Wild Hearts Page 11

  “Pam,” Logan said, “this is Brie.”

  Pam reached out a hand. She clasped my hand firmly and put her other hand on top of mine.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Brie,” Pam said. “This one has told me a lot about you.”

  Logan’s face turned pink. “Is that a new brand of fly spray?” Logan asked, hurrying away from Pam and me. He picked up the bottle and read the label, staying away from us.

  Pam released my hand and laughed quietly.

  “I think you might have embarrassed him just a little bit,” I said, grinning.

  “Not quite enough yet,” Pam said, winking at me. “Logan, honey! That’s the good old spray. You’ve been using that same brand since you could walk.”

  There was silence from Logan’s side of the store.

  Pam and I laughed out loud.

  “Go ahead and keep hiding,” I said, my tone teasing.

  “I’m glad you came in,” Pam said, her eyes on me. “I want you to know that Logan told me where your heart is on the mustang issue.”

  Logan’s head popped up from a different corner of the store. He walked over and stood behind us, massaging my shoulders.

  “It’s a really difficult situation,” I said. “No matter what, it’s still my dad. I don’t like to see him attacked or vilified.”

  “I can’t imagine being in your place,” Pam said. “Want advice from someone who has lived on this planet many, many years?”

  I nodded.

  “Whatever you do, try to remember that it’s not about picking sides. It’s not your father over the horses. Or vice versa. It’s what’s right over what’s wrong. That doesn’t automatically mean your father’s wrong. Evaluate each situation and decide on how to handle it by trusting your heart.”

  “Thank you, Pam,” I said. “I appreciate the advice. I’m so glad you didn’t automatically dislike me because of my dad’s reputation in town.”

  Pam smiled. “I’ve only just met you, but you’ve got a good heart—I can tell. I’m glad you and Logan are in each other’s lives.”

  I looked at Logan over my shoulder and he smiled down at me.

  “Thanks for watching Holden last week,” Logan said to Pam. “There was a fence break and some of the cattle got loose and headed for Vann’s land. We had to get them before he called another town meeting.” He huffed. Logan had told me stories about Vann—the McCoys’ awful neighbor.

  “Yeah, well,” Pam said, picking up the broom. “Vann needs to act more like a neighbor and less like a dictator. His goats ravaged your dad’s corn crop last year and Jack didn’t threaten to have him fined for property destruction, now, did he?”

  “Dad knew it was an accident, but Vann’s still upset he didn’t get the permit for the new barn he wanted to build,” Logan said and shrugged. “I think he’s plowed enough ground by now. He’s ruined half of the forest behind his place anyway.

  “I might call you in the next couple of days to give vaccinations to LG and some of the other horses if Dr. Dorsett isn’t available,” Logan said. He looked down at me. “Pam’s a retired vet,” he told me. “But she works more than she rests.”

  Pam smiled. “If I’m not birthing a calf out in the field or deworming the new goat herd, you’ll find me here.”

  “She does it all,” Logan said. “We’ve got a new vet, Dr. Dorsett, but he’s not the most reliable guy. He’s always on an ‘emergency’ call somewhere else.”

  Pam huffed. “That’s the truth. So, aside from bringing Brie in for introductions, what are you both up to?” Pam asked.

  “Brie doesn’t have a cowboy hat,” Logan said.

  “Well, that’s not acceptable!” Pam exclaimed with a wave of her hand. She pointed to the far left side of the store. “Have at it and make sure Logan breaks it in so you don’t look like a dude.”

  I laughed. “That’s what Logan said earlier!”

  “We can’t have new residents walking around looking like greenhorns,” Pam said. “Especially the gals hanging out with the eligible bachelors of Lost Springs.” She winked at Logan and the tips of his ears went red. It was beyond adorable.

  “Let’s go look,” Logan said, leading me away from Pam.

  “Aw, she didn’t embarrass you, did she?” I pushed his arm with my hand.

  Logan rolled his eyes and grinned. “No comment.”

  We stepped up to the rows of hats. Beige, black, white, navy. Tassels, feathers, beads. Every hat looked like the exact opposite of its neighbor, but I didn’t see why picking one was such a big deal.

