He winks. Then glances at my feet—still in patent leather high heels. “You didn’t happen to bring boots with you, did you?”
“Of course I brought boots.” I open his closet and take out a pair of Gucci knee-high black leather boots with three-inch heels.
He lets out a long, disappointed sigh. “All right, here’s what we’ll do. After I get back, we’ll go into town to the co-op and get you a pair of decent boots.”
And I just can’t resist.
“Really, you just said that? Into town? Can Half-Pint and Mary come too, Pa?” I dissolve into a fit of giggles.
“Keep laughin’, smartass. Let’s see how funny it is when your designer shoes are covered in horseshit and mud.”
I rub my lips together, sobering. “That wouldn’t be funny.”
“It’d be a little funny.” With a smile he reaches out and traces my cheek with his thumb, then across my lower lip.
And the action is so intimate—sweet—I almost forget why I’m here.
But then I remember.
I’m Goose. The sidekick. Santa’s little helper.
I clap my hands together. “So, last minute advice: Talk to her, not at her—no woman likes getting yelled at. Ask her how things went wrong, what she thinks she can get from James Dean that she’s not getting from you. Then, tell her how you’ll make whatever changes you have to, to give her what she needs.”
He nods pensively.
“Remind her of your history—all the years you have together.” A drop of sarcasm drips into my voice. “And most importantly, show her what an amazing guy you are.”
Stanton smirks. “That last part won’t be hard at all.”
I flick the brim of his hat with more enthusiasm than I’m feeling. “Go get her, cowboy.”
He turns, but pauses in the doorway. “Thanks, Sofia. For everythin’.”
And then he’s going down the stairs. With a big breath, I sit on his bed and get to work, all the while imagining what it would’ve been like if he had stayed.
11
Stanton
I pull up the drive, climb out of my truck, and lean back against it, arms folded, taking it all in.
Jenny’s parents’ place is like the land that time forgot—it never really changes. The white paint on the house is forever peeling in the exact same spots. The big oak tree on the side still hangs the same swing I used to push her on—and still has that one perfect branch that reaches just close enough to Jenn’s window to climb through.
Her family—like mine—has worked these acres for generations. But where cattle ranching is slightly more lucrative and dependable, crop farmers like the Monroes have a tougher time. You can harvest a thousand acres of corn, but if all you’re getting is pennies a pound, there won’t be much to show for it.
“Jenny!” Nana calls from her perch on the porch. “That boy is here again.”
That boy.
Nana was never exactly my biggest fan. She always eyed me with a certain suspicion—and annoyance. The way you’d watch a fly buzzing around your food, knowing exactly what his intentions are, just waiting for him to land.
So you can smack his guts out with a newspaper.
After Jenny got pregnant—after we didn’t get married—all bets were off. Nana became downright hostile. But the shotgun that’s lying across her lap as she rocks back and forth in her wicker chair—that’s not for me.
Well . . . it’s not just for me.
Nana’s husband died when Jenn was still in diapers. Thrown from a pissed-off horse, old Henry just happened to land the wrong way at the wrong time. Nana’s kept Henry’s shotgun with her ever since—she even sleeps with it. Should the day come that robbers, hooligans, or Yankees drop from the sky, Nana’s determined to take out as many of them as she can. It’s not loaded, and every member of Jenny’s family does their damnedest to keep it that way.
Some say Nana has dementia, but I don’t believe that for a second—her mind’s as sharp as her forked tongue. I think instead of walking softly and carrying a big stick, Nana just feels better stomping loudly and carrying a goddamn shotgun.
Jenny pokes her head out the screen door—hair tied up in a messy bun, still wearing pink hospital scrubs from the night shift she just got off working. She stares at me for several moments before the worry on her face slips into a small smile.
Friendly—a little guilty—but not surprised.
Now that we’ve both had a few days to cool off from our telephone conversation, she knew I’d come. I hold up the six-pack of Budweiser, raising my brows in question.
She nods, then jerks her head toward the inside of the house. “Let me just go get changed.”
This is our tradition. Since we were sixteen years old, whenever I’d come home, when we wanted to be alone or if there was something big we had to talk about—it was a six-pack of Bud and a ride to the river.
A blanket on the bank is our therapy couch. Hasn’t failed us yet, and I have no intention of letting it fail us now.