Текст книги "Truth or Beard"

Автор книги: Penny Reid

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

CHAPTER 7

“In a day, when you don't come across any problems – you can be sure that you are travelling in a wrong path”

– Swami Vivekananda

 

~Duane~

I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings because I was distracted by pleasant thoughts.

And I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear the motorcycles park around the back of the shop or know I had company until they were already inside the garage. I heard an obnoxious laugh, loud and long, alerting me to the unexpected arrival. I lifted my eyes just in time to see Repo—one of my deadbeat father’s biker brothers—pick up Cletus’s favorite socket wrench, and toss it back to the toolbox with a loud clang.

Just behind Repo was Dirty Dave, the owner of the obnoxious laugh, another member of the Iron Order, and a real jackass. He was called Dirty Dave because he was dirty. And he stank.

I sighed my aggravation and set down the carburetor I was fixing. As enjoyable as Jessica’s visit had been that afternoon¸ I knew without a doubt these callers were going to inspire my ire.

Dirty Dave was just a douchebag lackey.

But Repo was a man of importance within the Iron Order. I’d known him since I was little. He even had dinner at my momma’s table on occasion, and gave each of us boys a bowie knife for our tenth birthday. Once upon a time I looked up to this man.

But as an adult, I considered him a con man and pariah.

“Hello, son,” Repo said, lifting his chin in my general direction as his eyes scanned the shop.

I reached to the side to switch off the Bluetooth speaker for my iPhone. Repo had a real raspy voice. I could barely make out what he was saying half the time in a quiet room. The shop was suddenly filled with the quiet sounds of a Tennessee night and the unwelcome sounds of motorcycle boots scuffing on cement.

“Repo. Dirty Dave. What do y’all want?” I didn’t bother to wipe my hands because I had no plans to shake theirs.

“Now, is that any way to speak to your Uncle Repo?” He smiled, his salt and pepper beard framing bright white teeth. This one reminded me of my daddy, all the charm of a snake in the grass.

I glanced at the wall clock behind him; it was almost 11:30 p.m. I’d lost track of time.

“You aren’t my uncle, old man,” I answered flatly.

No. This man was most assuredly not any family relation of mine. Though my daddy considered the members of the Iron Order to be his brothers, these men were less than nothing to me and I wanted them to know it.

“Ah, you’re not Beau,” Dirty Dave chirped from his spot next to Repo; he seemed to be looking at me with new eyes. “We were hoping for Beau. He’s so much nicer than you, plus he knows when to show respect.”

“Be that as it may, I’m trying to finish up here. So if you two will get to the point?” I set my hands on my hips, lifting my eyebrows, hoping they’d get my message to hurry-it-up.

“Now hold on a minute,” Repo rasped, lifting his hands up as though I needed to calm down. “We’re here with a business proposition. One I’m real sure you’re going to want to hear.”

“Not interested.” In an effort to show the alluded-to respect, I decided not to say, Not interested, asshole. Now go fuck yourself.

See? Very respectful.

“Just listen up.”

“No. You can leave the way you came in.” I flicked my hand toward the back of the shop then turned back to the carburetor and the well-lit table where it rested.

“You can’t say no to money, boy.” Dirty Dave lifted his voice.

“I’ll say no to anything involving the Iron Order.” I shrugged, showing the boredom I felt. I knew they were used to seeing fear and inspiring awe, the Iron Order wasn’t a joke; the club president was a criminal mastermind and a crazy fucker to boot. These weren’t good guys. But I’d never been able to muster up even the slightest trepidation where dumbasses were concerned—even dangerous ones.

“Why’s that?” This came from Repo. In my peripheral vision I saw the pair halt their slow progress into the shop, standing close and to my right.

“Because everything you do is illegal.”

“So? You race cars at The Canyon, right? Rumor is you’re one crazy motherfucker in the pit and make buckets of cash doing it. That sure as hell ain’t legal.”

“Racing for easy money is one thing, getting involved with your kind is another. I’m not my worthless father and I’m not interested in making money off other peoples’ misery.”

“How about making money to keep your family safe?”

A chill spread down my spine, making me stand straighter. I turned a questioning glare on Repo first, then Dave. I found Dirty Dave giving me a dirty smile. I faced them.

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” said Repo.

“Hell yeah,” said Dave.

Repo cut in before I could order them out again. “Now hold on. We’re not planning to hurt anybody. But you want to keep your family out of jail then you need to hear us out.”

