Page 27 of Whiskey Proposal

Outside, I inhale. The smell of grasses and wildflowers fill the air. A butterfly floats by, dipping and soaring on the slight breeze. A sigh goes through my entire body.

I’m home.

Shaking my head, I take off across the drive. My boots crunch against the gravel and Lady falls in beside me, tail wagging.

“Hey, girl.” I pat her head as I walk, grateful for the company after working alone all morning.

Cats watch me from the opening of the barn. Two orange cats with long, lanky bodies are like sphinxes on either side of the open door. A tiny gray puffball trots to the end of the barn and hunkers down. She continues to leapfrog like that, following me around the yard.

I walk up and down the fence line along the driveway. I go by the barn, the shop, the shed, and loop around the backyard. There’s a nice firepit back there that screams gooey s’mores and cold drinks. There’s one other place to be nosy.

The last place to look now is the shop. Can I go in?

I stare at the big building that’s claimed his attention the whole day. I could just keep walking and exploring. Things have changed, but they’ve also stayed the same. The clear air and lack of people are invigorating in a way my Pilates and spin classes can’t compete with.

What’s he doing in there? Lane’s been open and honest with me, so what’s this secret?

My boots hit the gravel and I keep going. The side door is closed, and I put my hand on the knob. Lady’s panting next to me, excited to get into the shop. Is she allowed in? Do I knock?

I’m married to Lane. So technically, this is mine.

The fact doesn’t embolden me like it should.

I push the door open. The hinges don’t even squeak. Blocking Lady’s entry, I give her pats as an apology as I slip inside to the bright interior. The faint smell of exhaust and grease fills the air, along with a metal-on-metal clanging that drowns out the country song playing.

An older black pickup is closest to the door. On the other side of that is a lawn tractor, and in the back is an old orange-and-white Chevy pickup from the ’70s. It looks just like the one my dad was so proud he could keep running. I approach it like I’m a moth and it’s my own personal flame. The hood is up and the metallic sounds are coming from it.

The musty scent of mothballs reaches me.

“Don’t eat those, Lucky. They’ll make you sick.” I had wondered at Dad’s advice. Moth balls stink. Who would eat them? Enough people to warrant a warning, but the fatherly concern is just another confusing memory I’m left with.

When I round the side of the pickup, my boots scrape to a stop on the concrete floor. Lane’s bent over the engine, his hand stuffed somewhere in its depths.

He’s got on a hat, but it’s not a cowboy one. It’s a ball cap, and it’s backward, which should be illegal with the way it allows his hard jaw and defined cheekbones to stand out. There’s a swipe of grease on the side of his face. The most surprising part of his look is the coveralls. They’re covered in dark grease and oil stains, and it’s a whole other side of him. Another one that excites me.

“Coveralls?” flies from my mouth.

He fumbles whatever’s in his hand, more metal clatters, and he jerks his head up. Surprise fills his face, and maybe a little guilt. The tool skitters to a stop on the floor underneath the pickup. “Emerson. Hey. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Why not? This pickup—it’s not a coincidence. It doesn’t just look like my dad’s. It is my dad’s.

“Is this Dad’s pickup? Did he give it to you? Did you take it?” That last part tastes sour in my mouth. Lane’s not a thief. He works too hard for others to ever accuse him of such a thing.

He scowls and pushes back from under the hood. “I didn’t take it.” Jerking a rag out of his pocket, he swipes at his greasy hands. Nothing like I’ve seen before from the buttoned-up distiller and rancher. “Okay, I did, but not to keep.”

I lift a brow and wait for him to elaborate. The whole shop confuses me. The smell isn’t like a normal shop with ranch equipment. Those fuel and grease smells combine with the great outdoors—grass and cattle—and it has its own signature. This is more like a mechanic’s garage.

“You’re fixing it?” Tears unexpectedly poke the backs of my eyes. I get closer. There’s the bench seat that I used to stand on when Dad drove to town with the windows down. Absolutely not safe, but he went slower, usually because the pickup wasn’t running well, and it was just to get a part or supplies for the ranch. I run my hand along the cool surface. “Mom refused to ride in this.”

Lane is next to me, the smell of the shop mingling with his woodsy, caramel scent.

I run my hand along the leather steering wheel. A thin rope twines around it. Dad said he liked the feel of it better. So many memories clatter in my head. Most of them good, all of them unwelcome.

I whirl around. Lane’s right there, towering over me, but staying far enough away that we don’t touch. None of that grime on him will transfer to me and my new clothes. “What are you doing with it?”

“Fixing it.”

“I mean, why? Why are you repairing it?” My pulse rises with my confusion. I haven’t gone into Dad’s house yet, but the pickup is even more personal. “He’d drive back from town and let me have a pop and a sucker. I wasn’t supposed to tell Mom.”