But I won’t hurt her now by pointing that out. “Sure. That’d be great.”

  Back to polite niceties, the same as always.

  A few of the women sniffle. “It works. Just like the book said. Priorities really do restore your spirit,” a blonde says, her hands over her chest and eyes looking teary.

  Biting my tongue at their dramatics, I nod blankly. “With that, I’ll leave you to your book club. I need to . . .” I trail off, almost having said I need to take a shower, but that would open the door to even more questions. “Prepare for my day.”

  It’s enough, and I escape unscathed, hurrying upstairs to my room. After getting cleaned up, and using the warm spray of the shower to relieve the churning in my balls that I’ve felt since last night . . . I actually feel more or less human. Still, I haven’t blown my load that fast since about three weeks after I discovered what jacking off meant.

  I go back downstairs quietly, praying I’m not called to court again with the Mom Squad. Taking the long way around, I head out the front door and jump back in my truck, going slowly down the driveway when a yellow blur beside me catches my eye. I take my foot off the gas as the blur starts barking . . . loudly.

  I brake and open the door. “Mr. Puddles . . . ssshhh!” He freezes, his tail wagging in the air and his chin near the ground, ready to play. “Fine, come on, boy.” He yips once more and bolts for the truck. I sit back to give him space and he hops inside, climbing over my lap to the passenger seat like he always rides shotgun.

  Then again, maybe he does.

  I tell Mr. Puddles, “I don’t know where we’re going. I just needed to get out of there so I can think. That good with you?”

  Mr. Puddles barks in answer, and I assume agreement. It’s not quite “What’s that, Lassie? Timmy fell down the well?” but I get the message.

  “Good, let’s go.”

  I drive into town, no real destination in mind. But I need to get my mind clear. As the blacktop rolls under my tires, everything that’s happened since I got home runs through my mind . . . Winston and Avery, Mom and Dad, Hazel . . . Hazel . . . Hazel.

  I get all the way downtown, and as I pass by City Hall, I see protesters with signs again: NO REZONE. SAVE OUR TOWN. FUCK FORD. And a few others.

  I read them all, and it feels more real than it did when I first arrived. These people are yelling and marching around to protect not only land, but like Etta said, their way of life in Cold Springs.

  Just beyond the protesters I see a billboard, Uncle Jed’s cowboy-hat-topped, too-white smiling face . . . and a freshly spray-painted dick going into his mouth. Enough is enough. I need to see this potential subdivision for myself.

  Hanging a left, I drive out of town, toward the land where Jed wants to build. As I do, I watch as the houses change, from the authentic historical brick builds of old-old Cold Springs, to the wood-frame and vinyl-sided homes that were built in the generation before I was born, to the prebuilt cookie cutters . . . and then manufactured homes with the occasional sprinkle of a beat-up wooden structure.

  But despite the diminishing fanciness of the buildings, I see the pride and effort that people out here have. I see the effort that’s been put into the farmland, the way every row has been harvested or planted carefully. I see the pastures with horses, donkeys, and cattle. The fences might not be perfectly strung with nice, fresh barbed wire—in fact, quite a few of the sections look worse for wear—but each section is mended with something, even if it’s nothing more than what appears to be slender pines that have been dragged from the woods.

  Still, for all the hard work and effort, I see the signs proving life has been harder than it should be for the residents. I see the rusted gates, so old that I doubt anyone knows where the key to the lock is, if it’d even open. I see the trash casually dumped in the drainage ditch that runs alongside the two-lane road, escapees from the backs of pickup trucks or tossed from windows on the way to the county dump.

  But just because it’s not pristine McMansions doesn’t make it any less valuable. It doesn’t give others the right to come in and basically steal it out from underneath the rightful landowners. I see how they want to live their lives, and how hard they’re trying to hang on to the little they’ve got.

  Jed would destroy them without a second thought. That much I know for certain. I decide to take a play from Wren’s rule book, and with a smirk of evil delight, I drive back into downtown.

  “Come on, Mr. Puddles,” I tell the grinning goldendoodle as I pull into a parking spot outside a coffee shop near the protesters. “Let’s get you a pup cup.”

