Page 5 of Rockstar Rescue
Dad had been the football coach for our high school, in addition to heading operations for the Glacier View Ranger District.
During Wyatt's short visit, Wyatt ditched Dad’s overt questions about our future.
But I didn’t get the hint.I couldn’t accept it was over
"I apologize for snapping at you,” I say, inhaling Sally’s fragrance of old-school White Shoulders perfume as I embrace her.
"It's okay, honey," she says, patting my back. "We've all been there."
Turning back to the TV, I look at hisfiancée."What is she? Actress? Model?"
"Model," Sally confirms. "Men like Wyatt... the kind born with a chip on their shoulder, always go for them. Let him have his supermodel. You'll get yourself a better man."
I say nothing.
Since Dad died, I'd thought about moving to a bigger town. Finding a new man.
But until now, I couldn’t believe a future with Wyatt wasn’t in the cards. “It’s getting late, Sally. I better go.”
As Charlie Boy and I enter the parking lot, the snow beneath my feet is much higher now. But it’s an easy drive to Forks Lookout.
We'll be there in no time.
CHAPTER 5
GINNY
Charlie Boy sits up straight in the passenger seat, ears perked forward as we cruise down the highway.
“What kind of music are you in the mood for tonight, buddy?” I ask, reaching over to scratch behind his ears while keeping my other hand on the wheel.
He utters a dismissive grunt.
“Okay. My choice.”
I flip through the radio stations, passing static and commercials. Charlie Boy usually prefers country—his ears always perk up when he hears that twangy guitar.
Yet tonight, when John Mayer’s smooth voice fills the car, he settles back against the seat with what I swear is a contented sigh.
I regret stopping at Lucky’s tonight. Regret seeing Wyatt and his new bride. And regret loving him so much, for so long.
“It was all in my head,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Charlie Boy makes a low, rumbling sound beside me, as if he understands exactly what I’m going through.
I give my dog’s ears a quick tussle. “That’s the spirit, buddy. Best to forget him.”
My compassionate canine understands me better than most people do. Sometimes I swear he’s more human than animal.
Charlie Boy suddenly goes rigid beside me.
His head snaps toward the passenger window. Then he lets out a series of sharp, urgent barks that make me jump in my seat.
“What is it, boy?” I squint into the darkness beyond the headlights.
Probably just a dead deer on the side of the road.
No—Charlie Boy wouldn’t react like this to roadkill. He’s been trained better than that.
