Page 48 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

One had a wrench painted across it.

Another had JONES AUTOMOTIVE written in black.

The third had been carved with a face so terrible I stopped walking to stare at it.

“Don’t judge him.”

I turned.

An older man stood in the garage bay holding a battered silver thermos. He was somewhere in his early sixties, broad through the shoulders despite the softness age had added around his middle. Silver threaded heavily through his brown hair, and laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes.

He pointed toward the pumpkin. “Jax carved it.”

“I was going to say it had character.”

“That’s what ugly people say about other ugly people.”

A laugh escaped me. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied my face. Then something changed.

His thermos lowered. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

I straightened.

“You’re James’s girl.”

Not Are you?

Not You look familiar.

You’re James’s girl.

The words landed somewhere tender.

“Yes, sir.”

“Carson.” He crossed the space between us slowly.

I nodded.

“I’m Walter Jones.”

“I figured.”

He held out his hand, and when I took it, his other closed around mine too. “Last time I saw you, you were running around that ranch in boots covered in more mud than leather.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

His laugh was immediate. “Lord, you even sound like him.”

My throat tightened at the compliment. Walter seemed to notice because he released my hand instead of lingering in the moment.

“Your Pops was a good man.”

“The best.”

“Damn right he was.” There was no pity. No sad tilt of his head, and I liked him immediately because of it. Walter lifted his thermos toward the garage. “Beau’s got your truck torn apart. Been at it since before I got here.”

“I thought you retired.”