  He barks and follows me out of the truck, trotting along at my side. He’s well trained, waiting patiently outside the door as I go into a coffee shop to get supplies, including Mr. Puddles’s small cup of whipped cream. But once he sees the fluffy goodness, he’s impatient, so I stop and let him lick the cup clean, and once he’s happy, I take the trays of coffees from the barista.

  “Thanks,” I tell her. Reaching into my pocket, I take out a twenty and stick it in the tip jar, earning a smile. Walking out, Mr. Puddles stays right by my side as I walk up the street to the protests. As I approach, I see wary looks.

  “That’s Wyatt Ford, right?”

  “Yeah, Bill’s boy.”

  “Ain’t he . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. His sister—”

  “And he’s been hanging around Hazel—”

  “Who’d like a coffee?” I ask, interrupting the questions and holding up the tray. “I promise, they’re hot and fresh and from just down the street. My sister, Wren, says she does this from time to time?”

  There’re still wary looks, but Mr. Puddles is so friendly looking that I think he helps thaw the protesters, and soon the tray’s empty. “So . . . whatcha here for?” an old man asks. He sips his coffee, nodding. “Nice.”

  “My brother’s wedding,” I answer, even though it’s not what he wants to know.

  My answer helps, though, and I hang out with the protesters. Some of them talk because I’ve given out coffee, some because Mr. Puddles is pretty much a cuddlebug who draws attention and snuggles constantly, and some because they want to fill me in on their point of view.

  “My family’s land ain’t much,” one man says as we walk back and forth along the sidewalk. “Fifty cows ain’t going to make no man rich. But my daddy taught me to hunt on that land. He’s buried under the old oak tree, right next to my mama. And someday, I might be there too. And now Jed Ford wants to raze that all down so some damn fool can what? Park his Mercedes on top of my daddy’s grave? Hell no!”

  That’s not the only story that I hear. These people, whether it’s the farmer who raised three sons on his land to the old man who just wants to be able to retire in peace after spending his whole life working in a steel mill up north, they have their reasons.

  So I walk with them, learning their tales. Mr. Puddles is the life of the party, too, getting head pats and belly scratches from all before lying down on the sidewalk to watch the activity.

  Or he does for a few minutes before he falls asleep right in the middle of the circle, sort of marking the center of the protest line. That’s fine by me . . . because for now I’m walking.

  “Hey,” I ask one of the protesters. “You have an extra sign?”

  “Just one that says ‘Fuck You, Ford,’” the guy replies uneasily. “Um . . . but I’ll swap if you want to carry one?”

  “Nah,” I tell him with a laugh. “Gimme that sign. I’m fine with it.”

  Chapter 19

  HAZEL

  “You are not gonna believe the shit I’m seeing with my own two eyeballs,” Jesse says in my ear as I fumble with my phone and my hairbrush at the same time. Seriously, I should have pulled my hair back last night . . . or maybe let Wyatt do it for me.

  I bet he’d tug on my hair just right.

  “What? Your eyebrows separated by actual space instead of blending into one stripe of bushy unibrow?”

  “Funny,” Jesse says snarkily. “I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t tell you where your boy, Wyatt, is at right now? Or what he’s up to.”

  I shouldn’t ask. It’s not like I have any rights to him. If he’s sitting at a restaurant with someone else, even Rachel, that’s his prerogative. Or if he’s packing up his truck and heading out of town, that’s also not my business. But damned if I don’t want to know.

  “What?” I ask tellingly. “Where?”

  Jesse laughs. “That’s what I figured. I’m downtown, filing a permit for a gig my crew’s doing, and who do I see but Mr. William Wyatt Ford the third sitting in a folding camping chair, sipping coffee from a paper cup, a big ol’ poster saying ‘Fuck You, Ford’ propped against his knees. Now, I don’t think he was advertising his services, was he?”

  Jesse’s description is enough to make me realize . . . “He’s talking to the protesters?”

