“Yeah.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I’m on it.”

“Oh thank you.” She acted like he’d just bestowed her with a bag of leprechaun gold.

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll leave now.”

Within a few minutes, he was starting up his truck, still surprised Quinn had managed to talk her way into the passenger seat. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t know if having her up at Hidden Rock was a good idea or a terrible one, but a small part of him was relieved he wouldn’t be in the old house alone with Grandma.

He turned onto Main Street and fire trucks were lined up in front of Haute Coffee, lights flashing and hoses spread along the sidewalk. Sawyer’s sheriff’s SUV was there too. From the front it didn’t look like the damage was extensive, but time would tell. He hoped for Edie’s sake they’d gotten there in time.

Quinn pressed a hand to her mouth. “That’s so sad. Edie has clearly thrown her heart and soul into that shop. The building is old though. Must have been some sort of faulty wiring problem.”

Unease prickled along the base of his spine. He had a feeling, and even though he wasn’t a firefighter anymore, it was hard to ignore the instinct that something was wrong, especially when that instinct had saved his life not a few times.

“You don’t think it was an accident, do you?” Quinn swiveled in her seat, turning to regard the scene with a furrowed brow.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“There’s an awful lot that you communicate with that face of yours.” She reached back and stroked his cheek. “And I can’t believe you were the boy from the fair. I’ve thought of you, you know. How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. It was right around when I turned ten. You were really going to run away from home?”

He bit down on the inside of his lower lip, hard enough to taste a coppery tang. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He turned and their gazes locked. Time hadn’t dulled the memory of those soft, observant brown eyes. He was surprised he didn’t recognize her the moment they met.

He’d done it this time.

Blood bloomed down the front of his shirt and the thick, metallic taste in the back of his throat made him gag. He spat in the hay and knocked his head against the stall. Yeah. He’d really gone and fucking done it this time. Grandma had made it crystal clear that if he got into another fight he’d be packed off to military school. His cousin, Kit, never shut up about enlisting, but that wasn’t Wilder’s path.

The problem was he didn’t know anything about his path.

“Stupid.” He punched the stall. It hurt but not bad enough. He punched again and again until his knuckles split, bleeding just like his nose.

“Stop that!”

He froze at the high-pitched voice. A kid stood watching him. A girl clutching a stick of cotton candy and wearing round glasses that magnified her eyes and made her look like a baby owl. Her hair was braided into two long pigtails.

“Get out of here,” he snapped. Last thing he wanted was to have some kid playing twenty questions.

“What happened?” Her nose crinkled as she took in all the blood. “You need a Band-Aid or something?”

Yeah, I need something all right. “Don’t think they make Band-Aids big enough to suit me, kid.”

“What hurts the most?” She sat on a hay bale and crossed her legs.

“Everything is pretty damn equal.”

“Were you kicked by one of the horses? Daddy always said that if I’m around horses to never stand behind their—”

“I wasn’t kicked by a horse. Got into a fight.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “People beat you up?”

He glared through a puffy eye. “Bet they look worse. I think I broke Garret King’s arm. Why are you bothering me anyway?”

“Daddy is working.” She shrugged. “He’s an electrician and they needed his help over at the bandstand so he gave me five bucks and said not to get into trouble.”

“Then best clear out of here because that’s all I am.”

“Why were you fighting?”

“Garret and his friends were picking on someone who couldn’t defend herself. Doris Higsby’s daughter.”

“Lola? She’s my cousin, has Down syndrome.”

“Yeah. Well. She can’t help it and those guys were being assholes.”

“So you punched them.” She crammed a big bite of cotton candy into her mouth.

“I might look shitty but I promise they look worse. But now I’m fucked. Sorry, kid.”

“You can say fuck, I don’t mind.”

“Your daddy lets you swear.”

“No way. But I’m not the one saying bad words. You are.”

“Look, I’m not in the mood to play Mary Poppins. Take what’s left of that cotton candy and run along. Go barf on the Tilt-a-Whirl or something.”

She giggled. “You’re gross.”

“I’m a lot of things.”

“And you’ve been crying.”

“Have not.”

She glanced at the ceiling. “Doesn’t look like it’s been raining in here.”

He gouged at his eyes with two fists. “Jesus. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. You might knock my teeth out.”

“I’d never hit a girl.”

“Why not tell your grandma what happened? She’ll understand. People can’t be mean to Lola. It’s against the rules.”

“You are acting like my grandma is a reasonable person. And hell, maybe she is, but not where I’m concerned. Fuck it, I’m not going to sit around and wait for her to ship me off. I’ve got fifty bucks in my wallet. I’ll get out of here tonight. Hitchhike.”

“And go where?”

“Who cares? Any place is better than here. I could wash dishes under the table in San Francisco. Or pick fruit at a farm near the coast. Or maybe go to the Rockies. Idaho. Montana. Be a lumberjack.”

“Or say sorry.”

“It ain’t that simple.”

“Ain’t isn’t a word, and yeah it is.”

“I mess up. It’s what I do.” He clenched his jaw. “What I’ve always done.”

She swallowed her next bite of cotton candy. “My dad says it’s no use crying over baked beans.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Does too. Why cry over baked beans? It’s silly. There’s no point. And there’s no point sitting in here talking about running away. You did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not how my grandma will see it. She hates me.”

“Here.” She stuck out the cotton candy cone. “Take some.”

“I don’t want your candy. Don’t even know where your grubby fingers have been.”

She thrust her shoulders back. “I wash my hands and they haven’t been anywhere bad. Go on. You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t feel like arguing with the little brat so he grabbed some fluffy spun sugar. “Happy?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a bossy little thing.”

“I’m the tallest girl in my class. And the number one reader,” she said proudly.

Wilder stuffed the candy into his mouth. The sweetness masked the bitter copper flavor of blood.

“See. Look. You feel better already.”

“Bizzy? Bizzy Bee, you in here?” a man called out.

The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s my daddy. I have to go.”

She jumped up and turned to go. Before she left the stall, she paused. “Whatever your grandma says, I’m glad you hit those bad boys.”

Then she was gone.

CREAK. CREAK. CREAK. Grandma Kane rocked next to the fire. Quinn turned the page of the Ranching Life magazine she was skimming. “Hey, listen to this,” she said to the quiet room. “Did you know cows produce more milk if they listen to soothing music? Scientists did a study and apparently R.E.M.’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ caused the most lactation.”