Page 75 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I hate him for revealing something so private to my sisters and his brothers. But then I notice the way the afternoon sun catches the edge of his jaw and the way his thick arms flex with each swing.
Every move he makes is annoyingly smooth. He looks good for staying overnight in a cell.
Then I remind myself he’s knee-deep in branches that don’t belong to him.
With a grunt, he hoists the log onto his broad shoulder, as if it’s no more than a bundle of firewood.
Show off.
Where the hell does he think he’s going? Back in the direction of the Wilde property line. Which means he’s stealing our wood.
Real top-notch, cowboy.
My hands tighten on the reins as I decide to track him from a distance and catch him red-handed stealing from Fox land.
14: WHO IS THE DIPSHIT?
HART
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I SHOULD’VE WALKED away.
I should’ve damn well bolted.
Instead, I had to go and bait a Fox.
Bloody hell.
What is wrong with me?
It’s bad enough I brawled on Main Street because of her, spent the night in jail because of her, and then dove into a ditch of stinging nettle, indirectly, because of her. Now I’ve given up the solitude of chopping trees, the one thing that clears my mind—splinters hurt less than overthinking—and I’m doing it just to piss her off.
I think I’m entitled to take away Dean’s Idiot of the Year Award.
I adjust my grip on the log, steadying the rough bark against my denim shirt. Leaves crunch beneath my boots as I navigate the uneven ground.
My truck isn’t far, but it’s further than initially planned. I don’t stray onto Fox land, but something felt different today. The wind shifted, and the ground seemed to carry a different weight.
I could feel her presence.
Sounds off, maybe even crazy to someone who doesn’t live out here. But ranchers, we know our land. We read it like scripture.
And today, it told me she was near. That’s why I’m lugging this specific log through the wooded area. The trees in the Wilde land are plenty, but no, I wanted to tick off the woman who passed around the bucket list book like a lunch menu.
A few birds scatter from nearby branches at the sound of my footsteps. The rhythm of her horse’s hooves carries from afar.
Does she really think I don’t notice her?
Ranchers know their sounds.
I cross the property line, and still, she doesn’t say a damn word.
The sharp scent of sap clings to the fresh-cut log as I load it into my truck bed.
On Wilde land.
I take my sweet time, waiting—expecting—her explosive reaction. Threats, calling the sheriff, although he’s seen enough of me, or even shootin’ me and buryin’ me where no one would ever look.
