Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

Instantly, I know one thing I have to do, even if I don’t have all the answers just yet.

I spend the next couple of hours editing the photos of the Tannens and Bennetts. I print them on the huge printer I brought with me from the city, back when I’d figured some podunk town wouldn’t have decent professional photography printing options. This machine was something I couldn’t leave behind in my old life, and now I’m glad it’s here in my time of desperate need because I’d been right about the printing here. Only the drugstore has a machine that can do same-day printing. Otherwise, it’s all online and wait for shipping. And I can’t wait, not even a single day.

I print each shot, perfect and pristine, real and raw. Laying them in gift boxes, I separate them with tissue paper so they’re protected on their journey. One bigger box for Mama Louise, and smaller boxes for each woman with her private pictures. I find a shirt I don’t wear anymore and cut it to shreds, using it as a makeshift bow around the stack of boxes.

Thirty minutes later, before I can second guess myself again, I’m pulling up to the Bennett house. It’s late afternoon, well before dinner time, so I shouldn’t have to see the Tannens or Bennetts. Except for the one I’m here to see.

I step on the porch and knock with the toe of my tennis shoe, my arms too full to ring the bell properly.

Through the screen door, I see Mama Louise’s head pop around the corner from the kitchen. “Willow?” She hurries toward the door. “I wondered who in the world was knocking on my door and not waltzing on in like everyone always does. Come on in, dear.”

Her smile is welcoming, as if she doesn’t know that everything has changed. But she must know. This family is too close to keep secrets. The whole town is too close for secrets.

“Hi. Sorry to stop by unannounced, but I wanted to . . .” I clear my throat, not sure what I was going to say. Finally, I shove the boxes her way. “Here.”

Her brow furrows, and she wipes her hands on her jeans. “What’s this?”

“They’re for you, for all of you. Well, except the ones that are for each girl. Those are private.”

“Oh,” Mama Louise says, smiling as if she knows exactly what’s in those pictures. Actually, she might. The girls might’ve told her about our boudoir shoot too. Or maybe she just knows, the way she knows everything—like she plucks it out of your brain without your saying a single word.

“Can I open them now?” she asks, eyeing the ribbon like a kid on Christmas morning.

I shake my head vehemently. “No, please. I can’t . . . I don’t want to . . . Just . . . wait, okay?” I stammer, unable to explain that while I was editing, I could look at them with an objective eye, not letting my heart get too involved. But seeing them here, in this house, through Mama Louise’s eyes, is something I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle right now.

“Sure, dear. Of course. Sit down and let me get you some watermelon fresca. It’s Shay’s recipe, sells out every time she makes a batch.”

You can’t say no to Mama Louise. Or at least I can’t. So I find myself sinking into a chair at the small kitchen table as she grabs two glasses and fills them with pink liquid from a jug in the refrigerator.

She sits down beside me and takes a healthy drink, sighing loudly, “Ahh, that’s good stuff. Been out in the barn this morning helping Luke muck out stalls, so this hits the spot.”

Small talk. Bless this amazing woman, she’s letting me hide the way I want to.

“I’m sure he appreciated the help.”

“Stubborn men always do, even though they’re not good at telling you so.” For some reason, I get the feeling she’s talking about Unc more than about Luke. “Though Luke isn’t my most stubborn boy, by far.”

I smile, trying to decide which Bennett man she’s talking about. Or Tannen, I guess. She doesn’t seem to differentiate. They’re all her kids to care for, even if they’re six-foot-plus tall, wide as a doorway men who can handle themselves just fine. They’re still her boys.

“Love them all, each and every one, I do,” she murmurs around another sip. I get the feeling she’s dancing me the direction she wants to go, taking this conversation to a destination she wants regardless of whether I want to discuss it or not.

I hum in agreement, not fighting her resolve. Get this over with, Mama Louise. Yell at me, tell me how disappointed you are, whatever it is . . . rip the Band-Aid off so I can leave and lick my fresh wounds again.