Why hadnât he kept driving when heâd had the chance?
âIâll go put in our lunch order. You can stay here and help Rori,â his father said.
âNo, Dad.â If it were anyone elseâanyoneâheâd have done it before his father could volunteer him.
âJustin, you might as well go with your father.â Rori spoke up, clearly not comfortable being left alone with the likes of him. âI can do it myself.â
âThatâs not the way we do things, little lady. Justin, you can catch up with me at Clemâs.â Frank hopped in behind the wheel, looking pleased with himself.
Heâd seen that mischief in his dadâs eyes before. Playing matchmaker, was he? What, did he think that Rori, with her model good looks and college education, was going to take a shine to the same cowboy she hadnât wanted years before? Justin shook his head, vowing to give his dad a piece of his mind later.
âIâm really sorry about this.â She did look sorry. Sorry about being forced to see him again.
That made two of them.
âJustin, I finally got a call on the housekeeper job.â
âOh, yeah? Thatâs a shock.â Justin Granger hefted the feed sack, settling the fifty-pound weight easily onto his shoulder. As a rancher, he was used to heavy lifting and in his line of work, this wasnât considered heavy. He followed his dad out the open front door of the feed store, waved goodbye to Kit behind the counter and squinted in the hot late May sunshine. âI was beginning to think that putting an ad in the paper was a waste of time and money.â
âI figure we got lucky. Not many folks want to cook for the likes of us.â His dad, Frank Granger, swung two feed bags into the back of the white pickup parked curbside. âI made the interview for later today. If that doesnât fit your schedule, then I can interview the gal on my own.â
âA gal?â That meant a woman. Not promising, not at all. Justin tossed the sack into the back and closed the tailgate. âI wish Aunt Opal hadnât gone to Arizona. Sheâs about the only female I want to trust.â
âNot all women are like Tia or your mom.â Frank gave the keys a toss. âIâm sure thereâs one trustworthy gal around these parts, at least enough honest to cook three squares for us and wash our socks.â
âYouâre more optimistic than me, Dad.â Justin hopped behind the wheel and turned over the engine. Cool air breezed out of the vents, a relief from the intense summer heat that had hit hard and early. Not the best thing for the crops. They mostly ran cattle, but they grew their own alfalfa, corn and hay. âI donât see why Autumn and Addison canât do it.â
âHey, if you want to tell your sisters to do housework instead of ranch work, be my guest. Iâm not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Iâd rather wrestle a rattler bare-handed.â Frank buckled up. âNo, itâs better we hire someone. I got a good feeling about this one.â
âI hope youâre right. I donât want to wind up with another closet drinker who falls asleep on the couch instead of fixing our supper.â Justin checked the mirror. No traffic coming for as far as he could see, which wasnât a surprise. In a town the size of Wild Horse, Wyoming, it would have been a shock if there had been a car. He pulled onto the main drag, scowling. âIf I remember, you had a good feeling about the drinker, too.â
âTry to be more optimistic, son.â
Justin rolled his eyes. Optimism was for birds and fools. Heâd tried it once and hadnât liked it. Heâd gotten his heart crushed and his illusions shattered because of it. In his view, it was wiser to expect the worst. Hard not to get disappointed or hurt that way.
âLooks like everyoneâs gettinâ geared up for the festival.â His dad sounded pretty glad about that.
âGuess so.â Justin frowned, slowing down when the mayor held up a hand and walked into the road. Wild Horse was a small town with a handful of necessary businesses and an equal number of others tottering on the edge of failure, like The Greasy Spoon, which had been The Brown Bag eight months before. Justin stopped, wondering what the mayor wanted.