Maybe after she returned from her store run she’d make Tobin a sandwich and take it up to the lodge.
Fletch was restless. Not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, but he wasn’t sure how to handle it. After spending time with Tanna, he realized he had to convince that little gal they’d be good for each other. Even short-term. And he wasn’t sure how to do that.
Maybe his dad had an idea. He called him, giving a heads-up he was on his way over.
His father lived in a retirement community in Rawlins, in a one-bedroom with a view of the golf course. Bruce Fletcher didn’t play golf, but he liked looking out the big picture window across the sloping green hills. Fletch paid for that premium view, but his father’s happiness was worth it. He’d raised Fletch alone, for the most part, since Fletch’s mother, Darla Fast Dog, had a habit of disappearing for months at a time.
Fletch hadn’t asked how Bruce, an oil field worker, had knocked up a twenty-two-year-old Indian woman from the reservation—at the time his dad had been forty. Sometimes his father spoke fondly of the year Darla had lived with him, prior to Fletch’s birth and shortly after.
His parents hadn’t married. Wedding vows would’ve meant nothing to Darla anyway. Throughout his childhood she’d appear whenever the mood struck her. She’d attempt to be a partner and mother, staying as long as she could stand it, but she always ended up running back to the rez.
The year he’d turned ten, she’d shown up looking like death warmed over. His father had taken her to the hospital and the doctor diagnosed her with late-stage breast cancer—past the stage treatment could help her or save her. Bruce, being a kind man, a man who did right by his family, cared for her until she passed on. He didn’t argue with her family about Indian burial specifics, but he insisted he and Fletch be allowed to attend the ceremony.
It was the first contact Fletch had with his Native American relatives. He still remembered their skeptical eyes as he marched to the front pew. They whispered about him, some blatantly questioning whether he was Darla’s kid—he looked too white. He remembered wanting to turn around to tell them to shut up. But his dad had held him steady. Fletch understood as long as he had his father, he didn’t need anyone else.
Shaking off his melancholy, he scaled the steps to the entrance and waited in the entryway for his dad to buzz him into the building.
And as usual, his father leaned against the doorjamb, waiting for him. He wasn’t as spry as he used to be, but he looked good for a seventy-seven-year-old man.
“Heya, Dad.” Fletch hugged him.
His dad returned the embrace. “Son, how was your week?”
“Busy. Yesterday was the branding at Kyle and Celia’s place.”
“How are the Gilchrists?”
Fletch followed his dad into the living room and flopped into the easy chair. “Good. I guess Celia was wanting to rope and drag calves but Kyle put his foot down.”
His dad chuckled. “True cowgirl, that one is. Think that baby of theirs will be born with a rope in hand.”
“Probably. While we were eating, Bran got a call from Harper. She went into labor.”
“What’d she have?”
“Another boy. Named him Jake. Mom and baby are fine. Hank and Abe were there. So were Ike and Devin.”
“Sounds like they had a good crew. Was Eli there?”
“Of course.”
“Was Summer with him?”
“No.”
His father sighed. “Eli’s choice? Or Summer’s?”
“Summer’s, I think. She’s still adjusting. And Eli isn’t one to push. Even when he should.”
For the next hour they talked about their respective weeks, sports, politics, Fletch’s upcoming schedule and some weird comment about potential vacation plans that made zero sense. He’d always been able to talk to his dad about anything, so when the conversation hit a lull, he wondered why he hesitated to mention Tanna.
“Something on your mind, son?”
“Yeah, but I feel kind of stupid bringing it up.”
“Then it’s gotta be about a woman.”
Fletch’s gaze snapped to his dad’s.
His father chuckled. “You’re a private guy when it comes to that stuff. I imagine it’s behavior you learned from me. So, what’s going on?”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Thursday night I met a woman at a bar. There’s something between us. She denies it. But I know she felt it too. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to get involved . . . ah, romantically, since she’ll be working up at the Split Rock all summer.” Fletch leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So why did she mention that we could be friends?”
“Maybe because she’ll only be here temporarily. Potential messy breakup and all that. So my advice is to take her up on the friend offer.”
“But that’s not all I want from her.”
“So lie.”
“Excuse me? I thought I heard Mr. Never-Tell-A-Lie suggesting I do exactly that.”
His father gave him a half shrug. “Convince her you’re fine being her friend. She’ll at least agree to spend time with you. Take her out for coffee. You can casually wear down her resistance. You’ll be back in funny business with her before you know it.”
“Huh. You really think that’ll work?”
“What were you planning to do?”
Storm her house, kiss her stupid, strip her naked and after an orgasm or ten, beg her to date me.