Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(48)

“I think that’s a good idea,” Shelby agreed. “Why don’t you take Billy Ray with you? Puppies make everyone happier.”

“I like that you think about other people,” I said, reaching out and tracing her lower lip with my thumb.

“Well, that was a sweet thing to say,” she said, sounding baffled.

I grinned and brushed my lips over her bangs. “I’ll see you around, Shelby.”

“Bye, Jonah.”

I rounded up the pup and packed half of his belongings in case he needed a snack or a drink or a toy or flea medicine. I said my goodbyes, kissed my mother goodnight, and dialed Bowie on my way down the driveway.

“I feel like we should hang out, talk,” I said.

“Jameson called me five minutes ago. I was just getting ready to text you,” Bowie said. “Gibson’s in fifteen?”

“Sounds good to me. I’m bringing a special guest,” I warned him.

“Yeah, well, I’m bringing a twelve-pack.”

Gibson’s house was a good half-mile up switchbacks and hairpin turns. I had no idea how the man made it home in the winter.

I was the first brother to arrive. I ignored the house, an austere log cabin built on land that had once belonged to his grandfather—our grandfather, I corrected—and followed the lights coming from the workshop. It was the large metal pole building that Gibson spent more time in than his actual house.

Snapping the leash on Billy Ray’s collar, I put him down. “You’d probably better pee out here before we go in there. If you piss on one of Gibson’s custom cabinets, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

As if not willing to sully his first impression, Billy Ray sniffed and lifted his leg on a sapling.

“Good job, buddy.”

He did two more good jobs before we made it to the shop door.

I skipped knocking, since the music was loud, and let myself in. The smells of polyurethane and sawdust melded together in a satisfying scent of manly productivity. Toby Keith belted one out on the speakers mounted in the rafters.

Gibson was at a workbench against the wall organizing hand tools. He had an open root beer in his hand. Gibs didn’t drink. Ever.

He tapped his phone, and the music’s volume cut in half. “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing the bottle at the dog at my feet.

“That’s your temporary nephew, Billy Ray.”

He bent at the waist and slapped his thighs. “C’mere, buddy. Come on!”

The dog perked up and, deciding the big man with the surly expression looked like a good source of attention, bounded across the concrete.

“That’s a good boy,” Gibs said, ruffing the puppy up. Billy Ray dissolved into ecstasy and flopped over on his back inviting belly rubs.

The door banged open again. Bowie, followed by Jameson, strolled inside.

“I got beer and root beer,” Bowie announced, holding up two twelve-packs. “Who wants?”

I caught the can he tossed in my direction.

“What the hell is that?” Jameson asked, looking at the dog now cradled in Gibson’s arms.

“That’s Billy Ray, my special guest,” I told them, filling them in on the day of pigs, puppies, and surprise visitors. They took turns asking questions and calling bullshit on the fact that I walked a mile carrying a fifty-pound pig. Even going so far as to text George for confirmation.

Small talk complete, we drew up stools around a relatively clean work table. Billy Ray contented himself to fall asleep in Gibson’s arms.

“So,” Bowie said, popping the top on a beer.

“So,” Jameson repeated.

“Not much to say,” Gibson said, staring down at the puppy. “Either it’s her, or it’s not.”

“What happens if it is?” I asked.

“I talked to Jayme on my way here,” Bowie said. “If the remains are Callie’s, there’s still only circumstantial evidence connecting Dad to her.”

“And he’s still dead,” Gibson said. He sounded more resigned than bitter.

“The Kendalls will get closure,” Jameson said. “But we’ll have that shadow hanging over the rest of us.”

“We’ve dealt with shadows before,” Bowie said. “We’ll handle this one, too. It doesn’t change who we are.” He looked directly at me. “None of us.”

I nodded. And most of me believed him. The four of us were already better than the man who’d made us. I just hoped that the rest of the world would see that.

“Now that that’s settled, I’d like to ask y’all to be in my wedding,” Bowie announced.

Billy Ray woke with a start and sneezed in Gibson’s face.

Wiping puppy saliva off his face, Gibs grinned. “What’s in it for us?”

“All the root beer you can drink,” Bowie offered.

“We can probably make ourselves available,” Jameson mused, answering for all of us.

“When is it?” I asked.

“First weekend in August.”

“Well, hell. You’re not wasting any time,” I observed, checking the calendar on my phone. First weekend in August. Shelby’s triathlon. That would require some juggling. Two events that I didn’t want to miss.

“I’ve waited a long-ass time,” Bowie said. “And if it were strictly up to me, we’d be gettin’ hitched tomorrow.”