Page 9 of Dust Storm

But Silas was already back up the porch steps. “Jackson should have the cabin ready for her. Momma told him to get it cleaned up. See you all at dinner.”

Becks—my fellow Manhattan expat—groaned as she turned back to the house. “Sorry. Gotta pee. Don’t get pregnant. It’s awful.”

“But—” My voice cracked as Becks scrambled into the house as fast as she could.

Tripp checked his watch. I didn’t know why he looked so antsy. His flight didn’t leave until tomorrow.

Hot breath blasted against my skin.

Was the other Mr. Griffith breathing down my neck already?That wasn’t how this was going to go.

I turned to tell him to back the hell off when hairy lips brushed my shoulder. I shrieked, nearly jumping out of my skin.

A flash of white caught me by surprise as the cowboy—Silas’s son—grinned. “She won’t bite.”

But did he?

“That horse is the size of a tractor-trailer. I was more concerned with getting trampled.”

Offended by my assessment, the animal stomped a hoof into the ground.

I looked over my shoulder and found Tripp wandering around the car aimlessly as he searched for a single bar of cell phone service.

I didn’t have the patience or desire to deal with him at the moment.

“Cassandra Parker,” I said, finally making the introduction so we could stop standing here and spinning our wheels.

He didn’t offer a handshake. Rather, he kept those wide arms crossed for a long moment before mimicking his dad and lifting his cowboy hat by the top. “Christian Griffith.”

His eyes raised to track something behind me, so I turned to follow his gaze.

Tripp had wandered off, chasing the ever-elusive connection to the rest of the world as he repeatedly tried to talk to whoever was on the other end of the call. His endless string of “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” was grating.

“Does your boy toy need to be put on a leash?” Christian asked.

Some days I felt like he needed a muzzle.

“He’ll be fine.”

Tripp, not paying any attention to his surroundings, walked straight into the back of a pickup truck, slamming his knee into the trailer hitch.

“Motherfucker!”

He doubled over, grabbing his leg as he checked the screen of his phone to see if the person on the other end heard him. He stumbled backward until the heel of his loafer let out a horrifying squelch.

Tripp froze. Slowly, he looked down at what he had just landed in.

Christian had moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me. An amused smirk curled up beneath his beard.

“Why is there mud?” Tripp huffed as he pulled his foot out of the pile with a disgusting squish.

Christian chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s not mud.”

The stench hit me immediately and, from the looks of things, Tripp realized it too.

“Shit,” he said with disgust.

“There you go, buddy. Now you got it right,” Christian said in the most placating tone possible.

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