I glance over at Clay when he stops rocking. His expression is stony, but not angry. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it almost looks as if he's peaceful yet determined.
"What, Clay?"
"Just waiting for you to realize what you just said."
I think back, replaying my words, and then it hits me. The air stalls in my chest and my eyes widen.
"Just because it's been years, sweetheart, doesn't mean feelin's are just gonna vanish. You two always did burn hotter than hell when you were together. Even before I made you sit down and tell me why you were takin' him leavin' so hard, I knew there was somethin' there. Mighta been young, but you were never stupid. What's your gut tellin' you? Think hard, Quinny. Push back that hurt and fear. Really think about what it's tellin' you."
"To run," I whisper.
"Run where?"
"Straight to him."
Clay nods his head slowly, the muscles in his jaw jumping. "Then I guess you need to cowgirl up."
I feel some of the heaviness lift when Clay utters the saying we use between us when we're facing something challenging. Cowgirl up, or cowboy up, is as good as a dare in our book.
"Easier said than done, big guy."
"It's only as hard as you build it up to be in your mind, Hell-raiser," he stresses, his voice sure and true. "Take it one day at a time. Don't think I haven't heard about him gettin' his paw's old truck into your hands. He sure did move mountains in order to get that done all the way from wherever he is. When he gets back in Pine Oak, sit down and figure out what happened between y'all. After you have all the facts, then I reckon your gut's gonna be talkin' a lot louder."
"For someone dead set on remainin' a bachelor, you sure do know a lot about this kinda stuff." I laugh, pushing through the renewed burst of fear his words settled on me at the thought of sitting down for a chat with Tate.
Clay chuckles. "Blame the Hallmark Channel."
My jaw drops for the barest of seconds before I'm laughing so hard I have to clap my hand over my mouth and calm down to keep from peeing myself. Leave it to Clay, as always, to take the mountain of dread that's been building inside me and level it to the ground.
Maybe he's right, which shouldn't be surprising, since he knows more about how close Tate and I were than anyone else--even Leighton.
All I know is, I can't continue to feel this massive discord inside me. I might not have ever thought this day would come, but it has, and like it or not, it's time for me to pull up my big-girl britches and get back in the saddle of my life.
5
QUINN
"Any Man of Mine" by Shania Twain
- -
Eric Church is blaring through the shop speakers, cranked up loud as hell so I can hear it from the spot I took up outside the back entrance of the bay I'm working in. I have the industrial fans blowing full blast inside, even if they're just pushing oppressing heat around, cooling nothing but at least making it a little more bearable when I step back inside and out of the hot Texas sun.
My coveralls are tied around my waist and my black tank top is rolled up under my sports bra. Thankfully, I can get away with it because I'm not doing much but speed-blasting the rust on the back panels of the F1. I moved outside to ensure I had plenty of open space to run the blaster, but the heat quickly became too much to handle.
The guys around here don't even bat an eye at me, used to me doing what needs to be done to counteract boob sweat. No woman likes boob sweat. Even if the guys were paying attention, my two private work bays are farther away from the hustle and bustle of the main garage floor, so they would have to go way out of the way to do it, and that would mean they weren't working. There isn't anything that chaps my hide more than my guys slacking off on the clock, and they know it. So they take care not to pay me any mind.
Every second of my time at the shop has gone into this baby--whom I've lovingly started calling Homer, because no truck this fine should be without a name. I've fallen in love with it, despite my best efforts to stay cool and detached. No can do. In the years since I took over control of D.A.W. I've stepped back from the day-to-day mechanical needs here. My boys are top-shelf talent, and aside from the customer consultations, I pretty much stick to the design end of our custom auto work. I'm here every day, but not because I have to be. I'm here because I crave it. Taking something like Homer and bringing him or her back to their glory days is my drug of choice. I wouldn't be me without the scent of gasoline and grease emanating from my pores.
Before Tate rammed his way back into my consciousness, I was focusing all my time on another F1--the only other one in this whole dadgum town. Bertha is my baby, one that I found at a scrapyard so far past her prime, no one here thought I would be able to find her beauty again--but I did, or I was close . . . until now. Until Homer, I was maybe a week away from firin' Bertha up and hittin' the road.
I pause and stretch to work out some of the kinks in my back and look through the open bay door behind me, seeing her sitting in the next bay over, waiting patiently for me to get back to her. My girl is sweet like that. A part of me regrets making her wait even longer for our date on the open road, but I know she'll forgive me. Well, she'll forgive me when I rebuild another engine for her someday when I finish Homer, since he's taking hers. Sure, I could have found another one for Homer, but when it comes to engines, I won't put just anything in my babies. I all but build them myself, and that kind of labor takes time--time I wasn't willing to give if it meant finishing Homer up before his new owner rolled back in town.
"Am I going to have to drag you away from that damn truck or are you goin' to stop avoidin' me?"
I whip my head around at the shrill voice breaking through my thoughts so fast I lose my footing. Dropping the blaster, my arms windmilling instantly at my sides, I start cursing a solid streak any sailor would be proud of.
