She comes up the steps, and I scoop her up, blanket and all, and carry her inside to the bedroom. We don’t have sex. I don’t know why. I’m just so in awe of looking at her, of kissing her mouth, listening to her tell me about her day. I hold her with one arm underneath, her cheek on my bicep. I touch her face, tracing her few freckles, tucking her hair behind her ear. We talk about the ranch until our eyes get tired.
Then, we finally have sex. It’s sleepy and slow, like we know each other.
The next day, I’m supposed to go into town to pick up some things at the general store. I take the work truck to Knifely and get there by the time the sun is up, casting long shadows through the buildings. I park in city parking, even though there’s space along the curb. It gives me a chance to walk down the street and feel like a normal person just doing normal shit. Someone waves at me, I think it’s the owner of the hair salon by the diner. I wave back and keep on going.
The cafe is open. I duck in, and Freya is there. I’m surprised. I thought she was still on maternity leave. But she’s in her plaid skirt, tights, and green sweater, her curly hair piled on her head. I walk in, and she looks up with a bright smile.
“I thought you weren’t working yet,” I say.
“I needed a break,” she says. “Ginny has Slate this morning and Tracy had some meetings in the city, so I offered to open.”
My throat catches as I look around. This is a nice place, far better than anything she ever had back home. It’s clean, it’s warm, it’s cozy. For Freya, that’s important. She’s what my mother used to call a nester, somebody who thrives in comfort, surrounded by the things they love. Freya likes her books, her bugs, her butterflies, but now, she’s got a bigger nest; this place with its fragrant coffee, piles of pastries, and pleasant clientele.
“Want a coffee?” she asks, leaning on the counter.
“Sure,” I say, pushing my hands in my pockets. “I’m picking up some chicken wire for Deacon, just stopping by.”
She starts doing something that involves a lot of bubbling and steaming behind the counter. “That’s on me. I’m getting some quail.”
“What’re you doing with quail?”
“Pickled red beet eggs.”
I do love me some pickled red beet eggs. We grew up eating those, a way for Freya to keep cheap protein in the house. Trying to feed four men was an overwhelming task for her, and I’m gladshe doesn’t have to do it anymore unless she wants to. But I do love that she’s bringing all the dishes from back home to Ryder Ranch.
“Tiny pickled eggs,” she says, sliding a paper cup across to me. “I think it’ll be cute, and we can save back some eggs and make Easter decorations next year.”
I smile.
“What?” she presses.
“Nothing much,” I say, shaking my head. “I just sure am glad you found that crazy son of a gun you married. He’s real good to you.”
Her face softens. “He is good to me. I’m lucky.”
“He’s lucky too,” I say.
“Yeah, he is.” We both laugh, and she leans across the counter to hug me briefly. “Alright, you head on out so I can get ahead on all this baking. There’s an event down at city hall tomorrow, and we’re catering.”
“Well, you have fun with that,” I say, using my back to push the door open.
She waves, and I wave back through the glass. Then, I’m heading back down the sidewalk with some kind of cinnamon-smelling latte in my hand. I can see the general store up ahead, but I don’t make it there, because all of a sudden, I’m standing right in front of the dog shelter. It’s a sterile building, a big sign hanging from two chains over the door. Somebody used green chalk to draw pawprints leading up to it.
I follow them. The door chimes as I step into the empty lobby. It smells like lemon cleaner.
“I’ll be right there,” a man calls from the back.
“No hurry,” I say.
There are rows of photos of dogs pinned to the tackboard. I lean in, studying them carefully. I’m about halfway down when a lanky, dark haired guy of about eighteen pops around thecorner, a fluffy dog under his arm. It’s hanging there with a smug expression on its smushed face, like it’s judging me real hard.
“Hey, can I help you?” he says brightly. “You got an appointment?”
“Nah, I just…I’d been thinking of coming in for a while,” I say. “I was just stopping by.”
“You want to check the dogs out?” he says. “I don’t have anything going on right now, and they’re all in their kennels.”
I hesitate then nod.