“Keep my family out of jail? What are you talking about?”

Dirty Dave nodded once as he said, “Jethro.”

“Jethro?” I scowled at this. “No, no. I ain’t buying it. He washed his hands of y’all years ago.”

“Yeah, but before he did he stole us a lot of cars.” Dirty Dave said this with measured glee.

“So, what?” I spat. “You’re going to turn him in now? If you do that then you’re admitting to your own guilt.”

“Boy, didn’t I say listen?” Repo’s words were clipped in an unusual display of exasperation.

I threw my hands up and leaned my hip against the table, figuring that letting the man say his peace was the only way I was going to get them to leave. “Sure. Fine. Speak.”

“So your momma…” Repo paused. My eyes must’ve betrayed my spike in anger at the mention of my mother because he held his hands up again like I needed to calm down.

“I’m not down talking your momma, boy. I’m just saying, your momma died a month ago, rest her soul.”

I swallowed a lump of emotion, unable to stop thinking about my momma’s last days, how the cancer had taken her from us. I missed her; her kindness, her sweetness. I rallied against a sudden flash of nostalgia, knowing now—with these morons—was not the time to dwell on these thoughts.

“This is not news to me, Repo.”

“Yeah, but we been keeping our distance out of respect, giving you and yours time to grieve. We gave you a month. She was a good woman.”

“I’m not interested in your thoughts on my momma.” These words arrived through clenched teeth. He needed to wrap this shit up.

“Okay now, but here’s the thing, Brick and Mortar, the two Iron Order brothers your sister got arrested after your momma’s funeral—”

I cut him off. “They got themselves arrested because they were trying kidnap Ashley and Billy from the funeral.”

“And Brick and Mortar were only there trying to help your daddy because your momma tricked him out of his money.” Dirty Dave pointed his thick index finger at me. I wanted to snip it off with number twenty-four gauge wire cutters.

“That’s not how it happened. That money doesn’t belong to Darrell Winston. It never did.”

“Darrell is your daddy, boy. He and your momma had seven babies together, were married for years. That’s a long time, a lot of history, and a lot of kids for a man to wait for his fair share. Then your sister’s boyfriend, that park ranger—”

“Drew Runous isn’t Ashley’s boyfriend and he isn’t a park ranger. He’s a game warden.”

“Whatever. Drew Runous swoops in and sweet-talks your momma into signing over all her money. Now, how can you blame your daddy for trying to get what’s his?”

I had to grit my teeth to keep from hollering. Dirty Dave’s version of events was far from reality.

The truth was my daddy, Darrell Winston, was a no good, rotten, sonofabitch. In addition to riding with the Iron Order, he was a con man and an abuser. He’d married Momma for her money when she was sixteen—because she came from lots of money. He’d also beaten her and cheated on her. Habitually. And every time she tried to divorce him he’d used us kids to keep her from following through.

Finally, she outsmarted Darrell by filing for a separation from him, then selling all her belongings—her family’s house and all possessions therein—to a family friend named Drew Runous for a thousand dollars, thereby removing it from my father’s reach. She also signed over all her bank accounts and our trust funds.

That left Darrell spitting angry. But there was nothing he could do because Momma was already dead by the time he found out. So he showed up at my mother’s funeral with two of his Iron Order brothers—Brick and Mortar—and tried to kidnap Ashley and Billy; he’d likely been desperate and couldn’t think of another way to get his hands on Momma’s money.

Luckily he and his biker friends were stopped, but not before Ashley shot one of them in the leg. All three—Darrell, Brick, and Mortar—were presently awaiting trial and would hopefully serve serious prison time.

“What does Brick and Mortar trying to kidnap my family have to do with anything? Why are you here?”

“Cause, Duane, Brick and Mortar were our mechanics. Now they’re gone, we’ve got nobody to take over their work. That’s where you boys and this shop come in.” Dirty Dave gestured to the inside of the garage.

“So, what? You want me to fix your bikes?”

“No, son. You might not like it, but your daddy is one of us, that means you’re family too, and you owe us. Brick and Mortar were our mechanics…”

I blinked at Repo, knowing I was missing the point, and waited for him to fill in the blanks.

When he saw I didn’t understand his meaning, he huffed then spelled it out. “They ran the chop shop. They dismantled the cars. They took our stolen goods and made them transportable.”

“You and your brother Beau, the two of you are going to take over running our chop shop.” Dirty Dave connected the dots for me even as the picture Repo painted clarified in my head.

