Page 13 of Wicked Cowboy
“I always smile,” I lie.
“Your version of smiling looks like a man trying not to confess to a crime.” He tips his chin toward the cider stand. “Take the witch with you. The cute one. She’ll make you look almost friendly.”
“Not happening.”
“Grandma!” he hollers over his shoulder before I can shut him up. “Rhett needs a co-pilot!”
Grandma looks right past him to me and then to Frankie. One eyebrow lifts as matchmaking calculations click behind her eyes. “Frankie, honey, would you mind riding with Rhett on the first hayride? He gets lonely out there in the dark.”
I glare. “I do not.”
“I’ll keep him company,” Frankie says, already moving around the table with a grin. “Wouldn’t want the big scary cowboy to be alone.”
“Wicked,” Luke stage-whispers.
I consider defecting to the haunted maze to avoid all of them. Then Frankie’s beside me, close enough that the cold on her skin steals heat from mine, and the night quiets down to just our breathing and a guitar tuning somewhere behind the barn.
“Ready, partner?” she asks.
I hand her the lantern. “Stay on the wagon when we hit the north bend. It can get bumpy.”
“Yes, boss.”
We head for the tractor. It looks decent in the dying light for once, with newly polished fenders, a banner tied to the back that reads BRUSH CREEK HARVEST HAUNT in Luke’s perfect block letters. The wagon behind it is piled high with clean bales, plaid blankets tossed across them like an invitation.
Families climb aboard, laughter and the rustle of candy bags sound through the air. I check the hitch, tighten the rope, and help a little vampire fix his slipping cape. When I straighten, Frankie’s watching my hands with that intent curiosity that makes my heart beat faster.
“Safety first?” she says.
“Always.”
“And second?”
“Don’t spook the horses.”
“We’re on a tracker. There are no horses.”
“Then don’t spook the children.”
She bites back a smile. “No promises.”
I climb up into the tractor seat as she hops onto the bench beside me. When the engine rumbles to life, the vibration runsup through metal and bone, the kind of familiar thrum that usually settles me.
“Welcome to the Harvest Haunt,” Frankie calls back, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Rule number one: no pushing. Rule number two: if you see a ghost, be polite.”
A chorus of delighted shrieks. I glance sidelong. “You’re really gonna have them looking for ghosts?”
“You’ve got scarecrows staged every quarter mile and a fog machine in the mill gulch,” she says, eyes sparkling. “I’m just enhancing the brand.”
We roll out under the first arch of lights, wagon creaking companionably behind us. The path skirts the pumpkin patch, my rebuilt stand looking passable in the dusk, and follows the creek toward the north pasture. Out here, the noise of the Haunt softens and the sky opens wide.
Frankie rests the lantern between her knees and tucks her hands into her sleeves. I could offer my jacket. I don’t, because if I put it around her, I won’t want it back.
“You do this every year?” she asks.
“Since before Luke could see over a steering wheel.”
“And you hate it?”