Page 99 of Lost Trust

He takes it.

She doesn’t let go.

“Um, I meant no offense, Miss Ginger.”

Her smile widens.

“Mom,” I call, and she glances at me and finally releases his hand.

“What? I’m not allowed to appreciate that these young men can look this good after working on a dirty old pump all morning?”

Cabe’s ears turn slightly red, and Micah makes a choking sound beside her.

Mom smiles sweetly. “Of course, I wouldn’t mind seeing what you look like cleaned up.”

I close my eyes. “Mom,” I say through clenched teeth.

“What?” She looks at me again. “I’m just being friendly. Stop being so uptight.”

Cabe rubs the back of his neck. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”

He stands to leave, and Mom watches him go.

Then she sighs. “That’s a fine-looking man.”

I stare at her. “You have been here less than an hour.”

She takes another bite of her lunch. “Yep. And I’ve already made friends.” She turns back to face me. “See how easy it is?”

Micah grins, and I scowl at her.

“Relax, baby girl,” Mom says, her voice turning serious. “I’ll be on my best behavior from here on out. I promise.”

I look across the table at Matty, Harleigh, and Jovie.

They’re all trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Mom leans back in her chair.

She’s going to be trouble.

The kind Wildhaven isn’t used to.

Royce

Friday means student rotation day at the academy, which means I have a short day. Usually, I would be down by the river either fishing or swimming, but before I can get out there, Dad ropes me into helping him and Uncle Albert replace some shingles on the main barn.

A storm rolled down from the Tetons a few nights ago, bringing enough wind to peel loose a handful of shingles along the western slope. Nothing catastrophic, but enough that Dad won’t sleep right until it’s fixed.

So, here I am, halfway up the roof with a hammer in one hand and a bundle of shingles beside me.

The afternoon sun beats down hard.

The heat radiates off the roof beneath my boots, and sweat runs down my back until I finally give up and yank my shirt over my head.

“Hell,” Dad mutters from a few feet away. “You trying to make the rest of us look bad?”

I toss my shirt beside the shingles. “You passed down good genes, old man. What can I say?”