A sound of repulsion and disbelief escaped my mouth before I could stop it, followed by, “Oh, hell no.”

“Hell yes, boy.”

“Hell. No. And stop calling me 'boy'.” I was three seconds away from punching Dirty Dave in the jaw.

Repo must’ve seen my patience snap because he stepped forward, between Dave and me, again holding his hands up. “Now, you need to listen to reason. We got evidence against your brother Jethro that’ll put him away for life. Not for years, for life.”

“Bullshit.”

“No. No bullshit,” Dirty Dave denied from behind Repo. “This shit is real.”

My attention was split between them; I was looking for any sign of subterfuge. “Like I said before, you incriminate him for those stolen cars then you’re incriminating yourself.”

“No. Not with this.” Repo reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a thumb drive. He offered it to me.

I glared at him instead of taking it. “What is it?”

“Jethro got out of the Order three years ago, and the video on this drive will show you how he bought his freedom. In the scheme of things, it was a small price. But this small price carries a hefty federal sentence if the police were to find out what he did.”

I narrowed my eyes, feeling equal parts suspicion and panic. “What did he do?”

Repo pushed the thumb drive against my chest, forcing me to take it. “Watch this. Then you’ll know. Then, when you see things our way, you call us.”

The flash drive landed in the palm of my hand and I glared at Repo, wanting to crush it under my boot and despising the fact I couldn’t.

The older man scratched his goatee as he studied me, the solemnity of his expression increasing until, with grave severity, he added in a low voice, “Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason to include your brother Billy in this. He don’t need to know.”

I didn’t say so, but I agreed with Repo on this one. Billy’s answer would be to go directly to the police, all the while waving his middle finger at the Iron Order. Billy loved Jethro, but he hated the Order more. In fact, I was pretty sure Billy hated the Order more than he loved anything—except maybe our momma. But with her death, Billy’s regard for Momma was a moot point.

“But,” Dirty Dave stepped around his biker brother and waved his fat finger at my chest, “you got two weeks, Duane. Two weeks to decide, or else we send an anonymous tip to Sheriff James and you can visit Jethro on the weekends…at the Federal Correctional Institution in Memphis.”

***

I did nothing with the thumb drive at first except hide it. When I got home that night I researched thumb drives and whether they could be used to install spyware or cause mischief on my personal computer. Everything I read made me nervous.

I thought about calling Jethro or Drew, but decided against it. Jethro was now a law-abiding park ranger for the National Forest and Drew was his boss. They were currently together on a trek in the mountains some two hundred miles away, and only reachable via satellite phone.

I was also feeling paranoid and didn’t think it prudent to have a telephone conversation about my brother’s previous illegal activities. Discussing matters with Jethro would have to wait until he got back from the mountains.

In the end, I decided to talk to Beau—and only Beau—about everything when he and Cletus arrived home on Saturday. There was no reason to include my other brothers in the discussion. Worst-case scenario, if it turned out that the only way to keep Jethro out of prison was conscription of the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, then Beau and I would have to do it alone. I didn’t want anyone else getting caught up in this tangle.

The fewer people who knew about this business with the Iron Order the better. Billy, Cletus, and Roscoe could plead true ignorance if Beau and I were caught.

Before I went to sleep, I further decided to drive into Knoxville in search of a pawn shop as soon as dawn broke the next morning.

On my way into town I grabbed a doughnut and caffeine fix from Daisy’s Nut House, an early riser café for locals of Green Valley. The warm, jelly-filled pastry paired with her drip coffee did a bit to settle my uncommon nerves. Though I still felt cautious, so I decided not to search for a pawn shop using my iPhone or computer, deciding it was better to leave no computer trail of my activities…just in case.

Thankfully, I found a shop that looked promising called Discount Larry’s Gun and Pawn. Because these places always have surveillance cameras, I parked across the street, and pulled on my brother Roscoe’s Yankee’s baseball hat (something I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing) and non-descript blue hoodie.

I kept my head down as I entered and did a fast sweep of the merchandise, finding what I was searching for almost immediately. I paid in cash and left the shop quickly, having shared no words with the proprietor.

I jogged back to my car.  I then took the long road back to Green Valley, but stopped by Mr. Tanner’s junk yard on my way. It was there, down the tree-lined dirt road to one side of the junk yard, that I opened the old laptop I’d just purchased from the pawn shop, and watched the video.

What I saw made me want to murder my oldest brother.

