Page 53 of Rough Cowboy
He lowers himself to sit back down, and she stops him. “If you want to stay for the day, there will be no more talk about Silver and me. Understood?”
“Life is harder if you’re stupid,” he drawls heavily.
“Exactly.” Elsie leans close to his face. “And mentioning us will make your life very hard, and I will start by revealing your not-so-grumpy collection.”
I’ve never seen Grumpy Wayne’s face turn pale as a ghost and then poker red within seconds.He nods in agreement, and she allows him to sit.
“What’s the grumpy collection?” Rita fills a wine glass with her secret liquid—which isn’t a secret at all.
Grumpy Wayne’s bushy eyebrows draw together, narrowing a glare at her. “Life is harder if you’re stupid.”
“Why are y’all here?” Elsie tears open another drop sheet.
Rita sets her wine on the cart and assists in peeling open another drop cloth. “It’s paint week. Everyone is coming.”
Elsie peeks above the white plastic. “What do you mean paint week?” Her tone lowers to a growl. “What do you mean, everyone?”
“Whoever answered the call tree.” Rita stomps on the drop sheet she randomly sets in the middle of the room. Her heels pierce the plastic, defeating the purpose.
“What’s the call tree?” Elsie asks.
“It’s the town’s hierarchal communication system to spread the news through town. It’s been around long before texting and emails. Woman, you’re making this drop cloth useless.” I pick up Rita around her waist and lift her off the plastic.
“I reckon it’ll be a full house.” Mayor Thomas peels a sticker from his pad and presses it against Rita’s upper shoulder. “You’re in charge of drinks. Non-alcoholic drinks. Supplies for sweet tea are in the kitchen. “All the town has been chattering about for two weeks is the Walker ranch reopening. It consumed last week’s town hall meetin’, and we don’t have a darn thing to do with it.” He peeks off a sticker and slaps it on my chest. “You’re in charge of height. Finding ladders. Paint edging. That sort of thing.”
Who the hell put the mayor in charge? My guess is he did.
“Who starts the call tree?” Elsie’s fingers wrinkle the plastic she’s fisting.
“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.” He nods at the Quylt sisters on the outside patio unfolding lawn chairs.
“I knew it.” Elsie throws the plastic, which only tangles around her.
She has a growling fight with the sheet as she attempts to yank off the clinging plastic. When it finally lands on the ground, she marches toward Wilma and Faye.
I catch her arm. “Hold up, now.”
“I’m going to kill them. Then I’m going to kill your brother. And you”—her eyes slide to where my hands grips her—”you’re in the mix too.”
“Come on.” I guide her to the hallway.
When I open her bedroom door, she pulls out of my grasp. “I am not going back in there with you. All I get are lies to get into my pants.”
I don’t remind her she was the one who wanted to bang and not write poems.
She stomps to the far end of the hallway, and I follow. We pass Sammy’s bedroom, and she swings open a door with a dangerously narrow staircase.
“I don’t think you should be going up there.”
She ignores my heed and tramps up the stairs.
“Careful now.” I rush behind her, extending my arms, ready to steady her if she trips.
The risers vary in height, and the depth of the steps barely fits the ball of my foot.
She slows at the sharp twist at the top and disappears into an unfinished attic.
My head nearly hits the exposed rafters along the peaked roof. I’ve never even noticed the attic on the far end of the ranch house. It’s unusual for ranch houses to have an attic or basement. And basements are more common.
