Page 17 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Because it’s usually true.”

“Usually it doesn't make me worry any less.”

I pressed my lips together. There was nothing I could say that would stop Meme from worrying about me. She had worried before the accident, when I spent my weekends chasing rodeos across state lines. She worried during the months I spent in the hospital and rehabilitation center. She worried after Pops died and I took over responsibilities neither of us had been prepared to carry.

Worrying had become one of the ways she loved me.

“I’m warm now,” I assured her. “They have a heater in the office, and one of the mechanics gave me his jacket.”

“One of Walter’s boys?”

“I assume so.”

“Which one?”

I glanced toward the window again. Beau had braced both hands against the edge of the Buick while speaking to an older woman standing near the open bay. He listened without interrupting, then lowered his head to inspect something she was pointing toward. The woman patted his arm before walking away, obviously satisfied with whatever he told her.

“The younger one,” I said. “Beau.”

Meme went suspiciously quiet.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Meme.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“I breathed.”

“You breathed judgmentally.”

Her laugh warmed the line. “I remember Beau Jones. He worked at the ranch for a summer when he was in high school.”

That caught my attention. “He did?”

“Only for a couple of months. Walter thought hard work might keep him and Jax out of trouble, so Pops hired Beau to help repair fencing and clean the stalls. He was a sweet boy.”

“He’s bossy now,” I muttered.

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see me.

“Did the deliveries go out?” she asked.

The warmth that had started returning to me disappeared beneath a fresh wave of worry. “No. Everything is still in the truck.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Don’t.” I shifted forward, lowering my voice. “I’ll figure it out. If the truck can be fixed quickly, I can still finish most of the route today.”

“And if it can’t?”

“Then I’ll call everyone and explain.” I stared at the coffee Beau made me. Two sugars and too much powdered creamer had turned it the pale color I preferred, but I barely touched it. “We can rebottle tomorrow.”