Page 5 of Scrape the Barrel
“A Keurig?” a familiar voice asked from behind me as I was setting the boxes on the passenger seat in my truck.
I turned to see Lennon standing there in his Tumbleweed Feed shirt. He owned the feed store a few blocks down the road, having just officially taken over the building from the leasing company a few months ago.
“Don’t ask.”
Lennon set an elbow on the side of my truck bed. “I take it you skipped the cafe?”
“Long story.” I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
He lifted a chin toward the passenger side of the truck. “That for your place? I’ve never pegged you for a fancy coffee kind of guy.”
“It’s for Mom and Dad’s place. Theirs broke this morning.”
Lennon tried to hide his smile, but was terribly unsuccessful.
“What?” I asked.
“Just get it on recording when Dad sees the machine sitting in the kitchen. I’m begging.”
I rolled my eyes, closing the passenger door. “I’ve got to get to work.”
He hit the side of my truck bed twice, stepping away. “See you tonight?”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Tonight?”
“You promised dinner with me and Oakley, remember?”
“Right. Yeah. I’ll be there.”
Lennon headed inside the grocery store as I rounded the truck to get in on the driver’s side to head toward my parents’ ranch. They lived on the outskirts of town on a massive property where they raised a decent number of cattle, grew hay, and ran their horse rescue. The volunteers helped majorly with the rescue load, but my dad was always out on the ranch taking care of things. With me and Reed almost always on the property for work, mine being the riding lessons and Reed being a farrier, we were typically the ones assisting him with various ranch chores.
I liked helping in general, but ask me to do anything on the ranch and I’d do it with a smile on my face.
About twenty minutes later, I was pulling up the long driveway to Bottom of the Buckle Ranch and killing the engine on my truck. The pressure in my chest eased with the feeling of being home, even though I was only out forbarely an hour. Reed was bent over his horse's hoof by the red barn while our dad was stuffing something in his saddle bag.
I got out, coming around the other side of my truck to grab the two boxes.
“Damn horse threw another shoe again,” Reed grumbled from where he was hunched over.
“Might say something about the farrier,” Dad teased him.
Reed shot him a glare as I closed the passenger door with my shoulder. “He’s clumsy. Keeps stepping on his other foot and yanking it off.”
“Morning, guys,” I said to the two of them.
Dad turned, his eyes dropping to the boxes in my hands. “What’s that?”
“New coffee machine,” I replied.
His eyes narrowed, inspecting the picture on the side. “Where’s the pot?”
I looked down at the side of the box, seeing the picture for the first time. “Good question.”
“It’s one of those fancy coffee machines,” Reed stated. “It doesn’t have a pot.”
“Then how the fuck do you make coffee out of it?” Dad asked.
Reed dropped the horse’s leg gently, standing to his full height with a frown. “Pods.”