And when Beau got home on Saturday, he could help me figure out how to hide Jethro’s body.

CHAPTER 8

“Men read maps better than women because only men can understand the concept of an inch equaling a hundred miles.”

– Roseanne Barr

~Jessica~

Nobody ever expects a Mustang convertible.

Especially not Duane Winston leaning against a dark blue Mustang convertible with a white top and racing stripe. The convertible had a white top and racing stripe, not Duane. He was wearing faded, bootcut blue jeans that fit nice and snug over his hips, and a charcoal colored thermal. As I approached—after I recovered from my surprise—I noticed the shirt’s color made his eyes appear almost gray.

He wasn’t smiling, but I did have all his focus, and Duane’s focus made me self-conscious and unsteady. Therefore, my smile was dreamy and reflexive.

“What are you doing here?” I gestured to the high school parking lot. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d just received a text message from my brother Jackson; he was on his way to pick me up so I was coming outside to wait.

Instead of answering my question, Duane leaned forward, placed his hand on my hip, and gave me a soft kiss that stole my breath and made every inch of my skin hot.

Then he leaned away, his hand falling back to his side, and answered simply, “I’m bringing you your car.”

My mouth fell open for obvious reasons and I blinked at him. “My…my car?”

“Yes.” He gave me just the faintest shadow of a grin. “Your car. You can keep it if you want, or you can give it back when you find something better.”

“What are you talking about?” My attention moved past him to the gorgeous vintage automobile. He’d backed it into a parking space at the front of the school. I didn’t know much about cars, but this car was beautiful.

“While we negotiate a price for your truck you need a car, for getting around, back and forth to work. Take this one for as long as you like.”

I struggled to form both words and thought; finally I managed, “Duane, first of all…whose car is this? I mean, who does it belong to? Won’t they miss it?”

“No. It’s one of mine. I hardly use it.” He reached for my hand and placed the keys in my palm.

“One of yours?”

“Yeah.”

I couldn’t stop blinking at him. “I can’t take your car.”

He shrugged. “Sure you can.”

“It’s a classic! I mean, I’m no expert on cars, but this isn’t a recent model. This must be over thirty years old.”

“About fifty years, actually. It’s a 1966 Mustang 289.”

Now I was blinking and shaking my head, and my thoughts were a breathy whisper when they slipped out, “You’re crazy.”

He finally smiled, though it was swift and gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. I made a mental note that Duane Winston liked it when I called him crazy.

“Take it for a test drive.” His hands were on me again, steering me to the driver’s side door. He opened it and gently pushed me inside, taking the bag from my shoulder and setting it on the floor behind my seat.

Meanwhile, I was greedily devouring the inside of the classic car with my eyes, unthinkingly slipping the keys into the ignition, pressing the clutch, and turning it on. It was…majestic. Something about the car almost felt alive, even sitting idle, humming beneath my fingers, anxious for the road.

Duane claimed the passenger seat and I glanced at him, finding his attention affixed to my face and a warmth there that made my heart race.

“What?” I narrowed eyes at him.

“Are you going to touch it or drive it?”

“Honestly? I haven’t made up my mind.” I stroked the steering wheel. It was covered in soft white leather. In fact, all the upholstery was white leather; the inside smelled like leather and Duane’s cologne. “I don’t think…I mean, I don’t know if I can.”

“Don’t you know how to drive a stick?”

“Yes. But that’s not what I meant.” I let go of the wheel and faced him, clasping my hands together on my lap so I wouldn’t reach for it again. “I mean, I don’t understand what’s going on. I should get a rental car in Knoxville until I find a replacement for the truck, something newer.”

“No. You shouldn’t.” He wasn’t smiling now. In fact, he looked frustrated. “That’d be a waste of money. This Mustang is a classic, yes. And, sure, it has over six hundred thousand miles on it. But I’ve rebuilt the engine and most of the other parts are new. It has new tires, brakes, suspension. It runs as good as a new car, I wouldn’t let you drive anything unsafe. You’re not going to have any problems with it, and it handles the mountain roads real well.”

I shook my head and reached for his hand, seeing he’d mistaken my meaning. “That’s not what I meant. I trust that this car handles like it looks—beautifully.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is this car is a classic. It is far too valuable for me to use as a loaner.”

“Then it’s not a loaner. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”

My mouth fell open again and a small sound of confused protest escaped. “Duane.”

“Jess.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.” He looked serious.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need a car and I have four.” He shrugged.

