It’s a room shrouded in American Girl dolls, accessories, scenes…and they’re all staring at me.
All begging to be touched.
To be rotated.
To have their arms and legs lubricated with innocent child play. But instead of fulfilling their fates as toys, they’ve been set up for a life of boredom as decorations. And I can see the anger in their eyes. They were destined for so much more when they were manufactured, only to be brought to a home where they were to be looked at, not touched.
Treated just the same as a wall sconce, stared at for its beauty but never truly, properly used, these dolls have pent-up energy, deep-rooted depression, and I know for a fact they come alive at night.
And don’t come at me and say I’m being dramatic, because I’m not. I will stand here right now and swear on my left nostril that when I was eleven, one of the dolls winked at me.
Actually winked.
One guess as to which doll it was.
It startled me so badly that I screamed bloody murder, ran down the stairs, and tripped over theSanta Claus is Comin’ to Townrug that’s usually in front of the door, causing me to slide right into the wall and break my wrist.
I still have the pain during cold, wet nights to prove it.
So pardon me for not wanting to sleep in a room that has caused me to nearly lose a wrist.
“Your clothes aren’t going to unpack themselves,” Taran calls from her open door across the hall. “And we need to get this placesettled—Martha and Mae are bringing Aunt Cindy back to the house in about an hour.”
I turn toward Taran. “You know, we should really play rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the red room. It would only be fair.” I hold my hand out in position, ready to play. “Best of three?” I ask with hope.
“It’s adorable how delusional you are,” Taran says and then powers down the stairs, picks up the food bags, and heads to the kitchen.
Well, that’s one way to squash the tidings of joy.
CHAPTER TWO
Cole
Snow from the night before glistens across the bitter ground,
while news of the sisters’ arrival spreads all throughout town.
The gossip is crisp, the excitement oh so thick,
while Cole stomps around as a very unhappy dick.
“Did you know they werecoming?” I say to my best friend Max.
Max pauses from where he’s sharpening his axe and quirks a brow in my direction.
“Did I know who was coming?” he asks.
I sit on one of the old farm chairs that’s one large man away from its wood crushing into sawdust—I like to take risks—and lean my forearms on my thighs. “The Taylor sisters.”
“Who are the Taylor sisters?” he asks before wiping down his axe and inspecting it.
A chilly wind blows through the open gap of the barn door, reminding me once again that fall has ended and winter is here. The cold has never bothered me. I’m accustomed to the blistering Colorado mountain winters, hence why I’m only wearing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved flannelshirt. That’s what happens when you spend your entire life in a mountain town. You adapt to the weather conditions, expecting the unpredictable, but confident the sun will shine at least once during the day.
“You know who the Taylor sisters are,” I say. “Cindy Louis’s great-grandnieces Taran and Storee.”
“Ohhh,” Max says with a nod and a wink. “Storee Taylor.”
“Can you not?” I say, shaking my head, seeing exactly where he wants to take this.
