Page 3 of Salvation (Clover-Hills #1)

Wesley

Wyatt:

Thanks for your help, man. I’ll drop in at the bar later to see you.

Closing out the text from my brother, I slam the door of my old, rusted truck shut. I watch as blue paint chips crumble to the dirt road beneath my feet.

“You know you can afford something new. Why bother with that old shit-wagon?” My mom chirps from her rocker on the front porch, sipping what I can only assume is her ‘homemade’ lemonade. Which means vodka with a dash of lemon.

I shake my head as I near the old yellow steps of my childhood home.

I don’t linger on the fact that she’s right, I can afford something new – another truck or car that I wouldn’t have to constantly fix and worry about breaking down on the side of the road.

I inherited the old Ford the year my dad passed and avoided it like the plague for quite some time.

The idea of riding around in it without him was always too painful.

Over a year ago, I was feeling sentimental and lonely enough that I dug it out of the garage.

Somehow, it’s still a long way from being anything but an eyesore.

I don’t have the heart to scrap it or sell it just to buy something pretty and polished.

So, I’ll keep reviving it as long as it’ll let me.

“We’ve already talked about this,” I said, nodding toward the drink in her hand, hoping to steer the conversation in a new direction, “and don’t you think it’s a bit early in the day?”

“You know what they say,” she winks and swishes around her drink, “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”

Raising my eyebrows and forcing back the smirk creeping up my lips, I glance at my watch, knowing I want to work on a few things before heading to the bar.

I have a knack for never telling my mom no, which is exactly why I showed up in the first place.

Helping Wyatt get the loose cattle back where they belong took up the majority of my day and I need to get a move on.

“What did you need me for?” I ask, maybe a little too bluntly.

“Such a charmer, my boy,” she sighs as she sets down her glass and shuffles out of her chair. “I need you to take some stuff to El’s.”

El, or Elise, is her best and possibly only friend.

The two are as thick as thieves. I can’t remember a time when they weren’t attached at the hip.

I’ve known El for as long as I’ve known my mother, which easily makes her just as hard to say no to.

I follow my mom inside, and the smell of baked goods immediately hits my nose, filling me with a comfort that can only come from the woman in front of me.

Early-morning baking and running around in the yard with her are some of my fondest memories.

While I no doubt inherited her skills in the kitchen, mine have never tasted as good as hers. I reach to snag a muffin off the table.

“Oh, you shouldn’t ha-" But she slaps it from my hand before I have a chance to stuff the freshly baked muffin into my mouth.

“No, you neanderthal! This is all for Elise,”she grumbles. She adds something under her breath about how I" haven’t changed a bit" and then begins loading a tower of dishes into my hands.

“ Why exactly does she need fifty different flavors of muffins?”I mutter, rubbing my temple with a free hand.

The last time she baked this much was after my father’s funeral. And when Elise served her husband divorce papers.

“You ask too many questions. And it’s a hundred, not fifty. Now get going. They’ll only stay fresh for so long,”she says, shooing me out of the kitchen.

She’s slamming the door on my ass before I can ask any more questions, and I’m left with the sinking feeling that my mother’s up to another one of her schemes. One that I want no part in.