“You could sell it. I’m sure it’s worth a bundle.”

“I can’t sell it because I just gave it to you.”

I gritted my teeth before hollering, “You can’t give me a car!”

He lifted his voice to match the volume of mine. “I just did!”

I stared at him, the stubborn set of his square jaw, the way his left eyebrow was slightly raised in challenge. He was so stubborn and irritating…and cute. And sweet. And thoughtful. And presumptuous.

“I’m not taking it,” I said finally, shaking my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Quit being so stubborn.”

“Being rational isn’t being stubborn. You can’t just go around giving people cars. You’re not Oprah.”

Duane’s lips flattened in a way that made me think he was trying not to laugh because his eyes were shining. “What gave me away? Was it the red hair?”

Without thinking, and in a way reminiscent of our bickering childhood, I responded flatly, “No. It was the feel of your circumcised penis last week.”

Duane lost his battle with laughter and threw his head back, eliciting an unbidden smile from me. I exhaled a chuckle and rolled my eyes, feeling remarkably pleased I’d made him laugh. I think I was even blushing, which was strange. Making Duane Winston laugh flushed me with pleasure, or maybe it was the intoxicating sight of how much he seemed to enjoy it, enjoy being with me.

Still grinning widely—which in and of itself looked foreign and therefore dazzling on his face—he said, “But before last week, you still had doubts as to my identity?”

“Well, I’ve never seen you and Oprah in the same room together. Plus you both have your favorite things lists.” I was making reference to his statement last Friday, that arguing with me was one of his favorite things.

“Do you have a favorite things list?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” My neck was abruptly hot.

He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking on my trouser department, haven’t you?”

Flustered, I shook my head. “Getting back to the topic at hand—”

“Is it? At hand? I wasn’t aware.”

“Duane Winston!” I tried to sound shocked and foreboding, but my involuntary answering smile was ruining the effect. “I’m attempting to be serious. Stop trying to muddle me.”

“If I were trying to muddle you, then you’d know it.”

I tsked, then huffed. “When'd you get so sassy?”

“When'd you get so serious?”

“I’m not! I just can’t accept this car.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Same thing.”

“Nope. Not the same.” He plucked my hand from where it rested on my lap and held it in both of his, sending a warm, delightful sensation of loveliness up my arm and around my brain. “Jessica James, you’re going to have to get used to me wanting to take care of you and fix your troubles.”

“I’m not a damsel. I don’t need rescuing.”

“I know. You’re capable and stubborn, and I like that about you a whole lot. But maybe you could pretend to be a little less capable from time to time?”

“To what end?”

“So I get to feel good about rescuing you.”

I smirked at this logic. His request actually reminded me of my mom and dad. Sometimes my mother would pretend she couldn’t open a jar in the kitchen or that she needed help lifting something heavy. When I’d called her on it, she’d said, “Nothing wrong with making your man feel needed. If your Aunt Louisa had done the same then she wouldn’t be so lonely in that big house of hers.”

“Let me help,” he implored. “Use this car.”

“I don’t want to take advantage.”

All trace of his earlier smile had vanished and he appeared to be completely sincere. “You won’t be. It’ll settle my mind, knowing you’re driving something I built.”

I sighed, considering him and his request. “So, it would be a loaner?”

“Sure.” He shrugged noncommittally. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“And what do you expect in return?”

“Pardon me?” he asked, looking confused tinged with horrified. “I don’t want anything.”

I narrowed my eyes further and teased, “Tell me, Oprah, what are you after? Penis strokes? More frigid skinny-dipping? What?”

Catching on, Duane’s eyes lowered to my mouth; his held just a hint of a smile as he responded, “I’ll take a rain check on the stroking and skinny-dipping, but how about a kiss?”

I’d already wanted to kiss him.

So I did.

I grabbed a fistful of his gray thermal and tugged, bringing his lips to mine suddenly, and I kissed him.

BAM!

Infuriatingly, he didn’t seem at all surprised. He quickly took control, one hand fisting in my hair, angling my head as he liked, the other digging into my hip as he pulled me closer. He licked my lips and surged forward, giving the impression of requesting entrance without actually waiting for my consent.

It didn’t matter. My pleasure moan gave me away, a sound of surrender. His hot mouth moved over mine, the sweep of his tongue sending a thrill straight down my spine, making me feel frenzied and cherished all at once.

