My chest puffs up when I turn my attention on the bottle blonde across from me. “Betty, I like to think I’m a gentleman, but I’m only going to tell you once. Keep her name out of your mouth if you’re going to use that tone. Let’s talk about your kid instead.”

One manicured hand falls across her chest, and she rears back, like she’s totally scandalized.

Joke’s on Betty.

I’m just getting started here.

Willa might drive me insane. She might deserve a little pushback. But if Betty thinks she’s going to be the one to push back at her, she’s got another thing coming.

Willa might be a bit of psycho—after all, she did just push a child into the pool—but the more time I spend with her, the more I feel like she’s my psycho.

* * *

When I get home, the house is empty, which suits me fine because I walk to the kitchen, pull out my favorite bottle of bourbon, and take a deep swig before putting it back in the cupboard and propping my palms against the counter.

I’ll find Willa and Luke after catching my breath and sorting my thoughts.

Head falling low, I try to shake off the mental image of Luke struggling under water.

I kept my conversation with Betty fairly contained. It’s a small town, and there are only so many bridges you can burn. Everyone will talk about this anyway. Particularly with the way Willa went off.

I shake my head at the memory. The way she’d called her Bunny even after Betty corrected me. The girl has a real pair on her—I’ll give her that. Especially after watching her on that filly this morning.

The sound of delighted giggles draws my attention out the open kitchen window toward the back hay field where the first cut bales are stacked. When I see a flash of copper hair, I know they must be out there.

Playing. Laughing. I let my eyes flutter shut and listen to them.

“Ready or not! Here I come!” Luke shouts breathlessly.

It’s perfect.

I smile to myself and then open my eyes, knowing the only place I want to be right now is out in the field with them—even if I am dead on my feet after working all day and dealing with small-town-mom drama.

Within minutes, I’m stepping into the huge maze-like structure made of big round bales, the dark passageways between them almost too narrow for me to pass through.

“I can hear you giggling, you little goose.”

“A goose?” he shouts.

“A silly goose!” she calls, voice back to the light singsong version I first noticed, all traces of the earlier anxiety gone.