Page 222 of Property of Whiskey

Holler’s eyebrows rise. “Outside?”

I nod toward the trees. “We’re checking tracks.”

“Uh-huh.”

Whiskey heads toward the bedroom.

Holler watches him go, then looks back at me. “If I shoot Bambi because y’all are horny and stupid, I’m charging him for shells.”

I choke.

“Shut up in there,” Whiskey shouts from the hallway.

“I said what I said.”

Wren giggles.

Five minutes later, I’ve traded Whiskey’s shirt for jeans, a sweatshirt, and boots from the bag I brought back from my house. Whiskey has pulled a dark shirt beneath his cut, his pistol is holstered at his hip, and he’s carrying two flashlights.

I take the second flashlight from him. “You planning to tell me to stay here?”

His mouth opens, and I can practically see the order forming. Then he catches himself. “Would it work?”

“No.”

“Then I’m conserving energy.”

That’s progress, and I’m smart enough not to point it out until he can change his mind.

Holler settles onto the couch with Wren tucked against his side and the shotgun within easy reach.

“Don’t be long.”

Whiskey bends and kisses Wren’s forehead. “Lock this behind us.”

“Daddy.”

“Humor me.”

She does.

The night air hits cold and damp the second we step outside. Recent rain hangs in everything, dripping from leaves and collecting along the porch rail. Grass darkens our boots almost immediately, and the woods beyond the yard seem thicker than they did earlier, trunks packed close enough that our flashlight beams get swallowed after twenty feet.

Whiskey sweeps his light toward the tree line. “Stay where I can see you?”

I glance at him.

He notices. “What?”

“That was almost respectful.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Fuck off.”

I grin. “Better.”