Page 80 of Sugar
I wave back.
“Sorry!” he shouts. A shit-eating grin blooms across his face, and I make a show of rolling my eyes. I don’t know if he’s pleased that he woke me at this late morning hour or if he thinks he caught me red-handed wearing his brother’s shirt, but either way I’m not going to overthink it. Probably.
Disappearing back inside, I decide to leave the screen door open to let in some fresh air. It smells like cut grass and horses—all things earthy and soveryKasey. It’s comforting. Soothing, even. I go back for the coffee, tucking the flower in my ear, and grab my laptop from the guest bedroom before falling into the plush corner of the couch, throwing my feet up on the coffee table.
My conversation with my father has been gnawing at me since yesterday, enough to make me want to look and see if there’s anything I might be able to scrounge up regarding Bennett Rescue Ranch or Huck Bennett himself. But once the internet browser opens on my screen, my mind turns to something else entirely and I find myself typing Ellis Rustler and Colt Rustler’s names into the county search for public records.
A handful of arrests and criminal charges comes up for each of them, but nothing on a major scale. Definitely nothing recent. All of it reflects the typical kind of trouble that bored young menwith impulse control issues might find themselves in. Ellis was caught stealing a pack of cigarettes from a convenience store three years ago, and before that there are documented instances of drunken fights and illegal gambling. Colt has fewer marks, mostly around underage drinking.
I’m thrilled to find no active warrants for either of them. It doesn’t mean charges can’t still come regarding the night of the shooting . . . but if cops had anything substantial on a case like that, they’d be quick to make arrests, and my gut tells me they’d go over the Rustlers’ before coming after Kasey.
It’s a bone-deep relief.
The search for Huck Bennett yields a much longer list of results. In his near-sixty years of life, there’s a lot to sift through: an early criminal history around bootleg moonshine and illegal gambling, property deeds for various residential homes in the Houston area, a handful of marriage licenses to various women andjustas many petitions for divorce. This guy clearly hasn’t learned the concept of happy wife, happy life. There’s an old record of foreclosure on a commercial property in Galveston for some sort of business in tourism and?—
I blink. Lean forward toward the screen.
In the section for civil suits, a new petition was filed only three days ago. One day before our wedding.
I click to open the file.
“Knock knock,” someone calls from out front.
I slam my laptop shut, turning to the screen door. “Who’s there?” I call back.
A sigh. “Less kid jokes and more grown-up gossip!” It’s Layla. I’ve been wondering when she might try to corner me.
“Less-kid-jokes-and-more-grown-up-gossip, who!” I counter, stuffing my laptop into the couch cushions. When she doesn’t respond, I follow up with a curt “Coming!” as I workto wiggle off the couch and hurry to the door, where I find her peeking in from the other side of the screen.
I pull it open, giving her my best smile, and watch her eyes glide down my body. “Okay, so you guys aredefinitelyat least sleeping in the same bed.”
I look down at the rodeo championship shirt I’m still sporting. “It’s not what it looks like,” I say quickly.
She throws me aI couldn’t possibly believe you lesslook.
“Okay,” I relent, rolling my eyes. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Just . . . come in.”
“I brought snacks.” Layla holds up a canvas tote as she passes. “Kasey mentioned you had a pretty fierce sweet tooth.”
I frown. “Kasey explained myeating habitsto you?”
“God no. That would be weird.” She laughs, moving to the kitchen to set the bag down. “But he made sure his mom knew to have dessert on hand during dinner. You know, in case you sprouted an extra head and needed to be tamed by something quick.”
I groan. “Wow, that’s not embarrassing at all.”
She turns around. Leans against the counter. “I have a feeling it has something to do with you being pregnant.” She says it as plainly as if she were presenting the weather, but I can see the excitement dancing around the edges of her face.
“Okay,” I relent. “Let’s just get this over with. What do you want to know?”
She smiles, and it’s . . .genuinelyhappy. “When did you find out? Do you know the gender? Oh my god, I bet Kasey is over the moon?—”
I laugh. “Slow down, killer. I found out a few weeks before I left Miami. I don’t know the gender yet, but I should know in a month, maybe? I still have to set an appointment . . .” I trail off, realizing that Layla’sfrowning.
“Did Kasey go visit you or something?”
“No.”
Her eyes drop to my stomach.
