglements for myself and backpedaling to the world of corporate demands sparks nothing but despondency, so I’m afraid I’m off track for the time being.

Oh, and I think I just felt a motherloving cramp. What a time to be alive.

I swipe angrily at the screen, clearing most of the unwanted notifications. After finally clicking on the link from Savannah, my maps app pulls up to reveal a massive plot of land only a few miles from here.

The edge of the property is six minutes away. I bookmark the address labeled “Prairie Rose Ranch.”

4

TRIPP

“Don’t be a little bitch.She’s not gonna kill you.”

Well, she might. Better him than me, though.

“I’m not,” Heston spits. “I’m trying to find the right tag.”

“Hurry up, then!” I grit my teeth, attempting to hold the calf and keep an eye on her angry cow at the same time. Furious might be a more accurate description.

Working chutes are suddenly my favorite modern invention. If Gage weren’t such a tightwad, we’d have one in the north pasture. Instead, he’s cosplaying as a bullfighter to keep the cow from drilling me into the ground while Heston tries to tag the bundle of black fur in my arms.

There’s no easy way to tag newborns in an open pasture. Our current approach involves getting a little punchy with a rope and quick feet. When Heston steps up next to me and the tagger finally clicks, I release the calf immediately. It hops to the side, kicking its back legs in the air. Gage takes off at a sprint in my peripheral.

“Run, boys!” he shouts over his shoulder with a laugh.

Heston grabs the back collar of my shirt to pull me to my feet, and we take off toward the Kubota. We no sooner jump intothe back when the cow skids to a stop on the ground behind us, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

Her disapproving huff makes me flinch. Every year, without fail, we procrastinate and leave her calf for last. We really outdid ourselves this time, though. It’s practically dark out.

She might be the best cow in the herd. Of course, she’s protective of her babies and is the most likely to smash your skull into the nearest cactus, too. I call her Sugar.

My body jolts back as Gage hops in the driver’s seat and takes off. Heston nearly flies out of the bed, but he grabs the light bar on top of the cab at the last second.

I place one hand on the top of my head to keep my hat from flying off. “We should have brought the horses.”

“You’re not wrong,” Heston agrees, shouting through gusts of wind.

Golden light spills over the freshly emerged spring grass in the pasture ahead of us. With the sun dipping just behind the tree line, and little specks of cows grazing in the distance, it’s a view I wish I could frame. There’s a certain feeling out here, a rare contradiction of wild and quiet, that I’m attached to.

Everything around me has started to shift lately, but not this place. Not my home.

We hit several bumps, but Gage doesn’t bother slowing down. He’d love nothing more than to throw one of us off.

I have no room to talk. Last summer, I hit an armadillo while driving with Gage sitting on the front of the four-wheeler. It may have ended in a row of stitches.

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