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“Fine, but I’m going to keep trying to reach Tatum,” I say, opening my car door. “Just in case Wren misses your message. Or decides you’re a bossy jerk who orders her around like a child and she’s going to go make out with bikers at the honky-tonk just to spite you.”
Barrett casts me an amused look. “You really don’t know Wren very well, do you?”
It’s more like Barrett doesn’t realize Wren isn’t our sister’s shy little friend from middle school anymore. Wren’s the kind of woman who walks into a “joined at the crotch” situation and handles it with professionalism and a smartass sense of humor. But I’ve learned to pick my battles with Barrett. My brother gets these blind spots, places where he can’t see the forest for the trees, and where Wren is concerned, he clearly has a big one.
“I’ll meet you at the feed store,” I say. “I’m going to stop and get a coffee on the way. You want one?”
“Sure. Black, two sugars,” he says, getting into his truck and pulling out of the driveway.
I swing by the coffee shop drive-through, checking my phone while I’m waiting for the barista, but there’s still no reply from Tatum. I check it again outside the feed store and a third time after Barrett locates the last dusty turkey call on the shelf and we’re waiting in line to pay. But there’s still nothing, which is unusual enough that I step outside and call Tatum, after all.
As I wait for her to answer, I mentally compose an apology for bothering her after hours and sticking my nose into her business, but the words die on my lips as an automated message tells me the number I’m calling has a voice mailbox that’s full.
I end the call and glare at my cell, telling myself I can’t drive by her place. That would be weird and intrusive. Very big brother-y in that way she doesn’t like.
Barrett emerges from the feed store to find me frowning and smiles, “You’re going to stalk them, aren’t you? Just like Mom stalked you in high school, crashing all your keg parties in the woods.”
I scowl as I stuff my phone back in my pocket. “I’m not going to stalk. I’m going to perform a welfare check on my employee, who is new in town, and might not know how to keep herself safe in the wilds of Minnesota.”
Barrett snorts. “Right. Stalk away, Mr. Stalky. But hurry back. My gut says Kyle is going to be a two-person job. We’re going to need one to chase and one to intercept and capture.”
“Then come with me,” I say, inspiration striking. “We’ll check on Wren and Tatum together, present a united front, and then take care of Kyle. No sense waiting around in the cold for an hour without me.”
My brother smirks. “Right. And you look less crazy if I’m there, too.”
“Might have crossed my mind,” I admit.
He laughs. “Fine. Let’s go. But if they tell us to mind our own business and get out of their blow ups, I’m blaming you.”
I almost correct him—blow out not blow up—but decide it isn’t worth it. Barrett only remembers things he’s interested in, and feminine grooming practices aren’t anywhere on that list.
We drop my car at the house and load into Barrett’s truck, the better to argue about who should blow the seductive female turkey call and who should lurk in wait for Kyle with a taser and burlap bag and arrive at Tatum’s place by seven. The taco restaurant is hopping, but upstairs, the windows are dark, and Tatum doesn’t answer when I knock.
“Maybe they went to the bar already?” Barrett asks when I swing back into the truck.
I shake my head. “It’s too early. The music doesn’t start until eight. They must have gone somewhere else first. Do a drive through downtown and I’ll keep an eye out for their cars.”
Barrett complies—grumpily, as he’s now hungry and ready to take care of Kyle and get to Mom’s in time to score some leftovers—but there’s no sign of Wren or Tatum downtown.
“Maybe we should head over to Bubba Jump’s, then,” I say, still scanning both sides of the street, though we’ve been down this road twice. “Maybe they’re starting the music early tonight or something.”
“Maybe we should go take care of the problem we promised to take care of instead of inventing new ones,” Barrett says, pointing to the clock on the dashboard. “I was on call last night and delivered a baby at three a.m. this morning. I have about two hours of functionality left before I need to be in bed with a book and a mug of Sleepy Time tea.”
“Valid,” I mutter. “And I need to pick Sarah Beth up from Mom’s before it gets too late. Let’s go see what we can do about Kyle with the bait, and I’ll keep trying Tatum on her phone.”
