Page 19

The woods rustle around us, as if sensing our secret.

Finally, he lets me go and drifts. To that old trailer.

Straightening, I glance around the whispering forest. Then I follow, slowly, as if to make him wait.

As if I don’t want it as much as he does.

Aboot to the bottom of my sole jars me to consciousness.

“Wake the fuck up.”

My gaze shifts. Above me is a scowling older brother.

“Sleepin’ in ditches now?” Ford drawls. He wears his climbing gear. “Gotta be a new low.”

“Dick,” I mutter, pushing myself up. I rub my eyes then groan at the stiffness in my back. Using a fence post as a bed was a rookie mistake.

I’ve had a full day. Coaching at the rodeo camp then cleaning out the ditches that border Runaway Ranch. Taking a nap on the job seemed like damn fine idea, especially since I can sleep anywhere besides my own goddamn bed.

“Get your ass up,” Ford orders. He jerks his chin. “Bullshit Box. Now.”

I stand and grab the bag of trash. Side of the road litter from assholes just passing through.

I follow him across the ranch, wiping my sweaty palms on my blue jeans. The sun’s low in the sky, the air heavy with humidity. Ford walks at a crisp pace, not his usual lanky, carefree stride, telling me something’s off.

When we enter the Bullshit Box, a corrugated metal home we use as our business headquarters, I groan. Charlie and Davis areat their desks, swiveling their chairs toward me the second I step inside.

Ford hitches a thumb. “Just as we suspected. Sleepin’ on the job.”

“Check it out,” I tell Davis, depositing the bag of trash onto his desk. I rustle around and pull out an old Ouija board. “I was cleanin’ out the ditch and found this.”

One glance down and he’s swearing. “Get rid of it,” he orders.

I smirk. “We’ll see what happens.”

“No, there is nowe’ll see what happens.” He sighs, exasperated. “What’d I tell you about bringing haunted objects into the workplace?”

Charlie rubs his beard. “Goddamn it, Wyatt, we lose all credibility when you do this.”

Davis gestures at the couch. “Sit.”

I eye him warily. “Why?”

“We need to talk,” Ford says, spinning around a chair and sitting.

I note the silent exchange of conversation between my twin brothers. Davis with his arms crossed, settling in to play bad cop, while Ford’s the picture of relaxation.

Shit.This is never a good sign.

“Sit,” Davis orders again.

On a grumble, I plop on the couch. “If this is about the possum, I…” I trail off, noticing the lack of beers, a stack of notecards, solemn faces. “What is this? Some kind of intervention?”

They all lean forward, eyes on me, and I tense.

Fuck. There’s nothing like your big brothers getting in touch with their emotional sides to really put a guy on edge.

I sigh. “Listen, I don’t need this. I’m not—”