Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(57)

I’ll admit that I’m more excited by the prospect than worried. Taking the steps down—much faster, now that I’m barely limping—I round the corner and discover that I won’t be knocking on Jesse’s door.

Ginny’s truck is already sitting beside our garage.

Jesse must have driven it here early this morning. Or maybe Sheriff Gabe did. That would be better for all involved, given Ginny’s issues. I don’t know how I didn’t hear it, though.

Inside, the keys dangle from the ignition and a small plastic container of blueberries sits on the seat, a piece of paper tucked beneath it. “Blueberries?” I frown as I unfold the paper.

In case you’re ever stuck again

Below it is a phone number. I run my fingers over the digits, my focus jumping back and forth between the words and the numbers, that constant weight in my chest lifting higher with each breath as a shiver simultaneously runs down my spine.

Because something tells me Jesse is the kind of guy that I can always count on. My gut must be telling me that I had someone just like him in my previous life. Someone I trusted.

I tuck the paper into the back pocket of my jeans, promising myself to program it into my phone as soon as I can. Then I turn the key. The truck comes to life instantly, the engine a low, smooth rumble, sounding better than it ever did before. Other things are different, too. The signal indicator has an actual plastic cover over the metal lever again. The missing heat vent has been replaced. And the radio . . . it’s completely new.

I sink back against the stiff, tan-colored bench. Jesse stayed up most of the night working on this truck, when he didn’t have to. And then he drove it up Ginny’s driveway in the wee hours of the morning. I shake my head. Sounds like he enjoys poking a wasp’s nest.

I’ll have to thank him later.

I get to the barn to take care of morning chores, receiving amorous nuzzles against my cheek in greeting from the Felixes. Though technically I could have both stalls cleaned and horses groomed faster, I take my time with the horses each morning and I think they appreciate the attention.

I know I do.

I’m just finishing up with their water buckets when Ginny’s rubber boots scrape against the barn’s dirt floor. Felix hobbles in, the old dog’s limbs stiff with arthritis. “So, the truck is working again?”

“Yup. Better than before, too.” She’s half an hour late. She’s never late. Even though I’ve taken over all of the work, she’s always still here. Out of habit, I’ve assumed. But something feels different today.

She wanders along one side of the barn, gazing over each stall and each name that hangs above it. She would have known each one of those horses—fed them, cared for them, bonded with them. While Ginny’s connections with other human beings are limited and awkward, I’ve watched the way she is around the animals, and how they are with her in turn. She has the dog at her heels all day long; I’ve seen the cat perched on the porch railing on more than one occasion and, though she verbally condemned the kittens to death-by-coyote, the colorful balls of yarn that she tosses them to play with tells me she doesn’t really want that. Even the horses will leave their patch of grass and trot over to greet her when she takes short quilting breaks and steps into the corral.

“I thought about what you said. You know . . . boarding horses.” She clears her throat heavily, as if getting these words out is difficult. “And having more horses in the pasture. It might be nice.”

I stand stock still, a mixture of surprise and excitement flooding through me.

She adds, “I still have to think about it some more.” Then she walks out quietly, her ever faithful canine companion at her heels.

Leaving me whistling a tune to myself as I finish up.

I’m freshly showered and heading down my stairs when I notice that the Welleses’ garage door is open again. A man’s voice over the radio is announcing concert dates.

A glance at my watch tells me I have maybe five minutes to spare.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the property fence. The garage is set back about 150 feet from the house and surrounded by trees. By the time I reach it, I have full-on, ready-to-pee-my-pants jitters.

A guitar plays softly on the stereo as I step in. The garage itself is extremely tidy, all the tools lined up on a rustic wood table that stretches the length of the room. The concrete floors—painted a silvery blue—are swept clean. Posters of fancy old cars plaster the walls and a calendar with a curvy woman in a white string bikini hangs in the corner. Peering closer at it, I see that it’s from 2007. I guess Jesse either really likes those particular women or he doesn’t have much use for calendars.

My nose catches a sickly sweet smell as I pass by a giant jug of transmission fluid. Behind it is a shelf of various jars and containers, all neatly labeled with fractional numbers, filled with little nuts and bolts and metal rings.

There’s something oddly comfortable about the space. I could see myself sitting here, watching Jesse work. If he was here.

The ceiling creaks. He must be upstairs. I stop in front of the brown door at the back of the garage, deciding whether I should just leave a thank-you note or wait and talk to him in person. Footfalls sounding on the other side of the door, coming fast and hard, make my decision for me. The door flies open and Jesse barrels out, tugging a shirt down over his chest, giving me a quick glimpse of a sculpted body beneath.