Page 94 of Lost Trust

She gives me a look. “You don’t give up, do you?”

I grin.

“I thought you were listening,” I say as I step closer. “When I want something, I never give up.”

She sighs. “I actually do have a favor to ask.”

Now I’m intrigued.

“A favor? What kind?”

“I need a vehicle.”

I straighten. “Okay. Well, you can take mine if you can drive a stick. Or I’m sure you can borrow one of the ranch trucks.”

“That’s not what I meant. I want my own,” she says. “I don’t need it to be new or pretty, just reliable—something that can safely handle Wyoming weather so I can get Ryder to and from day care safely come winter.”

I study her face. “All right.”

“I found one online. A truck. For sale by owner. Good price. About thirty miles outside of town.” She pauses. “I just need a ride. And someone who knows something about engines who can take a look at it for me this weekend. I talked to the guy, and he said I could come see it on Saturday morning.”

Saturday. I already told Jovie I’d meet her after breakfast for PT and told Dad I’d help corral the herd for their pre-breeding vaccinations after lunch.

Marina seems to catch the hesitation. “Never mind,” she says quickly. “I’ll just ask Shelby. Or borrow a ranch truck. It’s okay.”

She turns to leave, and I reach for her hand.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Shelby doesn’t know shit about engines. And there’s no fucking way you’re driving to meet a stranger alone.”

She glances back at me as I push away from the building.

“I can take you in the afternoon. Would that work?”

She studies me for a second. “Um, sure. I can call and reschedule.”

“Then I’ll be by to pick you up at noon.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She starts to walk back toward the cabins, and I enjoy the view.

Then I pull my phone from my pocket to call Dad as I head to the clinic to talk to Jovie.

Marina

The lesson is going well until I spot the woman standing outside the arena.

At first, I don’t recognize her.

She’s leaning against the wooden fence with her arms crossed, sunglasses perched on the tip of her nose, watching me work with the students. Her silver-blonde hair is a wild halo of curls around her face, and even from twenty yards away, I can see the brown fringed leather vest.

Then she lifts one hand and waves.

Mom.

Ginger Kincade—my mother, my personal tornado, and the woman who has been married three times since divorcing my father—grins at me like she hasn’t just materialized out of thin air in the middle of my workday.

I stare at her.