“Shelly Bean?” Gram shouts. “Was that the phone at this hour?”
My frown flips around.
It’s nice knowing neither age nor surgery has diminished her hearing or her voice. I click off the light and walk to her room, opening the door. Knowing she’ll want to check caller ID in the morning, I say, “Sorry, Gram. I accidentally called the landline.”
“Okay, honey. Thank you. What were you doing on the phone this late?”
Remembering the unopened text, I say, “Um, just texting a friend. I dropped my phone and hit the wrong button.”
“Ah, well, sweet dreams, dearie.”
“Night, Gram.”
I close the door. While walking back to my room, I finally look at the text to see who it’s from.
My heart starts galloping again.
All these years later, and I still know that number by heart.
It was the first number I ever put in my first cell phone that I’d gotten for my fourteenth birthday, and I’ve transferred it to every phone I’ve had since.
Evidently, his number hasn’t changed in years.
I’m almost afraid to see what his message says. So I draw a deep, fortifying breath before I tap the screen to open it.
I’m sorry, Rachel. Sincerely. I never meant to tear your head off tonight. You’re a grown woman and you’ve been gone for so long. It’s hard to pound it through my head that you don’t need my help. Trust me, I will.
Such simple words shouldn’t make my throat plug up.
Oh, but they do.
I want to smack my own forehead. Why am I such a pushover when it comes to Weston McKnight?
I contemplate what I should send back—if anything—but I’m still distracted by what just went down outside.
What was Carson doing out there in a restricted area wandering around so late?
What if Weston was right—damn him—and there’s something odd about this guy?
Sighing, I tuck the thick homemade blanket around my shoulders, burrowing into a cocoon that feels safe from the world and its mounting problems.
Since I’m not sleeping right now, I’d might as well text him back to get my mind off what just happened.
Typing under the blankets, I tap out a few words.
You were always hardheaded, West. Just don’t let it make your brain a rock and we’re good.
A frown pulls my lips down.
I mean, technically, we’re anything but good.
But the fact that he apologized and owned up to his mistake means one less reason to toss and turn all night.
Lord knows he’s given me plenty of reasons for far too long.
8
The Name’s Mud (Weston)