Page 11 of Forbidden Cowboy
“I’m gonna guess about six years?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
He chuckled, but it wasn’t his hearty laugh from before. No, this had something like bitterness laced through it.
I avoided looking at him, and I felt he was doing the same as we stared across the tarmac at the place in front of us.
Ads with chipped paint were showing off ancient deals for chicken corn and bags of grain. A white truck was outside, a man wearing the typical red shirts of the employees helping him unload great sacks of something—probably a form of animal feed.
“You’d think, with how big your ranch is now, you’d go and get all your stuff from some big supplier that could deliver it,” I mentioned as we continued towards the supply store.
Wyatt shrugged.
“This place, Gunnison, they’re what made everything my family and I have achieved possible. It would feel irresponsible to not give back to the community. Especially because I’d rather know the money I’ve worked hard for is going to others that have worked hard. From me getting everything I need from here, Arthur’s son has been able to take trombone lessons. Kid doesn’t have an ounce of musical talent from what I’ve heard, but he’s been able to try it. If I bought from somewhere bigger, we’d never know if he was the next great… trombonist? Is that a word?”
“I have no idea,” I giggled.
“But yeah, some asshole billionaire out there would be getting his third super-yacht, instead of a local kid blasting out his dad’s eardrums with a brass instrument.”
It was a much simpler way of explaining it, I knew, but it still made me consider the man beside me.
“Asshole billionaire, huh?” I asked, trying to hide my smile.
“It’s a harmful stereotype I do my best to disprove every day,” he said with a wry twist to his mouth.
“Uh huh, okay, just keep that in mind when you’re sitting on your third super-yacht drinking Dom Perignon.”
Truth be told, I had almost forgotten Wyatt’s considerable wealth. He was as down to earth as he had been throughout high school. Of course, we had all gone to a very private, very elite school that Beau and I had only managed to scrape into through good grades and scholarships.
“Not a big fan of expensive champagne,” Wyatt argued. “Nothing beats a cold Sierra Nevada at the end of a long day. I’d feel a little ridiculous popping open champagne in the middle of the dairy. Probably scare the cows, too.”
“I can’t believe you still drink Sierra Nevada.”
Even if it was the name of a stupid beer, hearing my name in his mouth had my traitorous heart skipping a few beats, and I blushed, looking down so he wouldn’t see.
“Arthur!” Wyatt called, and I looked up, seeing a middle-aged man with sun-weathered skin, a gray baseball cap, and a faded red t-shirt walking towards us.
The more time I spent with Wyatt, the more I realized everything I left behind.
“Hey, Wyatt, how ya doin’?”
“Pretty fine,” he answered, shaking Arthur’s hand. “How’s Jake doing with that brass beast of his?”
“He’s doin’ alright, I guess, still plays it like his life depends on it. Gettin’ better at it too—you should swing by the next recital.”
“I’d love to—get Mary to shoot me a message?”
“Will do, wait, is that little Sierra Carter you’ve got with you?”
Arthur’s eyes trained on me disbelievingly, and I grinned awkwardly, not sure what to say. I had spent a good many hours at the warehouse as a child, running through stacks and stacks of grain and feed, piles of bags of mulch and messing with the equipment that I wouldn’t be able to pay for if I broke it.
“I’m back in Gunnison for a little bit,” I said stiffly, not sure who knew about Beau. “Wyatt wanted me to get out and see some of what I missed.”
“As he damn well should,” Arthur said, “I’ll bet Jake won’t even remember you—he was, what, five when you left?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I replied.
Then his weathered eyes softened, and I knew that he knew.