I grin.
An alarm goes off on my phone and I glance at the reminder. Well, shoot. It’s time to call in another ace, though I’m not as sure about this one. "Excuse me. I have to make a call."
Sarah nods. She begins addressing an invitation to each of the Whitmores in an elegant calligraphy script that is artwork.
I step out onto the porch to have some privacy and dial before fear can steal my nerve.
"Kinsley?” Mom’s voice pierces the hush. "What's wrong?" I can hear horses in the background and her voice echoes like it does off the barn walls.
"Nothing's wrong," I lie, then wince because I soundeddefensive. "I need a favor,”
She’s quiet.
“It’s actually an invitation.” I rush on, explaining the event, the scope of what we're attempting, the celebrities and politicians. I also explain the precedence of having this decision overturned, citing how it would benefit her operation and every rancher, farmer, and cowboy and cowgirl in the United States.
"I know it sounds impossible—"
"It doesn't sound impossible, Kinsley. It sounds desperate." Her disapproval stings.
My throat closes and I can’t talk.
"Why are you desperate?" she asks.
“We’re running out of time and this is our only chance.” Admitting it is difficult—especially to my mom.
“Just so long as you're not desperate for a man,” she says. "I saw pictures of you with the roughie.”
"I—." I gulp at the same time I bristle at having her refer to him as a roughie. As if that term encompasses all that is Wyatt Halloway. "His name’s Wyatt, Mom. He's a bull rider, one of the best in the world," and I'm rambling. I cut off.
“And he’s got buckle bunnies hanging all over him. I saw that too.”
I didn’t know Mom could stalk someone on social media. Props to her for being savvy. “He’s a celebrity. It’s not personal with them.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“That’s what he’s shown me,” I fire back.
She exhales. "You’ve tied up fighting for his land with fighting for him.”
I don't argue. Because she's right. I can't separate the two anymore because fighting for the ranch means protecting Wyatt's future. It doesn't matter that he's not here to fight himself—and I'm not sure why that doesn't bother me. Maybe it should.
"No," I whisper. "I can't."
"Oh, baby," she says, voice carrying years of hard-won wisdom and old wounds that never quite healed. "Don’t risk things you can't afford to lose for people who might not stay when the ground gets rough."
"He's not like that," I say fiercely, surprising myself. "Wyatt's not the kind of man who walks away." Even as I say this, I realize that he's not here and that he's spent years walking away from this ranch. I don’t know if he’d stick around or not—but I’m not the one to ask him to stay either.
"Honey, they're all that kind when the right pressure gets applied." Her voice gentles and I can almost believe that she doesn’t want to hurt me by telling me the truth—or what’s been her truth.
It's not like I wasn't raised on Garth Brooks and the thunder rollin’. I’ve had all these same fears. I don’t want to believe my mother’s truth but what if she's right?
On the other hand, Wyatt keeps doing more for me than I expect from him.
“Wyatt doesn’t sign my paychecks, Mom.”
I hear the sigh that carries a mother's worry.
"Honestly?” I continue, “We don't need you here to pull this off." It's true. With the people Wyatt's lined up, we have enough celebrities. "I’m inviting you because I want you here. I'm proud of you and who you are, and I hoped you'd feel the same for me."