Page 3 of Wishing Hearts

“What, don’t think that’s fair?” I ask, shaking my head. “He had no right treatin’ these animals this way.”

I toss my napkin onto my plate. I couldn’t stomach eating much, but the food from Nash’s in town was dang good.

“I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong,” Carl says.

“But?”

“No buts,” my coworker replies, and I huff a laugh.

“You boys ’bout done here?” Tilda asks, coming over to our table, clipboard in hand.

“Geez, Tilly. We just sat down,” I tease, grabbing my glass of water before chugging what’s left. “But yeah. We’re done.”

“Speak for yourself,” Carl says, mouth full. He holds up a BBQ rib. “I’m still workin’.”

“Well, I’m done,” I say, standing up and grabbing my trash. I toss it into the bin beside the table as a man passes by. My head swivels around in time to catch his denim-clad ass walking away, and I stop still, staring and not caring one bit about it.

Hot damn.

The man, dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a well-worn cowboy hat, stops at the drink station nearby and fills a cup with lemonade. He downs the contents before taking off his hat and fanning himself with it. The motion makes the muscles in his arm ripple, thank you very much, and then, just when I can’t take the suspense any longer, he turns enough for me to get a glimpse of his face, lit golden by the midday sun.

Good. Lord.

My heart plain swoons right inside my chest.

“Dibs!” I call out, shooting my hand high into the air.

“I’m sorry. What now?” Tilda asks, following my line of sight.

I point at the man, who’s now walking away, his hat back atop his head. “That one. He’s mine. I’m callin’ dibs.”

Carl huffs out a laugh, and I turn his way, narrowing my eyes. His own shoot wide before he holds up his BBQ-covered hands. “Hey, you know I’m straight.”

“I don’t care, Carl. I need you to acknowledge my dibs ’cause that man could bend a crowbar.”

“All yours, Sammy,” he says in a rush.

Satisfied, I turn to Tilda and raise an eyebrow.

Tilda shakes her head, a little smile at the corner of her mouth. “Gonna lick the boy, Sammy?”

“That’s the plan,” I acknowledge.

“Aw, geez,” Carl moans.

Tilda shakes her head when I continue staring. “Hun, he’s all yours. I’m married; you know that. And that man is much too young for my taste.”

“Well, then,” I say, dusting my hands off on my pants. “Tilly, I need information.”

“Name’s Doctor Bailey,” she says, smile still in place. “He’s workin’ with the sheep.”

“Who else is on sheep?” I ask, straightening my hat.

“Carl is,” she answers.

I look at Carl, and he holds up his hands again in surrender. “You can ’ave ’em,” he mumbles around his food.

“Tilly?” I ask.

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