Page 53 of Eight Second Hearts

We’re on the road again the next day by noon. Since there’s no rush to get to Nebraska, we take the rare opportunity to sleep in, making a lazy morning out of getting ready. We enjoy the homecooked meal the kind older couple who run the bed and breakfast made for us and head out.

Things are comfortable, easy almost. I never thought when I’d bet my job on getting this interview that I’d find this kind of companionship in it. Even Tripp, with his grumpy behavior at the beginning, has eased on the idea of my presence. He seems to almost enjoy me being around at this point, and while I’d had his drunken admission that he likes me a little more than I thought he did, that he’s interested just the same as Ram and Beau are, it’s hard to remember that when he remains as stoic as he normally does.

“I spy something green,” Beau says, his eyes out the window.

“The Volkswagen bug!” I say before punching him gently. “Punch bug! No punch backs!”

Beau scowls. “No fair,” he growls. “You’re too good at this.”

“You literally look at the thing you’re about to say the color of,” Tripp says. “You make it too easy.”

“Fine,” Beau says. “I spy something brown.”

“Bilbo?” Ram asks.

“Nope,” Beau laughs. “Try again.”

“The trees out the window,” I guess. He shakes his head in answer.

“That Jeep ahead of us?” Tripp tries.

“Wrong!” Beau exclaims, clapping his hands together. “It’s Rammie’s eyes.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Of course, it is.”

When we get tired of playing I spy, we end up listening to the radio, and I get a front row seat to the three cowboys singing along. I’m not a country girl, so I don’t know the words to join in, but I tilt my head back and smile, listening and enjoying the serenade. I could get used to this, which is dangerous territory to think, but I can’t help myself.

Not when I’d spent the night spooning Beau while being spooned by Ram. Kind of hard not to get used to being treated so well.

Tripp’s phone is the one connected to the truck and where the playlist comes from. He’s in the middle of belting out the chorus of a song he clearly likes when it’s interrupted by the shrill ringing of a phone call. The three men cut off midsentence and frown at the number flashing on the screen.

“That’s a local number,” Ram says.

“Not one I know,” Tripp responds. “I’d have it saved otherwise.”

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I ask when they let it ring a few more times.

His finger hesitates over the green button on the screen before he hits it. The ringing stops and the crackle of the line fills the truck.

“Hello?” he says gruffly, his tone immediately changing as if he expects someone he doesn’t want to hear from on the other line.

“Hi! Yes. I’m looking for Tripp Savage,” a woman’s voice comes on, her tone nothing but professional.

“Who’s asking?” Tripp responds.

“Of course. My name is Sarah Monet with Green River Realty. I’m just reaching out because we’ve received all of the paperwork for the sale, but it’s missing your signature and unfortunately, we can’t proceed without it.”

Tripp’s expression darkens. “What do you mean? I’m not selling anything.”

She laughs as if he told a joke. “These papers say otherwise, Mr. Savage. As I said, all we need is your signature to complete the sale of Fairview Acres. When can you come in?”

I swear the temperature inside the truck drops with her words. All three men go still and the air of danger skyrockets inside the truck. I watch as Tripp pulls over on the side of the road and kicks his flashers on to stare at the screen as if he can see the woman on the other line.

“Fairview Acres is not for sale,” Tripp tells her, his tone nothing short of venomous.

The woman hesitates. “But we received the paperwork this morning, Mr. Savage. It was very much up for sale and there’s already a buyer eager to finish the process.”

“Who is this paperwork from?” he demands. “Because it’s certainly not from me. As I’m sure you know, I travel for the rodeo circuit. Therefore, I could not have sent the papers you’re looking at right now.”

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