For a split second, I debated calling Merrick to ask if Keaton’s made any noise about buying up my land—after all, he was in cahoots with my mom on everything it seemed—but talked myself out of it just as fast. I’m not inflating Merrick’s ego by asking for his help on anything. Besides, if Keaton wants to come sniffing around—I’ll be more than happy to send him on his way. I jump out of the truck and almost slam the door, until I remember my trusty sidekick who’s done nothing wrong. “Come on boy,” I speak sweetly and pat my leg. “It’s okay, Bourbon.” He doesn’t believe me, his doggy “sixth sense” on point. As are his ears and the hairs along his back, but he slowly obeys and hesitantly jumps out. “Gatlin! Gatlin, where are you?” I scream, my own extra sense telling me he’s near. “Hey,” he comes walking out of the barn, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “Why the hollering? Everything all right?” I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head.
