Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
The road stretches ahead: open fields, fence lines, distant cattle grazing. I know every bend and bump, but today, I’m distracted.
“How far is town?”
“Twenty-three miles.”
She laughs lightly. “Not twenty or twenty-five?”
I tap the list in my pocket. “Details matter.”
She glances sideways at me. “Yeah, they do.”
“Do they matter to you? Like, this article you’re writing about us… is the truth important, or how salacious you can make it to sell copies.”
“The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” She grins, flashing her pretty white teeth behind her pretty red-lipsticked smile.
“If you can make anything about this ranch salacious, you’ll deserve a Pulitzer.”
She laughs, and Beau lets out a soft groan of contentment, curling tighter into her lap.
I keep my eyes on the road and let the silence return as we roll towards town, but Grace doesn’t leave it that way for long. By the time we reach our destination, she’s going to know my inside leg measurement. But nothing in this life comes for free. She’s going to have to tell me a lot about her, too.
***
Foster’s General is already busy. Two pickups, a battered sedan, and Mrs. Alvarez’s ancient Buick crowd the tiny parking lot.
I pull in neatly between the lines. Grace is still stroking Beau’s ears absentmindedly as I kill the engine.
I slide my list from my pocket and shake it out. “We stick to the list.”
Grace nods solemnly. “Scout’s honor.”
I don’t believe her for a second, and that thought makes me smile.
Inside, the bell above the door jingles, and every head turns. Conversations stop, but not because of me. I’m here twice a week. I’m invisible. Just another dusty cowboy. They’re looking at her.
Grace smiles in her trademark bright and open way, like she belongs anywhere she stands. She draws people in, and Beau trots in behind her, tail wagging like a traitor waving a white flag to switch sides.
I sigh and head for the feed aisle. Grace follows, eyes wide, brushing fingers along the old wood shelves lined with dusty tins and glass candy jars like she’s awed from stepping into another century.
“Morning, Lennon,” old man Foster says from behind the counter, pushing his wireframes up his nose. As his gaze flicks to Grace, his brow rises.
“Morning,” I say, ticking items off mentally. “You have the order?”
Foster disappears into the back.
I glance sideways at Grace. She’s crouched, scratching Beau behind the ears again as he sprawls shamelessly in the middle of the floor.
“Does he ever leave you alone?” I mutter.
She grins. “He knows what’s good for him.”
A few locals walk by, nodding politely, eyes lingering curiously on Grace before moving on. Small towns run on information. There will be talk by sunset of the girl with shiny chestnut hair and red-painted lips. Is she like a pinup girl from the fifties or a modern-day harlot? The jury will be out.
Grace straightens, catching me staring, wondering if her lips taste like fruit. Strawberries. Or maybe cherries. “What?”
I blink. “Nothing. We’ve got three more stops.”
She mock salutes. “Lead on, Captain Lennon.”
I shake my head and head toward the door. Beau scrambles up and follows so close to her hip that it’s like they’ve always belonged to each other. Like he’s a K-9, and she’s SWAT.
I adjust the list in my hand and keep walking.
We stop at Torry’s to pick up the parcel.
I know exactly where to go. In. Out. Minimal interaction. Avoid looking at the clothes and boots. That’s the plan.
Torry spots me from behind the counter, her silver braid swinging as she turns. “Got something for you, Lennon. Dylan called it in yesterday.”
She disappears into the back and returns with a long, narrow box wrapped in plain brown paper tied with twine.
Grace is fingering a woman’s plaid shirt that’s tied at the waist. It’d look good on her, but I don’t encourage her to buy it. It isn’t my place. Instead, I take the box carefully, my fingers automatically tightening around the rough string.
Grace tilts her head. “What’s in it?”
“I have no idea.”
Her eyes narrow, reading me in a way that unnerves me, but she doesn’t push. Just rests her hand lightly on Beau’s back as he pants happily at her side.
I tuck the box under my arm, smarting with the unfamiliar weight of secrecy, and turn toward the door.
The next stop is the grocery store. Again, I have a system. Canned goods. Coffee that’s better than what we can get at Fosters. Fruits and vegetables we can’t grow ourselves. In and out. But Grace stops at the bulk candy bins, eyes lighting up.
“Lennon. They have taffy.” She reaches for a scoop before I can stop her. “And sour worms. And lemon drops. The kids will love these.”
I frown. “They’re not on the list.”
She scoops anyway. “Consider it a morale booster.”
Beau flops at her feet, tongue out, tail sweeping the dusty tile.