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Mrs. Lindgren gasped out. “He’s keeping Emily a secret, even from his own twin. This is what comes of that boy following West to Nashville. I tell you.” Her eyes narrowed on Porter. “Well, it isn’t as if you’re not up to your own mischief. Everyone saw you with that new girl in town! Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Are you going to make an honest woman out of her?” Before Porter could defend Angel’s honor, Mrs. Lindgren circled to his mother with another warning on her lips. “All your children are going to the wolves!”
There was a vindictive, pleased note to her voice that he didn’t appreciate. Mrs. Lindgren had never gotten over the fact that their late grandfather had made no bones about not voting for her sorry husband in the mayoral elections back in the ’90s.
“I’m sure Nash is fine,” Lily said. “And I couldn’t be happier for Porter. That girl you saw him with is an absolute gem. She’s helping me fix up my garden.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure they disappear out there for hours…”
Porter had to stop himself from laughing. Mrs. Lindgren was on a roll. “Thanks for the idea, Mrs. Lindgren. I’ll get on it.”
A cackle of laughter followed that, and he noticed that his Aunt Martha had tagged along with Mrs. Lindgren’s group of ladies to join in the fun. He was faintly disappointed in his great-aunt’s choice of company, but not necessarily surprised. Aunt Martha liked a good story more than anybody. She waggled her finger at him. “Naughty boy. Just like your twin.”
Mrs. Lindgren frowned, though she was momentarily flustered in the face of Aunt Martha’s defection. His aunt had been a respected pillar of society for much longer than any of these sixty-year-old whippersnappers crowding the room. Only Aunt Martha reserved the right to swat her grandnephews across the top of their heads when they got out of line, which was always.
Apparently.
“Such a heartbreaker.” Aunt Martha’s withered hands found his cheeks, and she pinched with the strength of a lumberjack. He winced. “Look at my nephew. What woman could resist that sweet face?”
Porter couldn’t help cracking up at that, only to have his great-aunt coo at his dimples.
“Lily doesn’t find this funny.” Mrs. Lindgren turned to his momma in a frantic move to garner her support. “You’d all change your tune if you saw that footage online of Nash and Emily.”
“There’s footage?” Porter broke free from Aunt Martha. This was only getting worse. “What kind of footage?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Lindgren puffed up with pleasure that she’d finally won the floor. “There’s more than anyone can get through. My grandchildren showed me the worst of it. It’s all over their Flatter and Tackytacks.”
TalkieTalks, but whatever. The footage must be juicy, judging by the woman’s delightedly shocked smiles. “And now there are reporters poking around Harvest Ranch to find any trace of him. If they see Porter, no doubt they’ll think that he’s Nash! You’re about to get as famous as your twin. Mark my words!”
Porter groaned. Let Nash keep the fame that he earned; he wanted nothing to do with it.
“Best be careful, boy,” Aunt Martha said with an exaggerated wink. “You might get mauled by beautiful women.”
“There’s only one beautiful woman I want mauling me.”
His mother froze.
Uh oh. Did I just say that in front of the “Aunts”?
He could’ve sworn Mrs. Lindgren’s ears had perked up. He was in for it now. His momma looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. She licked her lips. “Um, Porter, dear,” she said. “Why don’t you find your father? He’s riding out this morning to check on the livestock in the north pasture.”
Porter knew when he was getting dismissed. He was more than happy to make a break for it, though he felt slightly guilty for abandoning his mother to these vicious gossipmongers. “You sure?” he asked her.
“Yes, go.” She had a desperate gleam in her eye.
He retreated. Shoving open the shrieking side door, Porter hurried outside. His boots pounded loudly over the wooden slats of the wraparound porch as he tried to make sense of what his brother was up to now. If Nash wasn’t careful, he was going to give their mother a relapse.
Maybe Porter should also watch himself.
He took out his phone. He tried to call Nash again, but of course he wasn’t picking up. Porter was getting the same treatment as the paparazzi—a big fat “no interview” policy. Seeing a bunch of missed calls from West on his phone, Porter was tempted for a hot second to call him back and get the lowdown, but after a moment of indecision, Porter slid his phone back into his pocket.
He wasn’t feeling up to sparring with West.
Porter found his father outside the barn, loading out hay from the truck. If anyone was the rugged stereotype of the Marlboro man, Jase Slade was it. The middle-aged man had spent most of his years out in the harsh sun. His shoulders had grown broader and stronger as the years had their way with him. Even though his father’s brown beard had streaks of gray and white, he was as strong as any of their bulls. Hay flew from his pitchfork as he worked at speeds that put younger men to shame.
No doubt his father was using the backbreaking labor to distract himself from all the stress of the last few months.
Now that Porter had met Angel, he felt a little of what his old man was going through. After that fainting spell, he’d been frozen at the thought of a life without her. And that had only been after a week together, not nearly forty years.
“You need help?” Porter called out to him.
