sunshiney goodwill that Crawford found himself smiling back from his side of the fence.
The two movers took in this information with widened eyes and flushes, and the new kid just rolled his eyes and continued to chat, putting them both back at ease quicker than Crawford had ever been able to. In a few minutes, just that much, they drove off in a choking cloud of diesel exhaust, leaving the kid with his little city car and a thoughtful look on his face as he surveyed his house.
God, Crawford thought uncomfortably. There had been so much those two yahoos had not told him.
“You’re going to need more firewood!” he hollered shortly, and the kid looked at him in surprise.
“Really? There’s a gas heater and a whole stack against the side of the house—”
“The gas guy doesn’t always get out regular, and what’s against the house will only do you a week.”
Crawford was twisting lengths of wire over a hole, and he carefully wrapped that last end so it didn’t snag on the alpaca’s valuable fur, and then stood and pulled off his work glove.
“Rance Crawford,” he said shortly, shaking hands with the boy.
That thin face lit up, and Crawford’s work-roughened, lanolin-softened hand was suddenly grasped tightly in bony fingers as the boy pumped his hand with some enthusiasm.
“Hi! My Aunt Gretchen talked about you! I’m Ben, Ben McCutcheon. Gertie sort of left me her place.”
Rance nodded. “I’d wondered how that went. She had a whole passel of relatives out here right after she died. You weren’t one.”
Ben grimaced. “Yeah—she was really my great-aunt, and my mom was sort of the black sheep of the family. It was mostly just her and me, you know? We used to come out here once a year or so when I was little, and I sent her Christmas cards after Mom passed. I didn’t know it, but I was apparently the only member of her family who didn’t think she was batshit crazy or just want her little acre in Colorado.”
Crawford had to smile, because Gertie Humphries had been a tough old bitch who’d once threatened to shoot his best stud because she claimed he scared her best laying hen. Rance had cured her of that in a hot second—he’d knitted up some of Burlingame’s top-notch fleece into a hooded shawl that the old girl had worn even on her deathbed.
Yup, Gertie had liked him in the end, which was why he’d been sorry to see that swarm of kin around her house, likely counting chickens for their celebration dinner. He hadn’t seen what had broken them up and sent them scattering, but now that he’d met the boy, he heartily approved of Ben.
Although that could have been just because he was pretty enough to make Crawford do the pee-pee hard-on dance.
“So,” Crawford said, eyeing the weathered little cottage dubiously, “you’re going to settle in here during the fall?”
Ben grimaced. “It’s a little colder here in the fall than it was in Sacramento,” he admitted.
Crawford stood and straightened, picking up his lightweight denim jacket and putting it on again now that he wasn’t sweating in the thinning sun. “How cold was it in Sacramento when you left?” he asked judgingly, and Ben looked sheepish.
“Ninety-five degrees.”
Crawford knew his eyes had widened. It was laughable. Here in Grand County, near the end of September, at ten o’clock in the morning, it was around fifty degrees. “It may make sixty-five by the afternoon.”
Ben shrugged. “It’s been sort of a shitty long summer.”
Crawford just looked at him. “What’s winter like?”
Again, that shrug. Like living through snows was going to be no big deal. “Mild. Lots of rain—if we’re lucky.”
Crawford nodded and sighed. “You’re going to need a list,” he said on a grunt. “You going to keep the chickens?”
Ben nodded. “Aunt Gertie liked ’em.”
“The rabbits?”
“Why not?”
“She’s got an old sheep named Millicent and a yapping piece of coyote kibble—”
“Yeah, I’m
The two movers took in this information with widened eyes and flushes, and the new kid just rolled his eyes and continued to chat, putting them both back at ease quicker than Crawford had ever been able to. In a few minutes, just that much, they drove off in a choking cloud of diesel exhaust, leaving the kid with his little city car and a thoughtful look on his face as he surveyed his house.
God, Crawford thought uncomfortably. There had been so much those two yahoos had not told him.
“You’re going to need more firewood!” he hollered shortly, and the kid looked at him in surprise.
“Really? There’s a gas heater and a whole stack against the side of the house—”
“The gas guy doesn’t always get out regular, and what’s against the house will only do you a week.”
Crawford was twisting lengths of wire over a hole, and he carefully wrapped that last end so it didn’t snag on the alpaca’s valuable fur, and then stood and pulled off his work glove.
“Rance Crawford,” he said shortly, shaking hands with the boy.
That thin face lit up, and Crawford’s work-roughened, lanolin-softened hand was suddenly grasped tightly in bony fingers as the boy pumped his hand with some enthusiasm.
“Hi! My Aunt Gretchen talked about you! I’m Ben, Ben McCutcheon. Gertie sort of left me her place.”
Rance nodded. “I’d wondered how that went. She had a whole passel of relatives out here right after she died. You weren’t one.”
Ben grimaced. “Yeah—she was really my great-aunt, and my mom was sort of the black sheep of the family. It was mostly just her and me, you know? We used to come out here once a year or so when I was little, and I sent her Christmas cards after Mom passed. I didn’t know it, but I was apparently the only member of her family who didn’t think she was batshit crazy or just want her little acre in Colorado.”
Crawford had to smile, because Gertie Humphries had been a tough old bitch who’d once threatened to shoot his best stud because she claimed he scared her best laying hen. Rance had cured her of that in a hot second—he’d knitted up some of Burlingame’s top-notch fleece into a hooded shawl that the old girl had worn even on her deathbed.
Yup, Gertie had liked him in the end, which was why he’d been sorry to see that swarm of kin around her house, likely counting chickens for their celebration dinner. He hadn’t seen what had broken them up and sent them scattering, but now that he’d met the boy, he heartily approved of Ben.
Although that could have been just because he was pretty enough to make Crawford do the pee-pee hard-on dance.
“So,” Crawford said, eyeing the weathered little cottage dubiously, “you’re going to settle in here during the fall?”
Ben grimaced. “It’s a little colder here in the fall than it was in Sacramento,” he admitted.
Crawford stood and straightened, picking up his lightweight denim jacket and putting it on again now that he wasn’t sweating in the thinning sun. “How cold was it in Sacramento when you left?” he asked judgingly, and Ben looked sheepish.
“Ninety-five degrees.”
Crawford knew his eyes had widened. It was laughable. Here in Grand County, near the end of September, at ten o’clock in the morning, it was around fifty degrees. “It may make sixty-five by the afternoon.”
Ben shrugged. “It’s been sort of a shitty long summer.”
Crawford just looked at him. “What’s winter like?”
Again, that shrug. Like living through snows was going to be no big deal. “Mild. Lots of rain—if we’re lucky.”
Crawford nodded and sighed. “You’re going to need a list,” he said on a grunt. “You going to keep the chickens?”
Ben nodded. “Aunt Gertie liked ’em.”
“The rabbits?”
“Why not?”
“She’s got an old sheep named Millicent and a yapping piece of coyote kibble—”
“Yeah, I’m
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