Page 12 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Eight

Ford

I made it as far as the hardware store before the day went sour.

Whittier Falls Hardware was wedged between the fly shop and the taxidermist, a narrow shotgun of a building with a hand-painted sign that hadn’t been repainted in at least three decades.

The front window was stuffed with bags of water softener, a half-assembled wheelbarrow, and a pyramid of ant killer.

If you didn’t know it was open, you might have figured it was abandoned, but there was a steady stream of trucks and battered SUVs out front every morning.

Most of the town’s actual work got done with supplies from this place.

Inside, the light was thin and yellow, filtered through years of bug-streaked glass.

The floorboards creaked and stuck underfoot, worn smooth by a thousand pairs of boots.

It smelled like old sawdust, galvanized steel, and whatever chemical finish they used to keep the paint wall from peeling.

There was a rhythm to the place: every few feet, a pegboard bristling with hardware, a shelf of battered caulking guns.

I grabbed a blue plastic basket by the door and started down the main aisle, keeping my eyes forward.

Paint section first. I was going to tackle the living room—get rid of the nicotine yellow and the weird, ancient floral borders.

I grabbed an assortment of brushes, then a bag of cheap rollers, the kind you can use once and toss.

The handles made a plasticky rattle in the bottom of the basket.

Next up: tools. I had a set back at the ranch, but I’d need some extras for small stuff, and I didn’t exactly feel like unpacking every goddamn box just to find a flathead screwdriver.

I cut past the outdoor supplies—lawn seed, weed killer, animal traps.

At the end of the aisle, a pair of old-timers blocked the way.

Both wore flannel, both had white facial hair, both regarded me with the blank appraisal of men who’d spent their whole lives seeing through people.

They didn’t move as I walked up. I waited.

One of them—thicker around the gut, with a nasal septum that’d been broken and reset crooked—leaned in and muttered to the other, loud enough for me to hear, “That’s the Brooks boy. You know, Waylon’s boy.”

The second man grunted, never taking his eyes off a display of fencing pliers. “Heard he’s back. Figured he’d stay out west, with the rest of the trash.”

The first man made a little click with his tongue. “Should’ve stayed gone, after what happened to Ty Higgins.”

My hands tightened on the basket. I kept my eyes on the shelf, but my pulse was a train in my ears.

“Whole town knows he did it,” the first man went on, voice picking up. “No way that Higgins kid just drove himself off a gorge after fighting with this one.”

The second guy shrugged. “Cops never proved a thing.”

“Cops don’t need to. Ain’t nobody but a Brooks that mean.”

They laughed, not hard, not friendly. I could feel them watching for a reaction, for the snap or the smartass comeback.

Instead I sidestepped them and moved down the aisle, plucking a package of utility blades from the hook and tossing them into the basket.

They let me pass, but their eyes stayed on my back. I felt every inch of it.

People here had no problem being overt in their gossip, even when it involved something as morbid as death.

At the end of the row, I turned and found the paint swatches.

The wall was crowded with them, rows and rows of colors with names like “Dover Mist” and “Wyoming Twilight.” I picked out three neutrals, not because I couldn’t decide, but because the act of comparing them gave my hands something to do.

The whole time, I could hear the old guys at the end of the aisle, now joined by a third man with a red cap, debating the best way to sharpen a chainsaw blade.

I kept my head down, but the gossip followed me.

A woman at the far end of the store caught sight of me over a bin of plastic tarps.

She leaned into her friend, a tall blonde in a puffy vest, and stage-whispered, “That’s him.

The billionaire killer. Hasn’t set foot in this town since—” Her voice dropped to a hush, but I didn’t have to guess the rest.

I tried to focus on the rhythm of the store instead.

There was comfort in the clatter of loose nails, the hum of the ancient cooler, the faint, persistent tick of the wall clock above the key-cutting machine.

For half a second, I wished I could just blend in—be a regular guy, picking up deck stain and a bag of charcoal on a weekend.

But that’s not who I was, and pretending otherwise would be a waste of everyone’s time.

I finished my circuit of the store and made my way to the register.

The man behind the counter looked like he’d been carved from the same wood as the floor.

His eyebrows were thick and gray, and he had the posture of a former linebacker whose shoulders never quite un-hunched after high school.

