Meredith said something similar. “Any idea?”
Carlos spreads his hands out before dropping them to slap his thighs. “If I were to guess, retirement, maybe? We’re getting older. What would he do with this place? The brewery? Work until he dies?” His face crumples. “Ah, hell. I didn’t mean?—”
“Don’t worry about it.” The irony isn’t lost on me. Neither is the melancholy. Dad was still doing what he loved when he passed, and there’s a peace in that. Years of trudging to the office have given me a new appreciation for his dedication to the Cross endeavors. “I know what you mean, Uncle Carlos.”
The muscles jump on either side of Carlos’s jaw, but he nods. “You think you would’ve ever come home?”
Home.Stepping onto Crossroads Ranch is like stepping into a well-worn pair of boots. Each morning, when I get up to work, I look forward to it in a way I never do when heading to the office. I fucking hate traffic and the stink of the city, and the longer I’m here, the more I detest the idea of being inside all day. Denver doesn’t get the winters like Scandal does, but right now, those don’t even sound bad.
Yet this isn’t my home.
“I make a nice living for myself.”
Carlos groans as he pushes off the flatbed. “Don’t want to smell cow shit every day?”
I almost admit how much I miss it. The lilacs aren’t blossoming as brightly as they were last week, but I also missed their season. And goddammit, I haven’t been on horseback yet, and I can’t leave without planting my ass in the saddle.
“Or fix the unroller when it’s twenty below,” Carlos continues. “Nothing like wrestling with a round bale when you can’t feel any part of your face or hands.”
“You’re selling it. Keep going.” I may sound like I’m joking, but frigid temps aren’t scaring me away. Not when there’s a warm house and a woman who smells like a blooming pasture in the middle of June inside of it.
My chest grows tight. When we sell, all this will go to another family. They might take the house and lease the pastures. They might build the ranch up to its former glory, with pastures full of fat and happy cattle, big stacks of round bales, and constant activity, from pickups to tractors to horses. The warm house will be theirs. Where will the woman be?
I don’t want to bring up the next issue. “Do you know if anyone stopped out yesterday?”
He scrunches his face up. “Just Sawyer. She came out to help me move the corral panels behind the barn.”
“She go in the house?”
He frowns. “I don’t think so. I know Meredith doesn’t mind if she does. Use the bathroom, grab some food, you know?”
That makes sense. She’d be the most likely one to have been in Meredith’s bedroom. No clue why. Meredith’s comment about cologne comes to mind. I have no clue what Sawyer smells like.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
Blue trots next to Carlos, runs to me, and returns to Carlos’s side. He’s herding us. Whose dog is he? He may live here, but Carlos is his human. If we sell, Carlos will probably adjust to retirement. Working here isn’t the same when his best friend is gone. Hell, he’s likely sticking around for the girls, waiting to see if my brothers or I trace our roots back to this dirt. Where would Meredith go?
“Probably. Meredith feels like someone was in the house while we were gone.”
He recoils, and confusion flushes his features. “I have no clue why they would be. I can ask around, see if anyone else complains about strangers sneaking around on their property.”
“Appreciate it.”
I split off from Carlos and arrive at the house. Meredith is absent. My bedding is folded neatly and stacked on the endtable, though Meredith doesn’t seem to use much of the house. She’d need to be home to do that.
I pass by the guest room on my way to the bathroom to clean up. The guest room door stands propped open, and I smile. The bedding is rumpled, and the pillow looks like someone whacked the middle with a hammer. She must sleep as hard as she works.
After I’m done in the bathroom, I hop in my Escalade. Flying past the fields and pastures, I take mental snapshots of the green rolling hills and shallow draws.
Pictures. Shit—the lost camera.
Gritting my teeth, I turn before I hit the highway and head toward the bridge where the crash happened. To my right, Sterling land stretches to the horizon, dotted with cattle in the distance. Closer to the road are more oil wells. There are a couple of sites with flares burning off the gases in the flare stack.
I turn onto the county highway that’ll lead to the crash site. My knuckles are white on the wheel when I reach the bridge. The road is clear of skid marks. Dad didn’t break at all. Bits of broken glass scattered in the dirt shoulder of the highway glint in the sunlight. The grasses in the ditch have mostly bounced back.
I pull to the side of the road and get out. Stuffing the ball cap on my head, I wander across the road, my boots hitting the pavement. My heartburn fires up, and I’m tempted to leave. Why the hell do I care about Holly’s camera?
Because Meredith cares.
