Page 13 of Up in Smoke

My eyes catch on a rack of suits as I stroll into the kitchen. I twist my expression just thinking about how suffocating they’re going to feel compared to what I’m used to. Most of the shirts I own and wear this time of year don’t even have sleeves.

“This should be interesting,” I mumble while screwing the top off a beer and heading down the hall for a shower.

5

MESA

I squint,putting my car in park a few yards shy of the locked barrier.

Is this the entrance to the ranch or a high-security prison? It’s hard to tell considering the small cameras and intimidating gate. The wooden sign hanging above reads, “Prairie Rose Ranch,” which tells me I must be in the right place.

I’veheard thingsabout what happened here last winter. I haven’t lived here full-time for long, but I spent my fair share of weekends in Westridge before my official move. Small-town gossip is impossible to stop, and word travels to any newcomers pretty quickly.

I don’t make a habit of indulging in the juiciest local rumors exchanged at book club, but I’ll admit the story is intriguing. Four men and a shootout with an organized crime boss, allegedly. Is this where those guys live?

I huff out a laugh. That’s just ridiculous.

Surely, I was fed an exaggerated version of the story. I make a mental note to ask Savvy about it later as I dial her number on my phone. It only takes one ring for her to answer my call a moment later.

“Hey!”

“Sorry I’m so late. I’m here,” I say, scanning my surroundings. “I think. But I can’t get in. Is there a key or a code or something?”

“Oh, of course! I’ll text you the code.”

The line clicks, and a text from her comes through instantly. I roll down my window and reach out to type in the code, but it’s too far away. Unbuckling my seat belt and hanging my body halfway out of the car to reach it was an interesting choice, in hindsight.

I could have just opened the door. But it’s pitch black out here, and I was born and raised in Texas, where it’s common knowledge that critters run rampant at night. Better safe than sorry.

Before I wiggle my way back into the driver’s seat, a buzzing sound comes from overhead. I crane my neck toward the security camera rotating to fixate on me when the gate suddenly creaks loud enough to break glass.

“For fuck’s sake!” I squeal as it automatically swings away from my car.

It’s not possible to take in any real details of the land in the dark. I try to catch a glimpse of the infamous place anyway as I drive slowly up the lane lined by a long fence on either side.

My headlight beams catch several cows in the pasture as I pass, and I tamp down the urge to park and see if they’ll let me pet them. Savannah would laugh at that, I’m sure. She’s used to this kind of stuff now since her boyfriend worked here at one point and is good friends with the guys who still do.

Out of the several barns and jumbo shed-like buildings, one looks more homey. The welcome mat and warm sconce lights on either side of the door are a good sign. Among several mismatched vehicles, a string of black SUVs are parked right out front.

“Nice,” I whisper with raised brows as I spot a vintage powder blue Bronco on the end.

I park next to it and then take off at a sprint toward the door like a spooked cat. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if I just walked inside like any other friendly visitor would, but I should probably catch my breath and knock instead.

Despite being on the other side of the door, faint murmurs carry through. Several people are inside, from what it sounds like. My closed fist raps just beneath a simple green wreath. It takes a minute, but Savannah finally opens the door and greets me with a welcoming smile.

“You don’t have to knock, silly!”

“Well, I didn’t want to get shot at.”

“Fair enough,” a familiar voice sounds from behind her. Warren quirks an eyebrow, and I offer a small wave. We’ve crossed paths several times since Savannah and I became friends.

He’s the same tall, dark blonde, and dimpled country boy that I remember. Countryman, I should say. It’s anyone’s guess how many hay bales he’s thrown to get arms and shoulders like that.

He’s a little tooboy next doorfor my personal taste, so nothing about his looks have ever affected me beyond simple appreciation. Plus, he’s perfect for Savannah. From what I’ve experienced, he treats her like she hung all nine hundred moons in the universe.

“Come on in,” Savannah urges. She grabs my hand, and I squeeze it a few times with a smile.

“I’m so glad you could come,” she whispers as we walk through the living room. “She may seem calm, but any minute now, B is going to start spiraling over the risk of her friend’s dress not fitting.”

---