He wore a button-up with his name—ERNIE—stitched crooked above the pocket.

I set my basket on the counter. He started ringing me up, silent except for the electronic bleep of the scanner.

Ernie didn’t make eye contact. He just moved methodically through the pile—primer, brushes, utility knife, box of drywall screws, the paint samples stacked neatly on top. His hands were big and cracked at the knuckles, with one thumb wrapped in electrical tape.

After a few seconds, he finally spoke. “Fixing up old Chickadee?” His voice was gravelly, but not unfriendly.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s seen better decades.”

He nodded, like this confirmed something he already knew. “That place been empty since I can remember. You planning to stay a while?”

I considered lying, but the truth was easier. “I might.”

He grunted, ringing up the last item. “You’ll want to seal the baseboards before you paint. Old houses like that, you get ants all spring.”

I nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

He bagged my purchases. When I handed him the cash, his hands were steady, eyes never wavering.

“I always liked your mom,” he said, not quite looking at me. “She was good people.”

I cleared my throat. “She still is.”

He finished making change, then slid the bag across. “Tell her Ernie says hello.”

“Will do.”

I hoisted the bags, feeling the heat of a half-dozen eyes on my back as I left the store.

The moment I hit the sunlight, the tension in my neck eased a notch.

I stood there for a minute, letting the heat soak into my face, trying to shake the bitter aftertaste of the townsfolk and their opinions of me.

The thing about rumors is, you can’t fight them.

Not with words, not with fists. Only thing you can do is outlast them.

Let them pile up until they rot away, and maybe—if you’re lucky—people will move on to something new.

The air was crisp and dry, and the dust from the gravel parking lot swirled up every time a car drove past on Main.

Across the street, the sign for the Dusty Barrel flickered and popped, letters half burnt out.

I watched it for a second, then started toward my truck, the shiny paint job still sticking out in the sea of old, beat up ranch trucks.

I’d barely taken five steps when I nearly walked right into her.

She was pushing a stroller—one of those lightweight umbrella types, with a green and navy plaid canopy faded from the sun.

She didn’t see me until the last second.

I caught the faint scent of vanilla before the jolt: my hardware bags thunked into my own shin and her stroller wheel caught on the toe of my boot.

She looked up, startled, and her cheeks went pink. “Oh, sorry!” she said, voice light and breathless. “Didn’t see you there.”

I stepped back, catching the stroller before it could tip. “My fault,” I said, letting go once I knew she had it. “Should have watched where I was going.”

We both stood there, not quite sure who should move first. Her hair was down today, loose and wavy, and newly lightened to a blonde shade that brought out the honey flecks in her brown eyes.

She wore a pink jacket over a blue sweater and jeans that had seen better days.

Her hands were pale from the cold. I resisted the urge to grab them and hold them between my own.

She bit her lip, then glanced at the hardware bags in my hands. “Doing some home improvement?” she asked.

“Trying to,” I said, shifting the bags so I didn’t look like I was strangling them. “Old house. Everything needs work.”

She laughed, a real sound that surprised me. “You and me both. My apartment has seen better days. This week it’s the faucet that’s decided to bless me with a kitchen-river.” She leaned down and started fussing with the stroller buckle. “This is Noah,” she added, voice suddenly gentle.

She scooped her son up, balanced him on her hip. He had big blue eyes—different from hers—cheeks flushed with cold, a single cowlick making his hair stand up in the back. He stared at me with open, reckless curiosity, then reached out and grabbed the handle of my hardware bag.

“Hi!” he said, loud and sure.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Hey there, little man.”

Noah grinned, swinging the bag like he meant to drag it away. For a second, I let him. His hands were sticky, and the tips of his fingers were stained with something orange—maybe cheese dust, maybe paint. I realized I was smiling, and that I hadn’t actually smiled all day.

Lily shifted her weight, and the movement caught my eye.

She was stronger than she looked—holding a squirming toddler, steadying the stroller with her foot, and somehow making all of it look effortless.

There was a softness to the way she bent her head to talk to her son, a kind of patience you didn’t see much anymore.

“Sorry if he’s too much,” she said, laughing as Noah tugged at the bag again. “He’s in a ‘touch everything’ phase.”