Page 3 of Bull Rush

My heart is poundingin my chest when my lawyer walks back into the room, shaking his head.

“County confirmed it. No divorce on record. Just the marriage license.”

“As I said…” The processor smirks, satisfied that his paperwork is all in order and I’m the problem. Never mind that it’s just shattered everything I thought I knew about my life. But I’ve got to deal with one problem at a time.

“What does that mean for today?” I ask, looking between my lawyer and the processor.

“I checked with my superior while your lawyer was making calls. We’re still good to release you, but your parole officer will want to review the discrepancy. You said you’ve lost your job. Is that correct?” He asks the question like that’s not obvious. I can’t imagine many jobs willing to hold over for a five-month vacation, let alone one at this brand of resort.

“I can’t play this season. I’m hoping for next if I’m able.” Football season’s fast approaching, and the guys are already in the middle of camp. A couple more weeks and it’ll be preseason, and opening game will be here before they know it. Even if I wanted to play and the Chaos wanted me back, I wouldn’t be able to get back in shape that quickly. I’d need a couple months at least, and by that time, the new guy would be in his groove along with whatever rookie they drafted to replace me.

“They usually prefer you reside at the home of record unless you have an outstanding reason, like a job, to remain out of your home state.” The processor doesn’t bother glancing up from his box checking.

“This is my home state now. I’ve lived here for five years. Wouldn’t they prefer I be here?”

“Usually, yes, but you’ve never had a permanent address here. Part of your parole is that your home life remains consistent and predictable. Drifting from one RV lot to another won’t meet the terms.”

“They approved my plans to stay with friends until I can find employment and a permanent residence.”

“But you own a family home in Colorado and have a wife who lives at said property. I assume it’s where you’re from originally?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m just the messenger telling you not to be surprised if they press on that issue once they’re alerted to the discrepancy.” Just as he reaches the end of the paperwork, he flips back two pages and starts reading through something again.

My eyes dart to my lawyer, and he shakes his head, indicating I need to keep my mouth shut. So I do, politely nodding my understanding and forcing a half-smile instead of arguing the point further.

“All right. Let’s finish moving through the rest of this so we can get you out of here, sound good?”

I nod again. That promise lifts the iron weight from my chest. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get out of here today. The rest is tomorrow’s challenge.

Because the idea that Hazel’s still my wife? Well, that has possibilities—ones I can only explore once I have my freedom again.

ONE

Hazel

I’m bleary-eyed,pressing my hand to my mouth to try to cover the gaping yawn that comes as I grab the iced latte that Kit left out for me on the counter in the inn’s kitchen. I take a sip and savor it. It’s just the right combination of espresso, milk, and caramel to wake my brain and my taste buds up after one of the longest nights in recent memory. I spent the first half of the night running numbers, and I spent the second half wide awake, stressing over them.

We’ll be deep in the red by the end of the year if business keeps up its current trajectory. Anything that might bring in new customers—a renovation, a big holiday event, or pouring some effort into marketing would all require money I don’t have. My stomach turns just thinking about the sales projections for next year, and I have to take another sip of coffee to quell it. I have to pull myself together because I have guests to entertain this morning, including a large group of older womenwho are making the most of the local antique shops and wineries.

When I walk into the dining room, though, four of them are plastered to the corner window that overlooks the expansive yard between the inn and the ranch house. A round of titters echoes against the glass and across the room, and one of the four clasps her hand to her mouth, turning to hurry back to her table. Her cheeks are a bright shade of cherry red that matches her shirt. There’s another round of cackling and then a gasp. One of the women grabs the other by the arm, her fingers white-knuckling and glittering as her glacier-size ring catches the light and her eyes go wide.

I feel a sudden sense of dread when I watch the woman with the red shirt, Edna, I think her name was, lean over to whisper something to her friend, and she audibly gasps and clutches her chest at the information.

“Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.” One of the women at the window snickers.

“Neither would I,” another echoes the sentiment.

“Not with those thighs and that butt. Good lord! I need to take a picture and send it to Jane,” the third joins in.

“You cannot take a picture. It’s rude, and you three are being ridiculous!” the cherry-cheeked woman calls out in a scolding tone.

“It’s the shoulders for me. If I didn’t have a slipped disc, I’d climb him like a tree.” Another round of praising mm-hmms echoes across the room.

I’m trying to think of who thehimcould possibly be. Sam, the groundskeeper, also known as the kid who mows our lawns and keeps the trails, is barely eighteen and as gangly as they come. My maintenance guy is sporting a beer gut and a bald spot, and while I’m positive he still makes his wife’s blood pressure rise, I wouldn’t exactly describe his flat plumber’s buttas something worth writing home about, let alone photographing for posterity.

As I get close, the scolding woman looks at me and shakes her head. “You’d think they’ve never seen a naked man before.”

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