3
Jo
I hearher before I see her. It's those sky-high heels she wears, slapping the floor like quarters hitting tile.
Dakota, the owner of The Orchard, nods slightly and looks over my shoulder, watching Jericho approach. I turn around, ready to welcome her into the restaurant, but she tosses her expensive handbag onto the bar and looks me square in the eye.
"Josephine Daniella Shelton, I cannot believe I'm telling you this, but you got the ranch."
The air in my lungs disappears. Dakota grabs my hand, squeezing it. All I can see is her wide smile and Jericho's stoic face. A million thoughts race through my head at once, but none of them stay long enough to form anything coherent.
I gather enough air to murmur, "The ranch?"
"The ranch, Jo. Do you remember it? Abandoned, out of order—"
Dakota shuts her up with a stare. "I believe your listing called it 'a charming property waiting for a special touch’."
Jericho stares back. "Realtors’ creativity."
Dakota makes an irritated sound and looks back at me. "They accepted your offer, Jo. I told them what you were planning to do with the place, and apparently they have a thing for do-gooders. This is huge." Her strawberry blonde hair tickles my shoulders as she hugs me.
"Yeah," I say slowly when she lets me go, still processing what this all means. I thought my offer had a greater chance of being laughed at than accepted. Jericho had made certain to inform me of who I was up against. Big name ranchers, commercial developers, even a home developer. Why did they choose little old me, with the shallow pockets?
"Congratulations." Jericho takes her purse off the bar top and threads her arm through the straps. "I'd thought I'd seen it all, and then this. Getting a ranch for pennies on the dollar." Her ponytail moves with her headshake. "It's a steal. You're practically a thief."
It's not the first time I've heard this passive-aggressive comment from her, and I know it's in reference to a lower commission thanks to a lower sale price. I want to remind her that you shouldn't bother crying over what was never yours. A lesson I learned the hard way, courtesy of a certain Hayden brother.
Dakota glances at her watch. "It's too bad you can't stay for lunch, Jericho. If only it were eleven and we were open."
"If only," Jericho replies, offering a fake smile. "Jo, the title company will be in touch to schedule the signing."
She waves and walks out, leaving us with her perfume.
"She's a piece of work," Dakota says. She grabs a bottle of wine and uncorks it.
"What are you doing?"
She pours two half glasses and hands me one. "Congratulations, Jo. You once told me you dreamed of opening a place for troubled youth, and here you are, making it happen."
Our glasses make a tinkling sound, and Dakota squeezes my shoulder.
"I really have wanted this for so long." Ever since the first time Travis got in trouble, when I saw signs of the anger and emptiness brewing inside him. His behavior changed. The lens through which he looked at the world was fractured. And now… Can I really do it? Put together a ranch that can help not just my brother, but other kids too? Would my mom be willing to send him to a ranch, a real place where he could live and enjoy himself? It wouldn't be my couch in my living room, but a real home. How much could she argue with that?
For the first time, it seems possible. The pieces are falling into place, fitting together like a choreographed kick line.
I might actually be able to pull this off.
"Jo?"
Shelby's calling my name from the living room. I'm in the bathroom, swiping mascara with an unpracticed hand. A dinner to celebrate me signing all the paperwork earlier today deserves a little makeup.
"What?" I yell back.
"Your phone is ringing. Should I answer?"
I open my mouth to respond but stop when I hear Shelby sayhello. I finish my second eye while I listen to her muffled voice, followed by footfalls. Shelby walks with purpose, so I never have to wonder where she is in our shared home.
She steps into my bathroom, shoulders shaking excitedly. "It's Alison Stein," she mouths, pointing at my held-out phone.
