Oh, shit.
She’s talking about my grandpa’s lever-action Winchester rifle.
“The rifle? You’re sure?” My shoulders square with tension.
“I may be old but I’m not blind! God, yes, I’m positive. I called Drake a minute before I called you and he’s coming over to have a look right now.”
“I’m on my way,” I say, ending the call.
“What’s wrong?” Marty asks, poking his head into the kitchen.
“Aunt Faye. Sounds like someone broke into her house and stole the old Winchester.”
“Oh, goodness!” Thelma says from the other room, overhearing us.
“I’m sorry, guys, but I have to get over there,” I say, heading back to the dining room. “She’s really upset. Plus, we’d better make sure nothing else got smashed up or taken.”
“I’m so sorry,” Shelly mouths, hanging her head.
“I’ll go with,” Marty says.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Thelma says sternly, pulling him back by the pocket of his jeans. “Shelly Bean, go with Weston while we clean up. Faye needs a lady to calm her down—and these two lunks might be good for plenty but they’re not so good at that. Will you?”
“Absolutely,” she tells her grandmother.
Those big green eyes never leave mine, swollen with concern.
So much for old times.
We never had a robbery interrupt a neighborly breakfast, and I never had to worry about what my own dumbass might do in close proximity to my best friend’s little sister.
9
Pig In A Poke (Rachel)
I’m flipping speechless.
I haven’t seen Faye in years and want to help, but I don’t want to leave Gram and Marty rudderless with Weston in a hurry to go.
I jump to my feet, tossing a look over my shoulder at my brother. “Marty, help Gram clean up and check the guest rooms.”
I can’t say I mind turning that job over to someone today.
After last night, I’m more nervous than ever about Carson.
It’s not even the bad date or the weirdness of him creeping around so late. There are a hundred explanations for that, everything from needing a glass of water to feeling restless enough to take a walk and getting lost.
Our date certainly hadn’t ended well. I’m sure it weighed on my mind as much as his before Weston’s call swept it clear out of my head.
The thing is, I don’t really know this guy. Even after hanging around him for a few hours, relaxing over drinks and burgers, he’s basically a stranger. The conversation never drifted deep into our personal lives when he kept his motormouth running on foreign adventures and antique travel stories.
“Got it! Call me if you need me, guys,” Marty yells after us.
“Will do,” Weston says.
He takes my hand without seeming to think about it as we speed walk through the house, out the back door, and across the lawn.
“Sorry about this again,” he says. “Aunt Faye sounded pretty rattled. Thanks for coming with me. Seeing you might help get her mind off the break-in and losing the gun.”