Mr Serious. Danica Winters
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Monica’s funeral, like he had bitten into a wormy apple. The only worm here was him.
“I believe I answered all the questions when your brother brought me in, Waylon.” As William spoke, a small dark-haired woman walked out of the house. William, noticing the woman, turned and pointed toward the door. “Get back inside, Lisa.”
“Why are they here?” The woman pointed toward her with a shaking finger. “Did they find Alli?”
“Shut up and listen to me, Lisa. Go inside.”
Lisa looked taken aback, but she hurried inside.
“Who was that?” Christina asked.
William waved her off. “She is none of your business.”
Was the woman just another in his long line of conquests?
“You people have no right to be stepping on my property, and you have no right to be asking me any questions,” William continued.
“You’re right. You’re under no real obligation. Nothing you tell me would be admissible in court,” Waylon said, in an almost jovial tone, as if he could win the slimeball’s favor by acting like a friend. “However, I would think you would want to bring your wife’s murderer to justice.”
“You don’t want justice,” William said with a snort. “You just want to find Alli. You think if you can get to her first, maybe you can get her a lighter sentence when the crap rains down. But here’s the deal...” William pointed at Waylon, the move aggressive and escalating. It was the move of a politician. “Even if you find her, she’s going to pay for what she did. She’ll get the full weight of justice upon her. I will make sure of it.”
“Even if? What, do you think there’s a chance we aren’t going to find my sister?” Christina asked, enraged by the man’s tone. “What did you do to her?”
“Better yet,” Waylon interrupted, “what didn’t you tell my brother about what you know?”
William waved them off. “You and your screwed-up family aren’t my problem. You people are trash.” He looked into her eyes. “You are trash. And if you think I’m going to play your effing games, you’re wrong.”
“Our games?” Waylon looked genuinely confused by the man’s accusation. “What games are you talking about, Will?”
“My name’s William, not Will, Bill or Billy. Unlike you, Waylon, I wasn’t named after a dead country singer. My family wasn’t a bunch of rednecks.”
Up until that point, Christina had thought she had the corner on hating William Poe. Yet, based on the flaming-red color of Waylon’s face, she might have just lost the lead position.
“Listen here, bastard,” Waylon seethed. “I would’ve liked to go about this whole thing amicably. You could have made this all easy.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” William interrupted him, making a thin sheet of sweat rise to Waylon’s forehead as his hands balled into tight fists. “You came here. You’re accusing me of who knows what. You have no right to be here—and the only bastard here is you.”
Waylon lunged forward, but Christina stopped him by grabbing his hand. “Come on, Waylon.” She pulled him toward the truck. “If nothing else, now you know the type of guy that would lead a woman to kill.”
Eloise had been cooking constantly since Waylon had stepped foot back onto the ranch, and the rich odors of roasting meat and butter wafted throughout the house. After their run-in with William, Christina was more than happy to settle back into the warmth and comfort of the kitchen as she helped Eloise put the finishing touches on the meal.
Waylon and Colter walked in, but they were so wrapped up in whatever they had been talking about that neither of them seemed to notice her sitting at the bar.
Colter looked a lot like his older, biological brother. They both had the same copper-tinted skin, dark brown eyes and jet-black hair, but beyond their looks, the two were nothing alike. Waylon carried himself as though he were ready to take on the world, while Colter...well, it could be said that he was constantly at ease. It was almost as if Waylon carried a chip on his shoulder big enough for the both of them, so big that Colter had never felt its weight.
“Heya, Colt,” Christina said, giving him a small wave.
He smiled brightly, the simple action lighting up his face with his characteristic warmth. “How’s it going, lady? Long time no see.” He walked over and gave her a hug so big that her feet came off the floor.
She laughed, but she couldn’t help but notice the frown that flickered over Waylon’s features at his brother’s display of affection. Or was it that his brother had suddenly displayed a bit of affection toward her? Either way, she pried herself out of Colt’s arms.
Winnie came running into the kitchen. There was dirt streaked over her face, and her Ace bandage was covered in sticky greenish-brown mud.
“Winnie, were you out in the barn again?” Christina asked, giving the girl an admonishing look.
“Lewis and Clark gotta have cookies,” Winnie said, like giving horses their treats was a vital part of any growing girl’s day. “They so hungry.”
Christina fell victim to the girl’s big brown eyes—eyes that looked entirely too much like her father’s. She instinctively glanced toward Waylon. He was smiling at the girl, and the warmth made her heart shift in her chest. He wasn’t supposed to like children—especially Winnie. If he fell for the girl’s charms and the time came when he was given a choice of having her, Christina would undoubtedly lose out to him and the girl would be taken away.
She wrapped her arms around Winnie, claiming her even though Waylon had no idea she was up for grabs. “Why don’t we go get you cleaned up before supper. Your—” She stopped before she let the word nana fall from her lips. She didn’t want him to ask about the moniker again. The less he knew, the easier it would be.
“What?” Winnie looked up at her.
“Nothing. Let’s just get you cleaned up. You don’t want to be a mess when it comes time to eat.”
Winnie pulled out of her arms. “You’re gonna play dress up.” She pointed toward Waylon. “Yeah, Way-lawn?”
His handsome and confusing smile disappeared. He might have liked Winnie, but he probably wasn’t any closer to wanting a kid than at the moment he’d landed.
“Ah, yeah,” he said, pulling the word into a long collection of syllables. “You still want to do that, eh?” He looked over toward Christina, sending her a questioning glance.
She shrugged. He could stay in the hot seat for a little while longer. Sometimes all it took for a man to go running was an hour with a mercurial toddler—especially his type, the kind who didn’t know the difference between a sippy and a bottle.
Winnie ran over, took him by the hand and started to drag the begrudging Waylon toward her room at the far end of the ranch-style house. She and Alli had shared a room, but now she was on her own.
“Come on, Way-lawn. It’s gonna be fun!” Glee filled Winnie’s words, so much so that Christina was tempted to let him off the hook and take his place.
She didn’t mind living in the land of Pinterest costumes and childish dreams. She embraced country living—a world of quilting parties and Sunday dinners. She found great comfort in the fact that they had their own lifestyle and their own brand of perfection.
Even though Waylon had grown up in this world, the tight look on his face made it clear he didn’t have the same sentimental attachment. He looked like he would be far more comfortable in the throes of war than the throes of pink felt and glitter.
Eloise