  “Nope,” Jesse says, “he’s chanting right along with them. Got his dog there by his side, wagging his tail and everything.”

  I must’ve misheard. There’s no way. But . . . “He’s . . . what?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Holy shit. “I’ll be right there.” I almost hang up, but right before I do, I remember to say, “Thanks, Jesse!”

  “Bye, Lester! Don’t destroy anything while I’m gone!” I call as I run out the door less than ten minutes later, my makeup done but my hair a lost cause that I threw up into a messy bun for some semblance of being presentable.

  I hear him call back, “Bawk! Bye, bitch!”

  Nessa whines as I speed into town. She’s not used to being pushed faster than fifty-five, but she doesn’t sputter as she gives it all she’s got. I pull into a parking spot by the coffee shop and climb out, virtually running for the square where the protesters usually set up.

  I can almost feel the heels of my sneakers skidding to a stop when I see them and realize Jesse wasn’t kidding. There’s Wyatt, no longer sitting, but marching back and forth along the sidewalk with a sign that does indeed say FUCK YOU, FORD in big, bold letters. He looks sexy as fuck in worn jeans, a Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to show his ropy forearms, and dirty boots.

  I’d bet this is his usual attire when he’s at home in his workshop. I haven’t been able to picture it, used to seeing him in his fancy suit for the wedding or the nicer casual wear he’s worn into the restaurant, but now?

  Oh, I can see it. I can nearly smell the sawdust and linseed oil on him in my imagination, and it’s giving me a serious case of girl-wood.

  Slowly, not to interrupt or break the spell of whatever I’m watching, I approach, wanting to observe him. By sticking to his blind side, I’m able to get close enough to watch him stop and start talking to a shopper: “. . . and these folks, they’ve got lives. Family connections. We can talk all we want about there’s other places they could move to, but those places aren’t home, you know?”

  He hands the shopper a flyer and picks up his sign again. I decide it’s my time to approach. “Never would’ve believed it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes,” I tease. “You’ve crossed over to the Dark Side.”

  Wyatt turns and I watch his smile grow when he sees me, at first delighted and then heated. “Can I talk to you about the petition to prevent rezoning in Cold Springs?”

  If the guys who call about my car’s extended warranty asked me like that—with an undercurrent of pure sex—Nessa would be the most warrantied vehicle in existence. Thankfully, only Wyatt has taken this particular approach.

  “Ever heard the expression ‘I’m a sure thing’?” I reply, biting my lip and flirting back just as heavily. “I’d use it here except I already signed.”

  “As long as you support the cause.”

  I lick the corner of my mouth, grinning. “Oh, I’m real supportive.” I hold my hands out, palms up and rising and lowering like I’m holding a Slinky . . . or something decidedly more delicate. “I make sure I support just right.”

  Wyatt nearly tosses his poster to one of the other protesters and pulls me off to the side so we can talk privately. Or as private as it gets when you’re nose to nose with a Ford on a downtown sidewalk. “You know what you’re doing to me?”

  I cock an eyebrow, still playing just a bit. “You sound like quite the passionate convert. What magic spell did Etta put you under last night?” I run a finger down his chest and feel him take a breath beneath my touch. “Or was there other magic involved?”

  But Wyatt frowns. “More like a hex. She can be quite bewitching. It made me think, and today, I went for a drive out to the proposed subdivision site. Came to one conclusion: Jed’s got to be stopped,” he says earnestly, running a hand through his hair restlessly. “So I just . . . did the first thing I could think of.”

  I agree wholeheartedly, and hearing those words come out of his mouth is like a shot of caffeine straight to my ovaries. I pop up to my toes so I can kiss the absolute stuffing out of him, my hands cupping his cheeks so hard that he probably looks like a chipmunk, especially when I feel his smile. I drop back to my feet, and he laughs.

  “What was that for?”

  “For being you. Exactly as you are.”

  Wyatt scoffs lightly. “Can’t say many people have told me that.”

  I shrug, not caring what other people think. “Well, they’re dumbasses who don’t know you like I do.”

  I slip my hand into his and pull him back toward the group. Wyatt pauses, giving me a concerned look. “Where are we going?”

