The Mechanics of Mistletoe - Liz Isaacson Page 0,96

afternoon in his office with Ward.

The man loved chocolate licorice—something Ranger loved too—and they’d talk about their dad while they had a little sugar binge before they got down to the decimals and digits.

Ward chatted the whole way to town, and Ranger wondered how he did that. How did he have so much to say, about seemingly everything? Ranger would never know, but he participated enough to keep Ward talking.

He pulled up to a brick building that had seen better days. Rather, the building had been recently renovated to look old on purpose. The historical society of Three Rivers had preserved the bricks, simply re-cementing them in place. Any new bricks had been purposely made in the same tones and colors, and made to look old so they matched the original ones.

The comedy club was new in town, as were several other shops, restaurants, and venues. Three Rivers had been enjoying a population boom in recent years, and last Ranger had heard, they’d topped twenty-five thousand people over the summer.

He thought that was probably because of tourists, who did come to the quaint Texas town in the Panhandle for great food, good hiking, and plenty of hunting.

Ranger liked to eat, and that was about it.

“There’s going to be food here, right?” he asked, getting out and eyeing the entrance. It teemed with people, and the air had a good vibe in it. Ranger started to relax, and it was easier to get through the crowd and inside the club than he’d anticipated.

It was dark inside, with only low lights on every table. Ward stepped up to the bar and ordered sodas for the three of them, and he showed their tickets to a woman who took them to a table on the left side of the stage.

Ranger nodded to a few men he knew, but he stuck close to his brothers. They didn’t get to spend a ton of time with just each other, as they all worked the generational family ranch with six of their male cousins.

Ward took a sip of his soda and made a face. “Too much syrup.”

“You always forget to say light,” Ranger said. He didn’t understand syrup in soda anyway. He honestly hardly ever drank the stuff, and he eyed his tall glass of fizzy liquid like it would rot his insides.

Since his embarrassing discussion with Oakley about her dating habits, he’d taken up weight lifting in a more aggressive fashion. He had to have something to occupy his mind, and the upcoming birthing season wasn’t enough.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” a man said into the mic, the sound nearly deafening. “If you’ll take your seats, we’re ready to start the show!”

Most of the crowd cheered and clapped, and Ranger could do the latter easily. He did, glad when the announcer kept talking. “We have a very special guest with us tonight. Straight from the streets of New York, we’ve got a homegrown, tried-and-true Texan ready to take the stage. Everyone welcome home Winston Lunt!”

The people went nuts, and Ranger decided to really get into the spirit of things, and he whistled through his teeth. Ward grinned at him, but Ace shot him a glare.

“What?” Ranger asked, still clapping. “I’m not the only one who whistled.”

“You’re always calling too much attention to yourself.”

Ranger stared at Ace, but he turned back to the stage. What he’d just said couldn’t be further from the truth. Ranger didn’t do anything, ever, to call attention to himself.

Winston Lunt came out onto the stage wearing an enormous cowboy hat. He looked ridiculous, and several people were twittering with giggles already.

“Howdy, folks,” he said, the words barely comprehensible. “It’s good to be back in Texas. Can I get the lights up for a moment?”

The house lights came up, and he held up one hand above his eyes, searching, scanning, scouring. “Nope. I don’t see a single man without a cowboy hat.”

More laughter.

“Oh, there’s one.” Winston pointed to a table about halfway back. “Sir, can you stand up and explain yourself? Yes…you…right there…I can see you.” He made an exaggerated huffing sound. “In the pink shirt…. Yes, you. Stand up so we can—oh.”

Ranger grinned from ear to ear, because Winston had not called on a man. But a woman.

“Well, the pink shirt should’ve given it away, right?” Winston looked like he might throw up, and he paced to the other side of the stage. “Sorry, sir. I mean, ma’am.” He placed one flat palm against his forehead, which knocked his cowboy hat off