Whiskey Moon

“Do you ever go to our old place?” I ask, biting my lip and resting my chin against my hand as I study the way the warm sunlight washes over him from this angle. “The line shack?”

Just the mere mention of it sends a thrill down my spine. Secluded and private, it was a little piece of heaven on earth even if it looked like it hadn’t been occupied in fifty years and smelled of woodfire smoke and must.

“I do,” he says. “I actually live there.”

My jaw all but hits the floor. He lives there?

I contain my shock and fire off a follow-up question. “What made you want to do that?”

“It was free,” he says, and I’m reminded of the comment my father made last week, that their farm was mortgaged to death. “And I wanted to.”

“So out of the dozens of line shacks on your family’s property, you chose … that one.” I give him a sideways glance.

“I did.”

“Okay, then.” I know better than to make assumptions or to ask for an inkling of an explanation.

Still, I can’t help but wonder …

16

Wyatt

* * *

I grab an ice-cold beer from my fridge, pop the top, and down half the thing before the door has a chance to float shut. The second it does, I’m greeted with the old photo I’ve stared at a million times before, but tonight it hits differently. Plucking the shiny image from the magnet, I carry it to the chair by the bed, kick my feet up, and take another sip from my can.

Today was the second day Blaire showed up on the ranch and tagged along from chore to chore, only this time she didn’t bring up the past. Not once. We spent the day swapping stories, painting pictures of what the last ten years have been like for each of us. I played along with her little game, pretending it didn’t kill me to hear about everything I’ve missed out on.

There were times over the years that I thought about looking her up, telling her everything, and putting an end to Oliver’s hold over us. But I couldn’t do that to Mama. I couldn’t sacrifice everything she has and everything we’ve worked for because I can’t get over the only girl I’ve ever loved.

Mama’s paid me a modest salary every year for running the farm, and given that my expenses are negligible, I’ve been saving and investing every last dime. I’ve got a decent amount sitting in the bank—not enough to buy back the ranch, but enough to buy a small acreage should we find ourselves homeless one day for whatever reason.

I finish my beer, place the photo on my nightstand, and take a lukewarm shower before climbing into bed.

Blaire said she’d come back tomorrow.

It’s only a matter of time before her father realizes we’re talking again—assuming he doesn’t already know.

My grandfather always used to say that if you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.

I’ve got to put a stop to this before it gets out of control, before it becomes a wildfire beyond containment.

17

Blaire

* * *

“And just where might you be running off to this morning?” My father stops me by the front door, today’s copy of The Wall Street Journal under one arm and a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

“Just … meeting up with old friends again,” I say.

I haven’t yet told him I’ve been spending time with Wyatt. Not because I don’t want him to know, but because after the heart to heart we had the other night, I don’t think he’d understand. That and he’d likely lecture me. A handful of the comments he’s made about Wyatt have been less than flattering, hinting that he didn’t amount to much of anything and that his family is struggling financially. But he doesn’t see what I’ve seen—his family is thriving. They’re happy and healthy. And I don’t know many men who would come to the aid of their grieving mother to save the family farm.

“You’ve been quite the social butterfly lately,” he says.

“Ten years is a long time to be gone. Guess everyone wants to catch up …”

He studies me from behind his tortoiseshell glasses, a curious half-smile on his face.

“I was going to stop at that little coffee shop on Hillside … I’d offer to bring you back something, but it looks like you’re all covered,” I change the subject.

“Very thoughtful of you, Blaire.” He lifts his mug. “I’ll see you back here for our walk this afternoon?”

“One hundred percent.” I give him a peck on the cheek before dashing out the door, grabbing a mocha almond milk latte (and a banana walnut muffin for Wyatt), and heading to the ranch.

Less than a week ago, I was yelling at him for breaking my heart.

Now I come bearing gifts.