Page 93 of Double Bucked

“—familiar. You and I. We’ve always taken care of each other. That’s what it was. That’s all I have the capacity for right now. If you can’t handle that?—”

“I can handle it.”

“Ransom…”

I take her face in my hand. “I’d rather have a piece of you than none of you at all.”

Her breath trembles against my mouth. I tilt my chin down and brush my lips against hers. But she startles suddenly, like a spooked horse. Her hands fly to my chest, and she gives me a powerful shove back.

“Off. We’ve got things to do.”

“Sure thing, princess.”

She shoots me a look that would turn a better man to stone. I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. But the pink in her cheeks…hell. That makes riling her up worth it.

Claire shuts the door behind her. Hard. I pull on last night’s clothes, grab my hat, and head downstairs. There’s noise in the kitchen, and when I peek inside, I find Claire and Everett dancing around each other. From what I can gather, he’s trying to make her a cup of coffee, and she’s not having it.

I jab my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m heading to the trailer for a minute.”

“Fine,” they both say in the same clipped, short tone.

Guess mommy and daddy are still fighting.

I get the feeling that if I hang out any longer, I’ll get sent to my room, so I don’t linger.

It ain’t more than ten minutes to walk from the Preacher house to my trailer. But the second I step outside, there’s a bad feeling in the air.

I squint against the blinding sun. Overgrown stalks of grass and cattails stick up like swords from the ground. There’s the normal morning hustle—people walking in and out of the stables, taking care of the horses. People I know.

Or do I?

Hard to tell who’s friend and who’s foe after last night. Fear climbs me like a wayward June bug, little legs tickling the hairs on the back of my neck.

I see my trailer sticking out like an oasis in the distance.

A short jog. That’s all it is.

But my feet don’t wanna leave the house.

My parents died when I was fourteen on account of them being “bad seeds,” as Grandpops put it. Got themselves in a car wreck after getting drunk and driving straight off a bridge. My grandpops and grandmimi raised me. Which meant a lot of superhero comics, replays of The Lone Ranger, and old, dusty movies where the good guys are really good and you can always tell who the bad guys are because they’ve got these twisty handlebar mustaches.

I wanted so badly to be a good guy, a real hero. Except I grew up mostly afraid of my own shadow until one day, Grandpops pulled me aside and said, “Being scared is smart. Just means you know there’s danger ahead, but you’ve got the stones to move forward anyway.”

So I guess I’m feeling really damn smart when I force myself to step down the brick steps and leave the safety net of the Preacher house.

I walk around the circular gravel walkway. Head down, hiding under the brim of my hat, I veer off the path and through the grass toward my trailer.

“Hey, Ransom!”

My nerves smack me in the face when Dodger, our gardener, steps out and blocks my path.

He’s got a grim frown, and all my bones go stiff.

“Yep?”

“Sorry to hear about the old man,” he says. He pulls off his hat politely. “Look, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I gotta ask—where’s the next paycheck coming from? I’m a day late, and…well.”

“I’ll get it sorted,” I promise. “Don’t worry about it.”

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