Page 47 of Colt

My throat closes in. At my parents’ house, I feel like I’m always taking care of everyone else, including my mom. It’s really nice to be the one taken care of for a change.

I devour a huge wedge of quiche and sip my hot tea in peace at the café table in the kitchen. Funny that I feel like I need to earn my keep at home, while at the Wallace Ranch—where I’m literally an employee—I don’t feel like I need to earn anything at all. Hospitality, kindness, help—it’s all given freely.

My stomach knots in frustration. I love my parents, and I really do wish them well. But so much of our dynamic is fucked up. If I’m being honest, I’m enjoying being so far away from it all.

The mystery that is Colton notwithstanding.

My phone rings, shattering the silence. I glance at the screen and see that it’s Mom.

Speak of the devil.

Not like my mother is the devil by any means. But I was enjoying my absurdly delicious breakfast, and I always like to finish my tea before I start the day.

I guess I could send her to voicemail. But we do need to catch up. And what if she needs me? This is kinda early for her to call. Maybe she and Dad got into another fight.

Sighing, I slide my thumb over the screen and pick up the phone. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, Lainey. How’s it going?”

“It’s going all right. Is everything okay?”

Mom pauses. “Everything’s fine. Why?”

“You’re calling kind of early.” And you sound down. Tired.

“I didn’t sleep all that great last night, and since I figured the day starts early on ranches… That’s true, isn’t it? That those cowboys start their days at, like, four a.m.?”

I chuckle. “Some of them do, yes. But only when it’s hot. They like to start early in summer and fall because it’s much cooler before the sun rises.”

Beck shared that little tidbit with me when I was shadowing him the other day.

“Ah. Right.” Mom pauses again. “So how’s it going out there in God’s country?”

Good. Bad. Both. “Like I said, it’s going all right. The Wallaces are pretty great, with one glaring exception.”

“Oh? Do I need to drive down there and kick some cowboy butt?”

“I’m perfectly capable of kicking cowboy butt on my own, thank you very much.”

Mom laughs. “I know you are, but I’m always here if you need an extra pair of hands. Boots. Whatever.”

“Thank you, Mom. I appreciate that more than you know. The oldest son—Colton—he’s foreman, which means he’s kind of the second-in-command after Dale. The dude hates me.”

“Really? Why? Don’t tell me you’re being rude.”

My chest tightens at the memory of her words. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?

“Of course I’m not being rude,” I say thickly.

“I’m sorry, honey. I just know you can be a little…tough sometimes.”

As opposed to what? Sweet and easy? I’m tough because I had to be growing up in our house. Sure, I was taught to be sweet and easy. And I was, on the outside at least. But being easy meant being self-sufficient. Self-sacrificing too. That required an inner toughness, a sense of responsibility for meeting my own needs from a very young age.

But Mom has very little support outside of, well, me, so I’m not about to rock her boat by starting an argument.

“Anyway. Everyone’s been super great except for Colton. He busts my chops any chance he gets and for no good reason. When he’s around, he makes doing my job an absolute nightmare.”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”