  “To work.” I hold my free hand out and get Wyatt’s FUCK YOU, FORD sign back.

  Holding hands, we each take a corner of the posterboard, becoming a two-person parade. More and more people join us, and together, we get louder and louder. One of the women creates a funny chant about Jed, and we shout it as we march along the sidewalk.

  Well, it’s funny to me . . .

  “Stop Jed, the cockhead!” I shout at the top of my lungs, stomping along with the rhythm, and Wyatt does the same beside me.

  Even Mr. Puddles gets in on the marching, practically leading the whole parade.

  Word starts to spread that something special is happening today, something beyond the typical protest. I don’t know what prompted the change from the usual rally, but this is louder, bigger, and crazier than ever before.

  “We need music!” someone calls out, and within minutes a phone is hooked up to their truck’s speakers, doors open and modified Johnny Cash pouring out over downtown as someone sings “A Boy Named Jed.”

  The whole group laughs as the improv lyricist includes lines such as “Seems I had to live with my great shame, the gals would giggle hearin’ my name. The guys would laugh and I’d hang my head, over my two-inch penis as a boy named Jed.”

  “He’s not going to like that one,” I tell Wyatt, who’s laughing and cheering the lyricist on. “You think he’ll call people in to break this up?”

  “Nah,” Wyatt assures me. “He’ll be embarrassed, but he thinks these people are just a speed bump. He’s too arrogant to see the truth.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, and he looks around. “Wyatt?”

  “This isn’t a protest . . . This is the start of a movement,” he says. “Look.”

  I look where he’s pointing, and I see Sue-Ellen’s granddaughter, who’s the Cold Springs High band drum major, leading a good portion of the band toward the music truck, instruments in hand. When “A Boy Named Jed” finishes, the band takes over, the drums and horns a great addition that gets even more attention.

  “Sue-Ellen!” I call, seeing her. “Did you do that?”

  “Damn right!” Sue-Ellen says, grinning. “We’re going to make sure everyone hears our voices!”

  Sue-Ellen designates herself the de facto emcee of this street party–slash-protest, commandeering the improv singer’s microphone to lead our ragtag crew. With the band tooting along with her, she sings in a leather-lunged voice, “Ford! Huah! Good God! What is he good for?”

  I look at Wyatt and grin, and we both join in, chanting, “Absolutely nothin’!” Someone starts stomp-dancing to it, and soon, I can feel what Wyatt means.

  To the untrained eye, it’s a party in the street, with some protesting thrown in. The chanting to songs, the dance-like stomping, and the signs waving as we move as one.

  But for all the fun and games—because, oh yeah, people are bumping a beach ball along overhead—this is serious business. And people know it. Whether it’s the music that’s being chosen, lots of protest songs, some country music, one iteration of “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” and the band doing a very good “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” there’s a clear thread running through all this.

  We’re pissed.

  We’re unified.

  And we’re not backing down.

  As it gets later in the day, people start to leave the offices downtown. I can see the shocked glances as the suited professionals see our group. A few pause to talk, and some even join in, knowing that this isn’t about suits or work boots. This is about right and wrong.

  When the city council members leave their courthouse offices, a fresh surge of energy shoots through the crowd.

  “Hey, ho! Why you got bone for Jed’s rezone?” we yell directly at the city council members, letting them know that their constituents are well aware of who’s driving the rezoning push, and being in Jed’s pocket is not in their best interest.

  That’s all well and good, and might even be successful at swaying a council member or two, until Bill Ford steps out into the setting sunlight.

  He stands on the steps of the courthouse, his hands balling at his hips as he surveys the scene. But nothing matches the look on his face when Wyatt gets up into the bed of the pickup truck and takes the microphone in hand, leading the chants for a minute before passing it back to Sue-Ellen.

  Honestly, Bill Ford looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. But I care more about Wyatt’s reaction as he sets his shoulders wide and thrusts his fist in the air, ready to take on the world and his family. The protesters see it, too, looking between the elder Ford and the younger, locked in a battle as old as time.