“Both valuable assets,” Nash replies.
I tune them out and sweep the flashlight beam along the undercarriage, squatting down at the edge of the ditch. The frame looks… okay. No obvious bend. Front bumper’s crumpled on one side, but the wheels are straight. Could’ve been a lot uglier.
I let out a breath.
“Dallas?” Boone asks. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking she’s lucky,” I say. “Couple feet further and she’d have clipped that cottonwood.”
Boone’s jaw tightens as he looks past the truck to the old tree. “Yeah.”
“Can we pull it?” Clay asks. “Or we calling a wrecker?”
“We can pull it,” I say automatically. “I’ll get the one ton. Chains, tow strap, couple blocks. We’ll ease her out.”
Nash brightens. “Operation Rescue the Runaway Bride’s Chariot. I’m in.”
“Stop calling her that,” I mutter, straightening up.
My back pops.
Boone jumps in. “Dallas, you take the truck. Clay, help him with the chains. Nash, dig out in front of the tires so she’s not fighting a snowbank on the way up.”
“Yes, boss,” Nash says, giving a sloppy salute.
He steps down into the ditch with exaggerated care, as if the snow’s lying in wait just for him. Clay tromps after me toward the house, boots crunching, breath puffing white.
“You really didn’t sleep?” he asks.
“Thought we covered that already.”
He shrugs. “Just checking it wasn’t because you were… busy.”
I stop dead and turn to stare at him. “What?”
He grins, wide and unrepentant. “That was a long time on the porch last night. Just saying.”
My jaw clenches. “Nothing happened.”
His eyebrows go up. “You sure? Because the way Faith looked at you Christmas morning?—”
“Clay,” I warn.
He holds up both hands. “Fine. We’ll just rescue the truck. No emotionally repressed cowboys will be examined during this exercise.”
“Good,” I say, but my ears burn all the same.
The one-ton, our old dually, paint dull, engine ornery, is parked beside the shop, half buried in drift. She’s ugly, stubborn, and my favorite thing on four wheels.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I murmur as I crank the engine. “Don’t make me look bad.”
She coughs, wheezes, then catches with a roar that rattles the windows. Clay whoops.
“Never doubted her,” he says.
“Liar.”
We let her idle while we haul out the heavy chains and tow strap, metal clanking dully in the cold. My fingers go numb halfway through, even with gloves. Doesn’t matter. It’s the kind of pain I know what to do with.
