The Mechanics of Mistletoe - Liz Isaacson Page 0,51

said. “I’ll be there.”

Bishop smiled and nodded. “Great,” he said. “I’ll make sure you know the details.” He touched his hat and turned back to the front door. “These are donations for the shelter? Or the Salvation Army?”

“The shelter,” Cactus said. He maintained their tools, equipment, and supplies around the ranch, among other things, and he often went through their older stuff, cleaned it up, and donated it to the local animal shelter.

“All right,” Bishop said. “Thanks, Cactus.”

“Yep,” he said, and Bishop picked up the bags. He left the cabin, tied the bags to Klaus, and whistled to the dogs. “Let’s go, guys.”

Bishop started the journey back to the epicenter of the ranch, which really was near the center of the land his family owned. The sun arced through the sky, and Bishop’s stomach tightened and growled, as he hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

Bear and Ranger wouldn’t expect him back for a while either, because he’d told them a tiny fib about what he’d be doing at Cactus’s that night. “Probably should’ve mentioned that to him,” Bishop muttered to himself. At the same time, it probably didn’t matter that Cactus didn’t know they were supposed to be taking his new horse on a ride together.

He got his work done around the ranch, and he spoke to the others when he had to. Other than that, there wasn’t much socializing for Cactus.

“Whoa, boy,” he said, and his horse plodded to a stop. Bishop swung out of the saddle and untied the bags. Back in the saddle, he said, “Let’s get to Mister’s, all right? We’re a little late.”

Klaus seemed to understand the word late, and he did move faster on the more established trail that led to the ranch house where Bishop’s brothers lived. He did arrive five or six minutes late, and he looped Klaus’s reins over the bar in the back yard and jogged up the back steps.

He didn’t stop and knock here. The door wouldn’t be locked. Bright yellow light had started to fill the darkening night, and Bishop felt a keen sense of coming home when he walked into the kitchen.

Mister had just started laughing about something, and Judge looked like he might take the fork in his hand and stab it into their brother’s neck to get him to stop.

Bishop smiled at them all, three of his brothers and Sammy and Lincoln, and said, “Hey, everyone.”

“Bishop’s here!” Lincoln jumped up and ran toward him. Bishop laughed too, embracing the boy.

“Hey, bud,” he said. “Did you guys start without me?”

“No,” Sammy said, standing too. She took a few steps and gave Bishop a side-hug. “Did he say he’d come?”

“He did,” Bishop said. “Surprisingly.”

“You’re good with Cactus,” Preacher said. “It’s not surprising to me.”

Judge continued to glare at Mister, who had at least quieted.

Bishop moved back to the table with Sammy and Lincoln as his phone beeped. He took in the half-eaten chicken cordon bleu and mashed potatoes on Judge’s plate.

“All right, let’s start with the important things. First, I’m starving. Is there another piece of chicken?” He looked around at the others. Mister, who was only fifteen months older than Bishop, rolled his eyes, but he got up and got a plate out for Bishop.

“Second,” Bishop said, keeping an eye on the progress of his dinner. “What was Mister laughing about?”

Everyone looked at Judge, who snarled at Bishop. He just checked his phone like he hadn’t stirred the hornet’s nest with his question. He sucked in a breath when he saw Charlotte’s name on his screen.

Charlotte, his mind screamed at him. He’d been talking to her for about a month before she’d cut things off between them. Bishop hadn’t even asked to meet her in person. They’d met online and exchanged phone numbers, where he’d been texting her. He’d called her once, and she hadn’t answered though they’d been texting seconds before. He’d played it off as a pocket dial, but he should’ve known she wasn’t as into him as he was her.

Sammy started to giggle, and Bishop looked up, not sure how to answer Charlotte. Sammy promptly covered her mouth with her hand, silencing it. “Sorry,” she said, though she was still smiling. “Sorry, Judge. Really.” She lifted a coffee cup to her lips. “I think it’s really sweet that you like June.”

“The month?” Bishop asked, glancing around. He’d missed part of the conversation maybe, while he’d been staring at Charlotte’s message.

Hey, Bishop. How have you been?

“If anyone says her name again,” Judge said. “I’m going to