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Damn, that hurts.
The hopefulness in her voice, etched on her face, feels impossible to ignore. Holding in a pained sigh, I take her hand.
“Works for me. I’m starving.”
We stop by Herc’s pen long enough for me to dump some feed in the trough and make sure his water tank is fresh.
He’d gotten up and wriggled into the shade since he was in rock-mode earlier, and he gives us a few small curious-sounding grunts before we head to Amelia’s.
I scan the outside of Thelma’s barn as we walk, looking for more little bags or other weirdness, still wondering why Carson Hudson keeps hanging around.
He’s after something, all right, and it doesn’t seem like it’s about worming Shel into bed anymore.
What the fuck is his endgame?
His car sits in the parking lot, and I halfway hope he joins us for breakfast. I’ll be more than happy to let him know how off-limits this woman is.
I’ll also be glad to tell him point-blank to get out of Dallas while the getting’s good.
I don’t get a chance because he’s MIA yet again.
Like yesterday, he sneaks downstairs and out the door mid-meal.
Shelly seems relieved by that.
I’m not.
Clearly, I don’t like his sneaking around any more than I like him, but I need clues. Anything hinting at what he’s truly after.
Also, I can still see him touching her hand. That turns my insides into a pile of snake venom.
She’s too good for him.
She deserves more than human pond scum, who apparently won’t give her the time of day since she dropped him like a flaming turd.
If she doesn’t feel insulted, I do on her behalf.
And I’m past ready for words with Mr. Chucklefuck Hudson.
My attention snaps back to the table when Faye starts asking questions about what the vet had to say.
Both she and Thelma are concerned to death for Hercules and want the verdict word for word.
As soon as we’re done eating, Faye rushes over to see him. Thelma retreats to her room to get ready for the day and a therapy appointment.
“How long is Carson Hudson supposed to stay?” I ask Shelly while helping her clear the table. I can’t get that asshole out of my mind.
“He’s paid up for at least another week, so...a while,” she replies. “I’ve got a bad feeling he might not leave until November. He said he wants to see the car show.”
“Why?” I growl back, following her into the kitchen.
“He’s a big collector. He told me when he checked in. Sounds like he travels around, always zeroing in on places with obscure stuff to sell. He definitely knows what to look for.” She puts her load of dishes in the sink and reaches for mine.
I stand there, arms folded, trying to pay attention without steam erupting from my ears.
“What else?” I grind out.
“Well, he told me he found a couple old farms interested in selling off stuff he might be interested in.”
