The drive loops past the house and the garage, toward the barn, past the oldest shop, where we keep the farming equipment, and back to the smaller shop, where Dad restoredthe classic car he and Holly were killed in. A red-and-white 1955 Chevy Bel Air convertible. It’s not there now. It’s probably mangled in the police lot.
I park by the house and get out. A strong breeze ruffles my hair, so I unbutton my coat and take it off. I drape it over the front seat and stroll toward the barn. Where the hell is this pavilion Meredith mentioned? I scan the yard, but the same buildings, including the chicken coop and the garden shed, are all I find. She was messing with me. Infuriating woman.
Chickens dart out from behind the old garden shed. Birds chirp and sing around me. Mama’s lilacs are in full bloom, creating a stark purple contrast against the green grass. The last time I talked to Dad, he mentioned it was a good spring for rain.Fucked with calving.Rather calve in snow than mud, but it’s too late to adjust the timeline now.His grumbles echo in my mind.
An emptiness opens wide in my chest. I tuck my chin down and continue toward the barn. The lilacs’ soft scent wafts across my nose. A dusty silver pickup is parked outside the wide-open sliding door. Another summer memory streams through my mind. Me painting the highest points of that damn barn, my brothers tackling the lower spots, and Mama and Dad working on the trim.
You missed a spot, Calder!Mama would yell. She and Dad would dissolve into laughter.
I stop as the image replays through my mind: lemonade and brownies during breaks, working until sunset at ten o’clock. Then we’d wake after dawn and do it all over again. I thought that was my future at one time. That instead of running a finance company with a team of driven professionals, I’d be the one painting that damn pergola on the brewery. Bringing out cold beer and snacks for my family. I thought I’d be running all this with my almost-retired dad and my brothers. Instead, I starteda finance company from scraps, and it saved all our asses. Now us boys are all millionaires and never have to paint a damn thing again. My chest is tight as I draw in a breath.
“Well, I’ll be. Calder?” An older man’s deep growl breaks through my reverie. A dog barks.
Finally. Someone I want to see. “Uncle Carlos.”
Carlos Garcia isn’t related to us, but he’s been like an uncle my entire life. He was Dad’s childhood best friend and later worked in agricultural sales for three decades. Ten years ago, after a brief early retirement, Dad hired him as the ranch manager.
I clap my hand against his. He yanks me toward him with a surprisingly strong grip and thumps my back. A cough puffs out of me. I don’t get greetings like this in the boardroom. A blue heeler I’ve never seen runs laps around us.
When Carlos releases me, he steps back and takes me in. I do the same. He’s older now, with more gray in his black hair and scruff, but he’s wearing the same striped pearl-button shirt and worn blue jeans I’ve always known him to wear. A grungy gray Crossroads Ranch ball cap rests on his head.
“Look at you.” He squints at my slacks. “Ram said you were some slick hotshot.”
“I don’t know about that.” It’s the second time “slick” has been thrown my way, but the way Carlos says it doesn’t hit me in the gut like when Meredith said it.
The dog runs his nose along my shoes, sniffing.
“Blue, give the guy some space.” Carlos lifts his chin toward the house. “Bet your wheels cost more than my annual salary.”
“After stopping in Williston, I’m feeling a bit inferior about not having a truck.”
Williston may be the biggest town in the northwest corner of the state, and the nearest sizable town to Scandal, but it’s all country. Pickups fill its streets, and they aren’t there just forshow. Every other pickup is a white work truck loaded with tools and equipment that cost more than the vehicle itself. A mix of oil country and cattle country makes pickups a necessity rather than a status symbol. I don’t need a truck in Denver, but a car feels too stifling after years of driving with the windows wide open, bumping through pastures.
Carlos laughs and waves for me to follow him. The smell of dust and straw surrounds me. Through the barn on the opposite end, the door is open, but the gate is closed. A few young black calves wander by the opening. Bottle calves, abandoned by their mom for whatever reason.
Carlos leads me to the small office in the front corner. I ignore how goddamn right everything feels and follow him. The inside is covered with dust, but that doesn’t mean anything. He might’ve wiped all the surfaces down last week and it could have built up that quickly in the country. Piles of papers line the desk. In the middle is a newer laptop than the one Dad uses—used.I grit my teeth.
The dog goes straight to a pad under the desk and lies down. Carlos sits and uses a booted foot to angle an old office chair toward me.
I drop to sit, not worrying about dirtying my pants. “How are Esme and the kids?”
He beams. “She’s doing some part-time work for the grocery store a couple of times a week. Like me, she’s gotta keep busy. The kids are as good as ever, making my chest burst with pride.” He crosses his arms. “How are you?”
“As well as can be.”
He nods at my nonanswer. “Yeah.” Stark grief passes through his dark eyes. It’s difficult to see, so I look away. “If there’s any silver lining to this tragedy, it’s that the funeral will bring you boys home.”
Temporarily.
“I don’t know about Landry.”
Disappointment fills his face. “He’s an angry young man.”
I snort. “He’s forty.”
“Is he the financial advisor, or is that you?”
“Me.”