I land hard, the sand from the speed blaster prickling the exposed skin at my back, and my elbows digging into the asphalt beneath me. I ignore the pain and glare up at Leighton.
"Don't you give me that look, Quinn Everly Davis! You know damn well you've been avoidin' me."
She doesn't even finish talking before she steps out onto the shop floor and walks over to me, reaching down to offer me a hand up.
"I haven't been avoidin' you, you big jerk. I've been busy workin' on Homer. He isn't gonna put himself back together, you know?"
"Homer?"
I point around me--allllll around me--making sure to indicate all the pieces of Homer that I've slowly been dismantling over the past few weeks that I've had him. Only the shell of him remains at present, but I can already see him taking shape handsomely.
"So, Homer is . . . car parts?" she asks in confusion.
I don't even bother trying to correct Leigh anymore. She's like a dog discovering a squirrel for the first time when I explain what I'm working on. It doesn't offend me, not at all, because I know if she started trying to teach me how to make some of her delicious pies I would be the same way. We can appreciate each other's talents all the same, even without understanding a dang thing about 'em.
"Truck," I deadpan, dusting off my ass before grabbing the discarded blaster and walking over to my workstation to turn down the music. "Just like Bertha. Same year, too."
"Bertha?" she puzzles.
I lift my arm and point toward my girl, her gleaming black body shining under the shop lights. My skin tingles just looking at her.
"Got it. Kinda," Leigh mumbles.
"You don't, but that's okay, Leigh. I still love you even if you can't tell the difference between a coupe and a sedan."
"A what?"
I laugh, turning to face her. "I wasn't avoidin' you. Promise. Things have just been busy here. I wanted to get as much done on this one as I could before my reprieve is over."
"Do you know when he's gettin' into town?" she questions, knowing instantly what "reprieve" I'm talking about.
"Not a single clue. Ret deals with him when he calls fo
r updates or when I need an approval on another expense. I just do what I need to do to ensure that Fisher's Ford looks like it just rolled off the assembly line and it's 1948 all over again."
Leigh snorts. "Fisher's Ford, that's hilarious. God, he sure was a funny old coot, wasn't he? I bet he never would've dreamt of drivin' anything other than a Ford just for the shits and giggles people got when they said that."
I snicker right along with her. It's been in my head since I started working on it. Fisher Ford and his Ford. Not even sure why I find it so damn funny. "You probably aren't wrong. He was a good man, damn shame about his passin'."
"Ever since Emilie died, he seemed to age daily." She sobers. "I went in for my yearly a few months before he passed and I'm not even sure how he managed to do all his cooter-doc work, his hands were shakin' so badly."
"God, Leigh, you make it sound so disgustin'." I hoot, laughing even harder now.
"Your brother misses you," she tells me, the swift change of subject catching me off guard. "He's worried you're backin' away from him again."
I feel a pang straight through my heart at her words. "Jesus, Leigh. How could he even think that?"
"Probably because the last time you started stayin' away from him for weeks at a time it was right after he told you about your mama. He knows you were hurtin', but I think a big part of him is scared you'll blame him for whatever part he's still convinced he played in her bullshit. Honestly, though, I think he's a little worried you might be gearin' up to ask him to take you to her again," she whispers softly and with care.
"Is he really worried?"
My stomach clenches thinking about her, the woman who birthed us and abandoned us. When my brother came home king of the rodeo circuit, after being gone for close to a decade, he dropped a massive bomb on Clay and me: not only had our mother cheated on our father, resulting in her pregnancy with Maverick, but she was so mentally gone now from years of whoring and drug use, she wasn't even a shell of herself anymore. She was basically alive physically, but dead mentally. A pill that I still have a hard time swallowing.
I'd reacted emotionally and begged Maverick to take me to see her, which he'd outright refused to do. I was angry at the time, but I know he has his reasons and they're all about doing what's best for me. He figures no good at all will come from my seeing Mama, and I don't disagree. It's taken me almost a whole year to work through my issues with her transgressions and if I'm honest with myself, I haven't even gotten to the heart of those problems, but the last thing I would ever do is blame him. He isn't too far off the mark, though. Part of me does still want to see her, even if it's just to officially close that chapter of my life--the one about a girl who always wished her mama would come back and love her.
"He's just worried about you, Q. So am I. It isn't like you to pull away from us."
"You know exactly what's goin' on with me right now, Leigh. You could have just told him what was happenin'."
She exhales, the sound hitting my ears even over the noises blasting throughout the shop. "I don't though, Q. You left the PieHole after that call with Tate and then nothin'. You left that night with a smile on your face after we pulled the moonshine out and talked about how you were glad he was comin' back so you could show him what a, and I quote, 'fine-ass bitch' he missed out on. You've never been a good liar, Q, so far as I knew you've been workin' on this grand plan of revenge and using your hot body to get it. It's been three dadgum weeks since that night, and every time I see you, you brush off whatever's up with you as nothin' but work and lack of sleep. Three weeks, Q, and zip on the Tate situation. What gives?"
"That moonshine needs to be buried deep in the earth. It's the devil's brew, I tell you. It does nothin' but make you turn into someone that does and says ridiculous things. When would I ever refer to anyone, let alone myself, as a fine-ass bitch, Leighton James?"
