Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

Barrett nods.

“Well, that’s good, because I just so happen to know that the owner of Bertha is askin’ well over market value.”

Barrett’s eyes widen and his big beer belly shakes with hilarity. “Whatever Fisher Ford’s grandson did to you must have been terrible.”

“What makes you think he did anything to me?” I hedge.

“No woman I know lets that little piece of the devil that lives inside of her out for any other reason, darlin’. You’ve got it written all over your pretty little face. Just tell me, what did he do to deserve your wrath?”

I roll my eyes. “I swear, you gossip more than Marybeth Perkins after bingo night. You’re the one that told him we could start on it right away when I know I told you I wasn’t startin’ this shit until I was good and ready, so maybe I should be takin’ this out on you? You want to continue this blabbermouth session or you wanna help me pull this heap of shit out?”

Barrett’s eyes ping from me to the old flathead engine, back and forth, a few times before he gives me a nod. I wait, knowing he’s about to open his big mouth again. Two minutes later, he puts his tools down and turns to me, but I just lift my greasy hand and snap out a loud and emphatic no.

We work.

- -

Six long-as-hell hours later, Davis Auto Works is locked up tight and I’m in my baby headed to the ranch. Well, one of my babies. I’m a truck snob, it’s true, but I can’t seem to part with any of the beauties I bring back to life long after they’ve been abandoned. My old shrink used to tell me that I was trying to make up for my own issues with abandonment by hunting out these forgotten gems, latching onto them, and pouring all of my love and care into them. I left her practice when she hinted that maybe my “unhealthy” hobbies were doing me more harm than good.

I don’t deny I have issues, but I would be hard-pressed to find a single soul in the whole big-ass world who doesn’t. I’ve come a long damn way in working past those dang issues, too; then all it takes is one gusty blast from the past to kick up dust as a harsh reminder that you can polish the past until the wood shines, but the grime always settles back in.

The gates to the Davis ranch hit my vision at the same time a deep rush of air escapes my lips, the discontent I feel echoing around the silent cab. I see Clay’s truck parked in his normal spot and pull Harriett, my 1969 Chevrolet C10, in next to his brand-new, offensively shiny, Chevy Silverado . . . that he won’t let me touch.

“Didn’t expect you home this early,” Clay rumbles from his perch on one of the porch’s old rocking chairs.

“Cramps,” I mumble, shutting Harriett’s door just a little harder than normal and reminding myself not to stomp as I turn to climb up the porch steps.

“Just because you think I get grossed out by all things menstrual, sugar, I’m not lettin’ this drag on anymore. You had ‘cramps’ two weeks ago when I was doin’ payroll at D.A.W. and I might have a dick between my legs, not knowin’ much about that shit, but I’m pretty sure they don’t last this long.”

“You want to compare cycles?” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Don’t start that man-period shit, Quinny. Come tell me what’s got you runnin’ around like you’ve got a burr stuck in your ass. You’ve been avoidin’ me.”

I don’t move. My spine straightens and I lock my knees, defiance written all over my face.

Clay narrows his gaze. “Didn’t work when you were seven and wanted a cookie, damn sure ain’t gonna work when you’re twenty-seven and want to act like a sulkin’ brat. I know you ain’t talkin’ to Leigh, because I asked. She said you’ve been actin’ fine around her. I know you don’t want to talk to Maverick because you’re still worried he’s gonna disappear again if he feels any kind of discord here, which sugar, that’s some shit. You know he’s settin’ down roots God himself couldn’t rip up. You got me, babe, and last I checked, I wasn’t the worst option.”

I deflate instantly, something Clay picks up on, because he drops the legs he had resting on the porch rail, his boots slapping against the wood with a loud bang that makes me jump. He stands to his full height and erases the distance between us, towering over me as always, wrapping me in his comforting arms.

He’s been my hero since I was a baby. He stepped up when it became clear the Davis siblings could only count on each other and made sure I was protected, loved, and sheltered. In many ways, he’s more of a father to me than my own ever was, and even if I had tried to build that gap with our late father before his death, this special connection would only ever be with Clay.

“I’m a mess, Clay,” I whisper softly against his flannel shirt. His arms spasm around me, but he doesn’t release his hold.

“Nah, you’re not a mess, sugar, just a little dusty.”

I smile into his shirt, breathe in the familiar scent of earth and leather, before stepping back to gesture to the row of rocking chairs. “Might as well get cozy for this.”

Clay’s eyes flicker, but other than that he doesn’t give me a clue to what he’s thinking.

“Remember Tate Montgomery? Fisher and Emilie Ford’s grandson?” I ask after we both settle into our seats. The slow rolling of the wooden rocker gliding against the porch floor dances through the air around us, making me aware of the silence emanating from my big brother.

“Yup,” he finally answers, low and menacing.

“He’s . . . resurfacin’,” I continue, figuring that’s a damn good way of explaining his return.

“Meaning? He’s comin’ to settle out some things his paw left or something a little more . . . indefinite?”

“I would say the former.”

Clay hisses a breath through his teeth, the sound harsh and sharp. “That what has you actin’ like a lost pup?”