Page 121 of Lost Then Found
I tip my beer to my lips, letting the cold settle deep, easing the tightness in my muscles from a long-ass day. Ridge is parked on an overturned bucket, rolling his bottle between his palms, boots planted wide. Witt’s leaning against the truck, looking way too satisfied for someone who barely broke a sweat today. Duke’s perched on the porch steps we just rebuilt, shaking his head at something Ridge just said.
“You still piss sittin’ down, Witt?” Ridge asks, tipping his beer toward him.
Witt scowls, kicking a piece of scrap wood in Ridge’s direction. “That was one time. I got stung by a wasp. Near my junk. Excuse me for needinga minute to recover.”
Duke exhales through his nose, clearly holding back a laugh. “So you’re tellin’ me that if I check the cameras at the barn, I won’t see you hidin’ in a stall every time we’re out fencin’ for more than an hour?”
Witt throws up a hand. “Y’all act like it’s a crime to have standards. I don’t take a leak out in the wind like some damn savage.”
Ridge shakes his head, unimpressed. “Unreal.”
“I’m not the only one,” Witt argues, looking at me for backup.
I take another slow sip of my beer. “Not getting in the middle of this.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re a professional,” Duke says. “Witt here don’t know a damn thing about hard work.”
Witt scoffs. “You ever notice how the laziest sons of bitches on the ranch are the ones who love to talk the most shit?”
“Damn right I talk shit,” Duke says. “I work my ass off. Unlike some people who always gotta ‘take a quick call’ right when the hay needs unloading.”
Witt glares. “How was I supposed to know my mom was calling?”
“You answered and said, ‘what’s up, baby?’” Ridge points out.
Witt levels a finger at him. “Maybe my mom and I have a close relationship. Ever think about that?”
I shake my head, half-listening, half somewhere else entirely.
It’s been days since I’ve had a real conversation with Lark. I texted her the other night to let her know I was picking up Hudson from practice. She responded with a thumbs up emoji.
A damn emoji.
I’ve been trying to give her space. Let her come to me. But she’s not, and I can’t stop thinking about going to see her anyway.
A distant rumble of tires on gravel pulls me out of it.
The four of us turn toward the driveway as a sleek black sedan eases up the path, too polished, too pristine to belong to anyone from around here.
Ridge squints, setting his beer aside. “That’s not exactly ranch-friendly transportation.”
Witt pushes off the lumber pile, brushing sawdust fromhis jeans. “Shit. Is someone here goin’ to jail?”
Duke watches the car roll to a stop. “Reckon we’re gonna find out.”
The car door swings open, and a woman steps out. Petite, sharp-featured, dark hair that barely grazes her shoulders, pants that look expensive, and a blouse that was probably worth more than my entire grocery bill last month. Big sunglasses cover half her face, and the bag slung over her shoulder screams designer in a way that doesn’t belong anywhere near sawdust and cattle shit.
Who thehell?
She steps forward, all confidence, raising a hand in an easy wave.
“Hi, Booney!”
Oh god. I groan internally. I should’ve known.
Ridge lets out a low whistle beside me. “She’s hot.”
“She would absolutely eat you alive.”
