him. Or if you do, it’ll cost you so much money that you won’t come out ahead anyhow. This is a dick move, a big one, and he knows it.”
She wanted to cry, but Blake wasn’t worth her tears. “So what do I do?”
“Document everything. Batten down the hatches. Keep shopping the clearance aisles.” Layla paused. “And . . . I’m sorry. We’ll keep track of things paper-wise and appeal, but for now, it’s business as usual.”
As in, no money.
Well, at least she had some jewelry to pawn. It was the one silver lining in all of Blake’s garbage.
* * *
* * *
Caleb tossed hay with the pitchfork, mucking out the stalls. It was dirty, filthy, sweaty work . . . but it was also the kind of work that allowed your mind to wander while still getting a lot done, and so it was perfect for him today. He tossed the old hay into a wheelbarrow, filling it, and as he did, he thought about Amy.
Kissing her in the light was even better than kissing her in the dark. In the light, he got to see the expressions change on her face, the way her eyes got all soft with pleasure, the way her hands fluttered before she touched him, the way she sighed with bliss when he pulled away from her. It made him want to keep kissing her, over and over again. He was utterly besotted. Just thinking about kissing her made him want to toss the pitchfork away and drive over to her place and just stand on her doorstep until she let him in again.
But something was bothering her. She’d gotten a text that had killed her smile, and he wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know who he had to beat up. It wasn’t that he was a violent man. But when it came to Amy . . . he’d do anything to protect her smile. Frowning to himself, he stabbed at another forkful and tossed it in the direction of the wheelbarrow.
“Do you mind?”
Jack’s voice cut into Caleb’s thoughts. He straightened and turned, seeing his brother standing just behind the wheelbarrow, manure-filled hay dusting the front of his plaid shirt and his dark jeans. He scowled under his cowboy hat, and a few steps behind him, at the entrance to the stall, was Hank, the oldest brother. He wore practically the same thing Jack did, but his beard was big and scruffy and he wasn’t wearing the manure . . . which explained why he was smirking and Jack wasn’t.
“Didn’t see you there,” Caleb said by way of apology. “I was thinking.”
Jack shook off his shirt. “Obviously.”
“Got something on your mind?” Hank asked.
Caleb felt himself flush.
“That answers that,” Jack teased. “So, how’d it go?”
Caleb turned and shoved the pitchfork into the dirty hay again. “How’d what go?”
Hank just snorted.
“Oh, come on,” Jack said. “We’ve lived with you all your life. We know how you work. You’ve been avoiding both of us ever since the whole Santa thing on Saturday night.”
“Avoided my texts,” Hank added, grumbling. “You know I hate texting.”
“That’s right,” Jack continued. “Fess up. Tell us what happened on Saturday. Did you get your girl? Did you ask her out?”
Caleb felt his face turn even redder. He stabbed at the hay again, as if he could somehow squeeze more onto his pitchfork. “Maybe.”
“You jackass. Just spit it out.” Jack stepped forward and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork, trying to get Caleb’s attention.
He let Jack take the tool away from him, and a smile of pride curved his mouth as he looked at his expectant brothers. “I kissed her.”
Hank smacked his fist against the wooden stall door in pride. “Damn right you did. I knew you’d get the guts for it.”
“You did?” Jack looked stunned. “And she liked it?”
“She didn’t complain,” Caleb drawled. “Not the first time or the fifth time.”
“Fifth?” Jack’s eyes widened and he hooted with laughter. “You scoundrel. Tell us all about it.”
So Caleb leaned against the empty stall and told his brothers about his Saturday night. About how she’d almost gone out with Greg and he’d rescued her. How they’d ended up kissing, and how he’d gone over there again this morning and made pancakes with her. It was a brief summary, probably briefer than it should have been, but it didn’t feel right to tell his brothers all the details. Some stuff you kept private. They could know the gist of things but not