“It was okay,” Atlee says simply. “Better than expected.”
Aubree seems to understand not to push for more details. Instead, she links her arm through Atlee’s. “Well, you’re in for a treat tonight. Cookie heard you were coming for dinner and insisted on making something special.”
I follow them inside, immediately hit with the smell of fried chicken and fresh-baked bread. My stomach growls in response. I’d been too distracted to eat lunch, worried about how Atlee was faring at work.
“Cookie made this just for me?” Atlee asks, sounding surprised as we enter the kitchen.
“Sure did,” Aubree confirms. “Said every girl deserves her favorite meal after a hard day. Hope you like fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and cornbread.”
Atlee’s eyes widen. “That’s…that’s actually my favorite. How did he know?”
“Cookie knows everything,” I say, placing my hand on the small of her back. “It’s a little unnerving sometimes.”
“It’s because I listen,” comes a gruff voice from the pantry. Cookie emerges, a stout man in his sixties with a perpetually flour-dusted apron. He’s been with the ranch since before I was born. “Something most men could stand to learn.”
He gives Atlee a once-over, then nods approvingly. “You look like you could use a good meal, young lady. Dinner’ll be ready in ten.”
With that, he disappears back into his domain, leaving Atlee looking both touched and slightly bewildered.
“Don’t mind him,” Aubree says with a laugh. “He acts gruff, but he’s got the biggest heart. Come on. Jesse’s in the dining room, setting the table. Or at least he better be, if he knows what’s good for him.”
We follow Aubree through to the dining room, where my brother is indeed placing silverware at each setting. He looks up as we enter, his face breaking into a rare smile when he sees Atlee.
“Well, look who it is,” he says, coming around the table to give her a quick, somewhat awkward hug. Jesse has never been big on physical affection. “Heard you went back to work today. That takes guts.”
“Thanks,” Atlee says, seeming a bit surprised by the warmth of his greeting. “It wasn’t easy, but it had to be done.”
“Still, it takes a lot of guts and strength. If anyone knows, it’s us,” he says with a nod. “Sit, sit. Cookie’s been fussing over this meal all afternoon.”
We take our seats around the old oak table that’s been in our family for generations. It’s scarred and worn, but solid, a bit like the ranch itself. I notice that Aubree has added fresh wildflowers in a mason jar as a centerpiece, a touch that makes the room feel more welcoming.
“Beer?” Jesse offers, already heading toward the fridge.
“Please,” I say, while Atlee nods her agreement.
He returns with four bottles, passing them around before taking his seat beside Aubree.
“So,” Jesse says, clearly steering the conversation away from Atlee’s first day back at work. “I was thinking we should show you around the property sometime, Atlee. Devlin says you’ve never seen the whole ranch.”
“I’d like that,” she replies, taking a sip of her beer. “I’ve only ever seen it from the road. I’ve never seen all of Grizzly River or Dark Skies. At some point, I’d love to see both, but no pressure.”
“It’s beautiful in the fall,” Aubree adds. “The aspen trees turn this amazing gold color, especially up by the north pasture.”
The conversation flows easily from there, with Jesse and Aubree taking turns telling stories about the ranch’s history and their plans for its future. I’m grateful for the way they’re including Atlee, making her feel welcome without putting her on the spot about recent events.
“We’re hoping to have the barn renovation completed before winter sets in,” Jesse explains, gesturing with his beer. “It’s been a long time coming.”
“The original structure dates back to the 1800s,” I add, mostly for Atlee’s benefit.
“That’s amazing,” Atlee says, genuine interest in her voice. “So the ranch has been in your family all this time?” she asks Aubree.
Aubree nods. “It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s home,” she finishes. “You’ll learn a lot about it if you stick around.”
Cookie brings in the food then, placing heaping platters and bowls in the center of the table. The fried chicken is golden brown and crispy, the mashed potatoes creamy and flecked with black pepper, the gravy rich and thick. The green beans are cooked with pieces of bacon, and the cornbread comes in individual squares, steam rising from their tops.
“This looks incredible,” Atlee says, her eyes wide.
Cookie gives a grunt that might be his version of a thank you before disappearing back to the kitchen.
