Page 21 of Cattle Stop

“We might be back for them at some point.” Whit’s got his keys out of his pocket already.

“You’re welcome to stay for a bit,” Brad says. “I’ve got some coffee on. Coop, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“We have work,” Whit says before Cooper can answer, already heading for his truck.

He’ll probably leave Cooper behind and have a good time doing it if Cooper doesn’t hustle, so he gives Brad a wave and follows Whit.

“Another time,” Brad calls after them. “Hey, Coop, let me give you my number at least.”

“Oh.” Cooper shrugs. “I can just stop by again.”

“Or I’ll take yours,” Brad says. He’s still smiling and once more snaps his gum.

“We have work, we can’t stay,” Whit says again.

“Yeah, okay,” Cooper says and recites his number for Brad.

“Cooper,” Whit says before Brad’s done typing it in. Cooper turns, half-surprised that Whit isn’t also tapping his foot.

“I’m coming,” he says and opens the truck door as Brad smiles at him again.

“I’ll call you, so you have mine,” Brad says.

“Now?” Whit asks.

“Can I get a printed itinerary,” Cooper says, “if the schedule’s really that tight?”

Brad waves to them, still grinning. Whit’s lips purse, and he twists the keys in the ignition hard. Any harder and he’d probably snap the key in half, and then where would they be? Stuck here with Brad and his gum and his empty farm that’s slightly creepy with no cows milling around.

Cooper waves back, just to annoy Whit. “Those cattle stops could be good, if you don’t get your undies in a bunch over them.”

“It’s Drew’s decision.”

“Those stops are easier than a gate. The cows won’t walk across them, ’cause with the hole beneath the grate, they think there’s a cliff, when really—”

“I know how cattle guards work,” Whit says with a snap to his words that makes Cooper raise his eyebrows.

“Okay,” he says slowly, drawing the word out. Cattle stops, he could add, though for once he doesn’t.

Whit stares out the windshield as he drives. Once, his mouth opens, but he shuts it again before saying anything. Cooper turns to the window, ignoring him and the silence in the truck. Whit never did like Brad. Well, whatever. Whit can be peevish if he wants to be. Probably wants to sit there and mull over his ruined day, what with cows escaping and having to see Brad. Just Whit’s luck that the only other farmer in these parts who, according to the scuttlebutt, is out and isn’t Cooper, is Brad of all people.

Well, it’s not like the lack of romantic options around here matters, ’cause Whit’s a loveless recluse who sleeps in his twin bed every night and wouldn’t know a date if it bit him in the ass. Always has been and probably always will be.

“What’ll you do if Drew really sells the farm?” Cooper asks.

“You can’t just go around making decisions about the fences and gates without asking him.”

“If he does sell it, what’re you going to do for work?” Cooper tries again. Though if Whit’s not talking, he’s not talking. Whit’s like a cow that won’t walk into the barn when she sets her mind to it, feet dug in and head thrown back, clammed up good and tight with a stubbornness that would make even the most ill-mannered heifer in the herd seem sweet and docile.

“I’m serious,” Whit says. “Drew’s got the farm set up the way he wants it. You can’t just show up here and change it all around.”

“Drew has only ever worked on his own farm his entire life, which sounds exactly like someone else in this here pickup truck. He doesn’t even know how other farms out there might be doing things better. The systems his uncle set up years ago aren’t the be all and end all of farming.”

Whit makes a low noise in the back of his throat. “Then it’s just so fortunate you’re here to save us from ourselves.”

When they reach the farm, Cooper jumps out of Whit’s truck before he’s even shifted into park, tossing the door closed behind himself with a loud slam. Ass. Giant, fucking, unremitting asshole. Cooper shoves his hand into his hair and blows out a long breath.

The one he draws back in is cool with the chill of spring. He takes a long look around at the familiar shape of the barnyard, breathes in the scent of cows and hay and melting mud. Behind him, Whit neatly parks his truck in the exact, precise spot he always does, the tires retracing their own ruts in the wet slush.