Page 9 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

I turned the key again. The truck answered with another long, miserable crank. “Please,” I whispered. The word slipped out before I could stop it as my fingers tightened around the key.

“Come on. Just get me through today.”

The engine gave me nothing.

Just silence.

As if the morning wasn’t bad enough, the sky finally opened.

Rain hammered the roof of the truck so hard I could barely hear myself think. A crack of thunder rattled the windows, making me jump as I grabbed my phone from the cupholder.

One bar of service.

Of course.

I pulled up my contacts anyway and tried calling the ranch. The call failed before it even started.

“Fantastic.”

I tried again, only for it to fail again.

Anyone who lived in Willow Creek knew cell service on this stretch of road was unreliable on a good day. Add a thunderstorm, and you might as well be stranded in the middle of nowhere.

I let my head fall back against the seat.

Two miles. Jones Automotive was roughly two miles away.

Normally that wouldn’t have been a problem. Before the accident, two miles would have been a piece of cake. Today it felt like ten.

Another glance in the rearview mirror had guilt twisting in my stomach. Crates of milk sat in the truck bed waiting to be delivered.

Every delayed delivery meant delayed payments.

Delayed payments meant another bill I couldn’t cover.

Another repair I couldn’t afford.

Another reminder that Marigold Ranch was surviving month to month on sheer stubbornness.

Thunder cracked again.

I looked down at my jeans, boots, and the rain running in sheets across the windshield.

Then I looked toward town.

“Well,” I muttered, reaching for the door handle. “This is going to suck.”

Chapter

Two

BEAU

Present Day — September 1st

Bad Omens rattled the tools hanging against the far wall while Jax worked beneath the hood of a Ford pickup, nodding along like the garage had transformed into his own private concert venue.

I’d heard Like a Villain enough times this week to know exactly when the chorus would hit, but I hadn’t complained yet. Mostly because I liked the song almost as much as he did, though I would’ve rather swallowed a mouthful of motor oil than admit that to him.