  “How about that one?” I asked. There was a nice black hat on the rack in front of me.

  “Black? No way,” Logan said. “You want people to think you’re an outlaw?”

  “Umm . . . no?”

  “Villains wore black hats in old movies. Now it’s usually reserved for ranch owners and bosses. The top dogs wear black.”

  “Oh,” I said. “No black, then.” I didn’t know a hat could say something like that. “How about you choose,” I offered. “I don’t want to accidentally choose a hat that says ‘tourist’ or ‘boring.’”

  Logan stepped up to the hat rack and stared carefully at the choices. He picked up a tan hat with a round top. “That doesn’t look like yours,” I said, looking at Logan’s own hat. His hat had dents and creases in the top.

  “This is an open crown hat,” he explained. “It hasn’t been shaped yet.” He placed the hat gently on my head. Focus, Brie! I told myself. You’re just buying a hat! It was hard to concentrate on anything but Logan. He was inches away from me and I wanted to take my hands and touch the washboard abs that I knew existed under his loose T-shirt.

  I peered at him from underneath the brim and our eyes met. I bit on the inside of my cheek—anything to keep back the cartoon hearts that I envisioned floating around my head when he got this close to me.

  “I like this one,” I said, glancing in the semi-warped mirror. The crown was rounded like a dome and the brim was straight.

  “We have to shape it before you wear it in public,” Logan said. His lips formed a small smirk.

  I giggled. “I look like a Canadian Mountie!”

  “We can fix it up if you want to come over to my house now,” Logan said.

  “Sure,” I said slowly, trying to imagine what Logan’s house was like. “Let me call home and check in.”

  “Okay,” he said, taking my hat and heading for the front of the store. “I’m going to get this and then we’ll go if you can.”

  “You’re not paying for that,” I said, shoving my hand in my pocket and feeling around for bills. “It’s way too much.”

  Logan put his hand on my wrist and drew my hand out of my pocket. “I want to. It’s only a hat.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. His hand on my wrist left a lingering feeling like jumping into a cold pool and then slowly getting used to the water temperature.

  “I’m very sure,” he said.

  I let Logan buy me the hat and I called home. Mom thanked me for checking in and told me to be home for dinner.

  After good-byes to Pam, we headed back to WyGas to get Logan’s pickup truck. I half wished Mom had said she’d needed me to come home. It would have stopped me from getting more invested in Logan. My stomach was in knots during the drive. I’d made similar mistakes before with girls that I’d befriended. I went to their houses, met their parents, played with their pets, and then real feelings of friendship developed. The closer I became to them, the harder it got to keep up a wall. Finally, when I ended up moving, it hurt so much that I swore to myself to never make friends again. That level of pain came from friendships. I couldn’t imagine what leaving a potential relationship behind was going to feel like. Maybe that was why the only person in my phone’s contacts list, aside from a few random Internet friends, was Kate.

  Now we were headed down a bumpy road and I gripped the door handle for support.

  “Sorry,” Logan said when we bounced over a pothole. “If I go t
oo slow, I’ll get stuck.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

  The road was muddy from day-old rain, and mud spurted up the truck’s windows. On one side of the road, a green tractor was going down a defined row.

  “What are they planting?” I asked, pointing out my window.

  “Barley or oats,” Logan said.

  The truck hit another pothole and felt as though the tires were getting sucked into a deep mud puddle, and the truck strained to fight through the mud.

  “Do you ever have trouble getting home?” I asked. It looked like the wrecked road would wash out after a decent storm.

  Logan turned into a deep gravel driveway and glanced at me for a second. “Last year, we had a real gully washer.”

  “Pause. Define this ‘gully washer.’” I grinned and made air quotes.

  Logan laughed. “Sorry. It just means a ton of rain. When that happened, my dad had to drive through our neighbor’s field, park the truck, and wade through knee-high water to get home.”

  “Something kind of like that happened to us in Belize,” I said.

  “Really?” Logan asked. “Tell me about it.”

  “You sure? I’ve told you so many stories about where I’ve lived. Aren’t you sick of them by now?”