She tosses her head back, her blond locks dancing behind her back and over the delicate straps of her sundress. "You do it all the time, Q!"
I roll my eyes. "Whatever. All joking aside, I've just been workin' through some stuff in my head. It has nothin' to do with Maverick . . . or her. I really do want to have as much of Homer done as I can before Tate sets foot back in Pine Oak."
"Since when can't you work things out with me? I get wantin' to have a head start on this truck stuff, but you aren't even talkin' about him comin' back. You just say it's nothin' and then avoid everyone by keepin' yourself at work all the dang time."
She doesn't say all that to make me feel bad. I can tell she's just genuinely confused that I wouldn't go straight to her like I normally do to blab on and on about everything and anything. I guess I haven't been putting on as good of a show as I thought.
"I didn't want to burden you, Leigh. You've got so much goin' on with the wedding plans and Maverick's new students arrivin' on the ranch for the next quarter of trainin'," I tell her honestly, referencing the fledgling training facility that my brother opened when he was forced to stop riding bulls due to his health--the same one that has now become the talk of the rodeo world. "I'm workin' through it, I promise, and Clay helped set my head straight, so it wasn't like I was festerin' in a vat of crushed dreams or anything."
Her eyes heat. "That's bullshit, Quinn! First, I'm never too busy for you. I love you, and you know that. You're my family, and when you're upset, I feel that. Don't shut me out. Second, I love your brother, but there ain't no way on God's green earth that Clay can set your head straight like I can."
"Honestly, Leigh, if you want the truth, I just don't know how to make sense of all this shit swirlin' around in my brain," I tell her on a sigh, pointing at myself with a wave of my hand. "Yeah, I might not have wanted to add to your stress, but I also just don't know how to explain it all. Even to myself."
She looks at me, nothing but compassion and understanding in her gaze. "You remember when your brother came back, Quinn? You remember how I was when your brother came back? I think I have a pretty good idea about swirlin' minds. Come to dinner at the ranch tonight and freakin' talk to us."
Her words hit home, their aim true, and I move around my workstation while she gives me the time to get control of the floodgates of my turbulent emotions as they threaten to burst free. The shop is the last damn place I want to have this chat, because I know things are going to get overwhelming once they finally break the hold I have on them, and I'll turn into a blubbering mess. I heave a sigh of acceptance out and give her a nod.
"I know Ret needs to go over the week's parts order before I head out today. Let me finish up and holler at him, and then I'll head out to your place."
She smiles. "Good. I just know Maverick's goin' to want to see for his own eyes that you're okay and not upset with him over whatever he's built up in his head. For such a strong-willed man, he sure does turn into a big baby where his sister is concerned." She winks.
"Help me work through my shit and I promise I'll take care of the big brute. The last thing I want is him thinkin' I'm upset with him for something he didn't actually do."
She laughs, gives me a hug, and takes off after I promise not to be far behind her. It takes me about thirty minutes to make sure I have everything with Homer ready for tomorrow and to tidy up my work area for the day. Ret waves me off, not willing to stop installing a lift on a beautiful new Tahoe to go over the orders, promising to meet with me first thing in the morning before he sends it in. These guys don't need me here, something I'm reminded of daily, but I still like making sure they know I'm never far. I might have built this place up so well it could probably run without me for years, but that doesn't mean I want it to.
With no other way left to kill time, I head out to Harriet and make my way to Leigh and Maverick's ranch, praying that my best friend can help me get through the muddled mess of my mind.
One thing's for sure: it's been close to a month since that first call with Tate, and I know he's due back in Pine Oak any day now. Well, I don't know it for sure, but I can feel it. Th
ere's a wicked wind blowin' and it doesn't have shit to do with the stormy weather forecasted. I need to hurry up and figure out exactly how I feel about his return and what I want to do about it.
Hell, I don't even know anything about the man he's become. Believe you me, I tried stalking him over the years, but there isn't a hint of him on social media. He could be married with kids by now, for all I know. Or he could be unattached and attainable. Is he even the same young man who disappeared on me? Does his return mean he wants to finish building what we didn't have a chance to complete? My mind races, the thoughts I've been suppressing bombarding me rapidly, but deep down I know he wouldn't have gone so far out of his way to get Homer in to the shop a week after his call if he didn't want to ensure some sort of guaranteed connection between us when he got back. A man that was attached to another woman wouldn't work that hard . . . right?
For all I know, I'm working myself up over nothing, but it's that little nagging voice in my head, whispering behind all the frantic, panicked yells, that tells me I should know better. That I should trust my gut. There's something bigger to the reason he's coming back, I can feel it, and it isn't just because he's taking over Fisher's practice.
Taking over Fisher's practice.
Oh. My. God.
I slam on the brakes and stop dead in the middle of the road that Leigh's drive is off of and stare out the windshield in front of me in horror. Thankfully, no one is traveling behind me.
"Jesus Jones. He's a gyno," I moan into the empty cab. "Tate Montgomery isn't just a doctor. He's a lady doctor."