But then the whoop whoop of a police car scared the bejeebus out of me, and I jumped away. Duane released me as I spun toward the sound, my heart in my throat.

“What the hell is going on here?” I found my brother Jackson barking and glaring at us. He’d pulled his cruiser parallel to the Mustang and rolled down his window.

I sighed, closing my eyes, and letting my head fall back on the head rest. I swallowed before I reprimanded my brother. “Jackson! You scared me half to death.”

“I repeat, what the hell is going on here?” Jackson didn’t sound repentant, he sounded irate.

I shook my head without opening my eyes, couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from my chest. “What does it look like?”

“Jessica…” he warned, his voice rough.

I opened my eyes and grinned at my older brother, pressing the clutch and shifting the beautiful car into first gear. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thoroughly enjoying his shocked expression.

My brother’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Don’t you dare. Have you lost your mind?”

“No, I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve found a car, and look! It has a Duane in it. Now if you’ll excuse me, my Duane and I really must be going.”

And with that, I pulled out of the space Duane had backed into, and turned the car in the opposite direction of home.

***

He was right, the car handled beautifully.

This car was powerful and light. My beast truck was powerful but heavy. It was actually fun to drive. I’d never driven a car like it before, one with personality and eager responsiveness, like the automobile was a willing and eager participant in its motion. Driving felt like more than just traveling from one place to the next. It felt like an experience. An odd thought entered my head thirty minutes after first pressing on the gas petal: I was falling in love with this car.

Duane was quiet while I drove. I didn’t know where I was taking us and his silence felt introspective. Every once in a while I felt his eyes on me, but he kept his hands to himself.

I made no attempt at conversation, partially because the windows were down and the rush of wind meant I would have to shout to be heard. The other reason was because the silence felt comfortable.

We crossed the mountain, taking the Parkway to Cades Cove, and I pulled into the picnic area, searching for a parking spot farthest from the rest of the cars, trucks, and campers. At the tip of the loop I spotted an isolated spot where no tourists appeared to be nearby. I pulled in and cut the ignition, but left the keys where they were.

Without the hum of the engine and the roar of the wind, the near soundlessness that surrounded us felt deafening and heavy, like the end of a ballad. But soon the whisper of flowing water, rustling of leaves, and song of birds met my ears, and alleviated the hefty stillness that had settled between us.

I glanced at Duane from the corner of my eye and found him watching me. Not staring, just watching, like he was waiting to see what I would do next. His expression was inscrutable and therefore unsettling.

I cleared my throat, clasping my hands on my lap, and gave him a small smile. It likely looked guilty, because I felt a little guilty for the way I’d used Duane to irritate my brother.

“Are you still doing that?” he asked, shifting in his seat until his back half rested against the passenger side door, like he needed distance to see me clearly.

“Still doing what?” I tucked my hair—now likely a crazy mess—behind my ears and met his eyes directly.

“Still trying to upset the men in your family?”

I huffed a laugh and answered honestly, “Yes. I guess I am. It’s just too much fun, getting Jackson all riled up.”

“I understand the desire to annoy your brother, because he is annoying. But your daddy…he’s a good man, steady, hard worker. You should cut him a break.”

“I know. I am and I do…mostly. But in all fairness, if my father had found us kissing in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have turned on his siren and pitched a fit. He’d have invited you over for dinner.”

“And I would have accepted.” Duane nodded at his own assertion and added, “I want to do this right.”

Something about the way he said the words filled me with both pleasure and dread.

On Wednesday after leaving the Winston Brothers Auto Shop—with the benefit of wine, Claire’s analysis, and hindsight—I started to be of the mind that Duane Winston wanted to court me. Courting meant a long-term relationship with marriage and a white picket fence being the end goal. Marriage and white picket fences terrified me because they sounded like the end of freedom, the end of my dreams.

Suddenly, the inside of the car felt stifling. I tore my eyes from his, opened my door and exited the car, walking to the hood and pausing, not sure where I was going. I listened as he also exited, his door closing, the sound of his boots crossing to me, crunching over gravel and crispy leaves.

Duane fit his hand in mine and I looked up at him. He frowned at me—not an upset frown, just a thoughtful one—and tugged on our connected fingers. “Let’s go for a walk.”

I acquiesced and allowed him to lead me over the log barriers and boulders, down the path to a stream. Something about his presence and touch, the way he moved with confidence, the broadness of his shoulders, and his inherent strength calmed me. I found myself settling into the moment, deciding not to think too far into the future.