  Logan leaned over and took my left hand. He squeezed it for a few seconds in his own warm, bigger palm. “I asked, didn’t I? I promise that if I ever get bored with your stories, I won’t ask you to share them.”

  I looked at him and wished I could pull out my phone and jot down every word he’d just said. Then again, I wasn’t likely to forget.

  “Okay,” I said, smiling. “Well, my dad booked our first night there in a tourist resort. It was supposed to be this cutesy little place right off the main road in town. We got into town, asked for directions, and some old guy looked at us like we were nuts. We thought he just didn’t understand where we wanted to go.”

  “Uh-oh,” Logan said. “I can tell this is headed for trouble.”

  “Finally, we thanked the guy in very bad Spanish and started driving around. We found a sign for the resort that said ‘welcome and park here’ so we did and we followed signs that directed us to walk to the resort. The signs were wooden with words scribbled on them in, like, Sharpie. They kept popping up and said ‘almost there’ and ‘keep going.’ After ten of these signs we had walked at least a mile down a sticky jungle path before we found a bunch of canoes.”

  Logan shook his head. “Such a good kickoff to your stay.”

  “We had to take the canoes across a river and then we finally hit the resort ground. I was all sweaty and covered in bug bites. Plus, we had to trek back down to get to our car the next day.” I stopped talking as a roof popped into view.

  I looked through Logan’s cracked windshield as we passed under a wooden sign straddling the driveway that said TRIPLE M RANCH. Horses, cattle, and sheep dotted the grassy knolls around a ranch house nestled in front of a weathered tall red barn.

  “Logan, your ranch is beautiful!” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. He kissed my hand and let it go. “I’m glad that you were able to come over.”

  An excited border collie appeared beside my window and barked at the truck. “Who’s this?” I asked Logan, peering down at the dog.

  “That’s Squirrel,” Logan said. “We got her as a pup and she’s Holden’s dog. Are you okay with dogs? I should have thought to ask. All our dogs are really friendly.”

  “I love dogs,” I said. “I’ve only been wanting one for sixteen years.” I grinned as Squirrel bounded up ahead. I didn’t know where to look. There was so much land. “How’d she get her name?”

  “Holden and Dad took Squirrel out on a hunting trip when Squirrel was a puppy. Squirrel found a nest full of baby squirrels in a tree hollow. She fetched a baby squirrel from the nest and carried it in her mouth like a puppy. Holden begged Dad to keep it, so we raised the baby squirrel and set it free.”

  “Oh, my God. I would so love a baby squirrel,” I said, imagining the tiny gray face. “I like your dog already.”

  Logan smiled and eased the truck to a stop. “There are a lot more dogs to like.”

  His truck door was barely open when four or five—I couldn’t tell in the flurry of fur—other dogs raced up to him, wagging their tails and barking. Logan waved me out of the truck.

  “They’re all harmless,” he said.

  “Hi, guys!” I said to them. I offered my hand to a curious Lab mix who eagerly licked it.

  Logan walked over to my side of the truck with his dog posse behind him.

  “Sit,” Logan said firmly. All five dogs sat instantly and stared at Logan. They looked like mixed breeds. A few looked more like German shepherds, and Squirrel and another dog were border collies.

  None of them moved.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re a dog whisperer, too.”

  “They have to be good,” Logan said. “They’re working dogs.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Do they herd cattle and things like that?”

  He nodded and stood behind a border collie and rubbed its black-and-white ears. “They’re like an extra set of hands. They pitch in wherever Dad and I need help. This is Lara, that’s Echo, next to her is Hudson, and on the end is Jane. Jane is my dad’s old dog.”

  “Aw,” I said. I walked over to Jane and bent down to rub her head. Jane had a few white hairs on her black face. “She’s sweet.” Kneeling, Logan was almost laughing as he tried to evade sloppy kisses from Squirrel.

  “Watch out,” Logan warned. “Don’t spend too much time with Jane. She’ll follow you home!”

  “I’d take her home, but my dad would freak.” Pets annoyed Dad even more than bad cell reception.

