“I just had to swing by,” Carol says, already peering past us toward the front door. “Heard talk at the feed store that the house was getting a facelift. Figured I’d drop off a pie and see how things were going.”
She thrusts a foil-wrapped package into Avery’s hands and then zeroes in on Emmy. “And who is this little darling?”
Emmy hides slightly behind Harper’s leg.
“That’s my daughter, Emmy,” Avery says smoothly. “She’s five. Loves horses and chickens.”
“Well, she’s precious,” Carol coos, crouching slightly. “Bet she’s got this whole place wrapped around her finger.”
“Just about,” I admit, ruffling Emmy’s hair.
Carol’s gaze flicks back and forth between Avery and me now, eyes sharp behind her smile. “Looks like you two are working well together.”
I feel the burn of her gaze like she’s dissecting every inch of us under a microscope. Part of me wants to roll my eyes, the other part wants to tip my hat and makesome smart-ass remark about how well we wield hammers together.
Instead, I just smile tight and resist the urge to check if she’s already texting the group chat. Avery's smirk suggests she’s thinking the same thing.
Avery doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re rebuilding. One board at a time.”
“And what a lovely board it is,” Carol murmurs.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.
“Well, I’ll let you all get back to it,” she says finally, stepping back toward her car. “Do let me know if you need anything, or if any juicy updates come along. You know I hate to be the last to know.”
Harper waves. “We’ll be sure to CC you on all our scandal.”
Once Carol’s SUV disappears down the drive, Avery exhales hard. “She’s probably already posting about this on Facebook.”
“Hashtag ranch rehab,” Harper quips.
We laugh, the four of us standing there in our sweat and dust and pride, watching the sun dip low over the fields.
And somehow, even with nosy neighbors and chicken poop, this feels like exactly where we’re supposed tobe. It hits me then, how far we’ve come. From cold stares and slammed doors to shared laughter and rebuilt barns.
This isn’t just survival anymore. It’s a beginning. A second chance carved out with sweat, stubborn hearts, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you while you’re knee-deep in mud and memories.
Chapter fourteen
Best Friend Therapy & Truth Bombs
Avery
Idon’t know if it’s the smell of lemon cleaner or the fact that I’ve been scrubbing baseboards since dawn, but something about cleaning this house feels like therapy. Not the gentle, meditative kind either, the gritty, sweat-pouring, face-smudged kind.
My arms ache from hauling boxes, and the sharp citrus of the cleaner clings to my hands, stinging every tiny scratch I didn't realize I had. My shirt sticks to my back, and the air tastes like dust and lemon.
The kind that makes you question every life choice that led to you hauling a vacuum up a flight of stairs while Harper yells about finding an old raccoon skull in the attic.
“Why do I feel like this is some kind of test?” I mutter, clutching a half-empty bottle of wood polish and eyeing the bookshelf I’m supposed to be dusting.
“Because it is,” Harper says from the hallway, poking her head around the corner with an exaggerated eyeroll and a broom in one hand like she’s about to knight someone for surviving household clutter.. “A test of how much junk Jack Blake could hide in every nook and cranny of this house."
Look at this, vintage Playboys, a shoe box full of old receipts, and what I’m pretty sure is a petrified sandwich.”
I gag. “Please tell me you’re lying.”
She grins. “Only about the sandwich. It’s actually a squirrel skull.”
