Page 16 of The Best Man Wins

“No, but I might.” He widens the screen door, and I slip out, Braxton following behind me.

“How’s Cora?” I ask once we’re walking side by side, our shoes kicking up dust as we walk.

“Fine.” His tone is curt, short.

I hug my arms around my chest. I thought the South was supposed to be warm; instead, a cool breeze nips through my knitted sleeves. “Are you sure? She seemed a little overwhelmed.”

The corner of his mouth turns downward. “Country life isn’t really our thing.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Silver Spoon. What is your thing, exactly?”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know. Something you like? Most people have some of those.” When he doesn’t respond, I continue. “Okay, I’ll start. I like cats. Double-stuffed Oreos. Binge-watching TV shows. Knitting.” I glance over at him. “I can knit you a scarf, if you’d like.”

“I already have someone to knit my scarves. Michael Kors.”

“Okay, a tea cozy, then.”

His eyebrows lift. “A tea cozy?”

“Yes. So you can wrap it around your cold, cold heart.”

A noise leaves his mouth and—strangest of things—it almost sounds like a laugh. He admits, “I’d like that.” His eyes flicker over me, and he adds, “Though you look like the cold one.”

Braxton doesn’t ask me if I want it; he just takes off his smoke-grey coat and hangs it on my shoulders. It’s lined in polyester, and I weave my arms through it. I try to bite back a smile. “Thanks.”

The dirt path underneath us finally breaks into some sprouts of green grass. Oak and maple trees stretch their arms around us, and the setting sun flickers through the autumn leaves. The Dalton property is larger than I thought, and as we weave through the trees, I hear a low gurgle.

I stop quickly and move my hand to Braxton’s arm to still him as well. “Braxton. Look.”

There’s a small river dividing the two halves of the property. Light glints off the water as it bubbles and trickles down the rocks. On the other side of the stream, lush, rich grass.

Eureka. I get an idea and tug Braxton’s sleeve. “It’s across the river.”

“What is?”

I don’t have time for questions. I’m already dashing down the hill. My boots splash across the shallow river. I hear Braxton behind me, his quick steps stuttering with bourgeois trepidation (will his nice shoes survive getting a little wet in the river?).

I climb the small hill on the opposite side of the river and scale the short fence. It drops me off at a clearing. And here…it’s perfect. The grass is lush, green, and the opening is clear enough to fit an altar, a row of seats, even a small tent. Already, my imagination is running wild.

I’m winded from my sprint, but I manage to get out, “It’s beautiful.”

Braxton catches up with me, his own chest quietly rising and falling. “It’s okay. For a ranch.” He glances down and adds, “You realize we’re standing on train tracks.”

I turn my eyes down with him. He’s not lying—underneath our feet stand the bare, skeletal bones of abandoned train tracks. Whatever train used to run here, this route has long been forgotten and is now overgrown with tall weeds.

I grin and take a step back. “Stand over there,” I say, pointing to the other side of the train track.

He does and looks at me expectantly.

“It’s perfect.” I beam. “She’s the city girl. He’s the country boy. They’ll get married on opposite side of the tracks.”

When Braxton gets it, his lips press together in grim amusement. “Well played, Susie.”

I step over the tracks and nudge him with my shoulder. “So you admit it. It would be a beautiful place for a wedding.”

“It would. If you can cut down the weeds, tame the overgrowth, and erect a podium.”

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