  “So would my dad,” Logan said with a laugh. He grabbed the bag with my hat off of the truck hood where he had placed it. “Ready to come in? Dad’s working and Holden’s at a friend’s house.”

  “Sure.” I glanced at the house as we made our way to the front door. Did I look as nervous as I felt?

  Logan opened a patched screen door and twisted the doorknob.

  I froze—shocked that no one was home and he had left the door unlocked. “You don’t lock your door?” I asked. When we had lived in a cramped apartment in downtown DC, our door had four locks and two deadbolts. Ever since I could remember, I couldn’t sleep at night without checking to be sure all the doors in the house were locked. Even if Mom swore she checked them, I had to do it myself. Borderline OCD, I know. Dad jokingly credited my security detail as the reason we’d never been robbed.

  “Nah,” he said, pushing the door open and allowing me to step in front of him. “Nobody locks their doors in Lost Springs. People aren’t surprised if they wake up in the morning and their neighbor had left a note on the table because he borrowed a beer in the middle of the night.”

  “That’s crazy. At least go for something like cheesecake.”

  I stepped through Logan’s front door and walked into a shabby but spotless living room. “It’s not fancy,” Logan said as he kicked off his boots. “But it’s home.”

  A light blue couch was in front of a TV old enough to have knobs on the sides to turn it on and off. Dozens of photos hung above the couch. There were pictures of Holden and one of a boy holding a large mouth bass.

  “There you are,” I said, pointing to the fishing picture.

  Logan nodded, took my hat out of the bag, and put it on the counter. “Unfortunately. That was when the term ‘bowl cut’ really applied to my hair.” I laughed and looked at the rest of the photos. There were none of his mom. Just Holden and Logan and Jack. I stared at a photo of Jack, smiling so wide, with his arms around a teensy Holden and a Logan who had two front teeth missing. I wondered if the photo had been taken by Logan’s mom. Seeing Jack this way—not the man I’d come to know as my dad’s arch nemesis—was strange.

  I joined Logan in a large kitchen with dozens of cabinets. A few dirty pots were in the sink and there
was no dishwasher or microwave.

  “Is your dad one of those guys who hate modern technology?” I asked.

  “No, he just never had a dishwasher installed. We had a microwave, but it got the brunt of Dad’s anger the night my mom left.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  “Stop, stop,” Logan said with a smile. “It’s okay.”

  Logan took two plastic glasses with moons on them out of a cabinet and opened the refrigerator door. He motioned me over. “Pop, juice, or water?”

  “Pop, thanks.” Even though I’d said “soda” all my life, I’d been influenced by Amy and Logan. I turned and looked out the kitchen window. The window looked right onto the farm lawn. Logan poured us each a full glass of Coke and grabbed a stainless steel pot from under the stove. I shot him a puzzled look. “Are we having tea, too?”

  He filled the pot with water and turned the stove on high, flames licking the bottom of the pot. “We could have tea, but it’s for your hat. We can’t shape it without steam.”

  We sat at his round kitchen table, sipping our drinks and waiting for the water to boil.

  I took a deep breath. “This week has been amazing,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t know when I was this happy.”

  Logan put his hand on the table, palm up. I placed my right hand onto his.

  “Whatever this is,” I continued, “it doesn’t feel like a summer fling to me. I don’t want to freak you out, but I wanted to tell you that I think things with you are . . . different.”

  Logan squeezed my hand. “I wanted to say the same thing to you. I chickened out. Things with us kind of exploded so fast. I wasn’t looking for this.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “At all.”

  “I believe that. You have all these walls up. Like you’re trying to protect yourself from getting hurt,” Logan said. “I guess I’d do the same thing if I had your life.”

  “I’m scared,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I really like you.”

  Logan leaned closer to me. His breath smelled like caramel. “Is this worth being scared?” He was so close, his lips almost brushed mine.

  “Yes,” I said. I tipped my chin forward, my lips on Logan’s. I freed my hand from his and ran my hands up and down his back. I stood, keeping my head bent and my lips on Logan’s, and managed to leave my chair and sit in his lap.