Right Move (Clean Slate Ranch #6) - A.M. Arthur Page 0,125

up the general store for the winter.”

“After Mack so generously bought the last of the consigned bread and canned goods to give away to the cast,” Wes added with a lovestruck smile for his boyfriend. “Just when you think he can’t get more generous.”

Mack simply grinned.

Before Shawn could insist he didn’t mind cleaning tomorrow, Miles shrugged and said, “I’m cool doing it tonight if you guys are volunteering. In terms of supplies, there’s some flour, sugar, and baking powder folks are free to adopt, and I think some milk and half-and-half in the fridge. Forage away once we’re done.”

Shawn’s stomach sank but he didn’t contradict his boss. Instead, he started cleaning the line in a practiced, familiar way. Annabelle stuck around to help, and with five of them working, it didn’t take long to scrub the place down, unplug equipment that wouldn’t need to run, and scrounge up every last bit of stray food. Miles took a final trip out to the compost pile with the bus bin, which he then carefully washed and dried.

Annabelle hugged them all before she left, her eyes full of tears. “See you next year,” she said as she walked out the kitchen’s back door.

Their quartet left a few minutes later, slowly walking through the deserted town to the attraction’s main entrance and gravel parking lot beyond. Shawn’s feet grew heavier with each step toward his home for the next two months: a rusty hatchback that vibrated like crazy over fifty miles an hour and sometimes didn’t have heat.

His entire life was in that car.

After a handshake from Mack and hugs from both Miles and Wes, Shawn slid into his car and sat there. Watched the trio of friends climb into Mack’s pickup and trundle out of sight. Mack and Wes lived in a cabin off the road to the ghost town, and from there, Miles would drive an ATV back to the ranch where he lived with his own boyfriend. No one would care if Shawn stayed here for a while.

Not as if he had anywhere else to go, or anyone waiting for him to get there.

Except he couldn’t linger long. Mack’s cabin was out of sight of the road, but headlights and an engine too late at night might arouse suspicion, so Shawn turned his key in the ignition.

A gurgle and then nothing.

“Shit, not now.” Shawn smacked the steering wheel and tried the key again. Nothing. Then he spotted the headlight knob—still pulled out from his morning ride through slightly foggy weather. He’d killed his own damned battery. “Goddamn it!”

Roadside service all the way out here would be expensive. Maybe he could call Mack and ask him to return for a jump start. Inconvenient, considering everyone’s long day, but better than sitting up here all damned night. He palmed his cell—which was as dead as his car. The thing’s battery wasn’t holding its charge well anymore, and he’d forgotten to use the kitchen’s charger today.

Anxiety rolled heavily through his chest and he fought against a rising tide of panic. With the car battery dead, his car charger wouldn’t do him any good. Even if he could justify sneaking into the kitchen to use the charger, the doors were all locked in case anyone got big ideas about snooping around in the off-season.

He was well and truly screwed.

Shawn closed his eyes and took a few deep, centering breaths. He’d figure this out. He’d be fine. He’d been figuring his own shit out for years and was still standing, goddamn it. He’d figure this out, too.

Mack’s house wasn’t an unwalkable distance from the ghost town, but it was after eight at night, dark, with only a sliver of moonlight to guide him down the gravel road. Shawn wasn’t afraid of the dark, but there were wild animals out here.

Flashlight. Do I have a working flashlight?

Granddad had given him an emergency roadside kit back when Shawn bought this car. He got out and opened the back hatch. Rummaged around his small collection of belongings until he found the kit. It had one of those battery-free flashlights, and after winding the crank a few dozen times, it finally shed dim light.

Better than nothing.

Shawn armed himself with his tire iron, not trusting the vast acreage of wild land all around him, and then set off toward the road. His feet already ached from a long day, and walking down heavy gravel wasn’t helping his sore muscles or his roiling emotions. Anxiety over finding new work, plus anger at