“And then you’ll be the next trade, so no, you won’t.”
“Not possible. I have an NTC.”
“Good.” I nod. “Same.”
Our conversation falls quiet, and I finish getting dressed, ready to get the hell out of here. I have an hour drive out to my parents’ ranch, and I’m ready for solitude.
And I’m sure as hell not going to get it here.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sun sets, hues of orange and pink painting the sky as I drive through the mountains, following the curve of the road with classic rock playing lightly through my speakers.
I’m just a few minutes away from Fox Den Ranch, my parents’ property out in Deerbrook Valley. This far from the city is quiet and serene. I can think out here and just be me. Out on the ranch I’m not a player in the MLB, I’m justGareth.
When I make a left onto the unmarked gravel road, I anticipate seeing a few cattle out in the field grazing, but they must already be tucked into their barns because there’s nothing but the wind rustling through the overgrown pasture.
When I pass our neighbors at Wild Brook Ranch—if you can call them neighbors when so many miles stretch between us—I notice a guy I’ve never seen before just inside the ranch’s gate. He seems out of place wearing all black and sporting a man bun, but I mind my own business and keep driving. Another five or six minutes pass before I’m turning onto our dirt road. My headlights reflect off the lake settled behind my parents’ ranch, and I coast until I reach the house, parking in front of the garage.
Killing the engine, I get out of my truck and am immediately greeted by chaos.
“Whimsey!” a woman’s voice calls out, her tone nervous. “Whimsey! C’mon girl!” A high-pitched whistle sounds next, and out of the shadows, between the garage and the barns, steps Jessie.
Jessie is the caretaker of the ranch and lives on the property full time in the guest house my parents built for her nearly twenty years ago. When she came to work for my parents, Jessie was in her late-forties and newly divorced. Her kids were grown, so she settled right into a simpler life here and looked over the property, the animals, and me and my brother whenever we were here.
“Jessie, what’s wrong?” Hurrying toward her, I see tear tracks lining her cheeks as she wraps her arms around her middle.
“Whimsey took off earlier, a few hours before the sun set, and she hasn’t come back. Shealwayscomes back.”
“Okay, it’s okay.” I wrap the woman who’s come to be like a grandmother to me in my arms, and give her a reassuring hug. “I’ll find her, alright? Go inside and get your jacket, it’s freezing out here.”
The wind’s picked up, and despite it being warm earlier today, there’s a chill in the air that’s amplified by the gusts.
“You’ll find her?” she asks, her expression worried.
I nod and promise, “I won’t sleep until I do.”
A lump lodges in my throat as I look over at the now-darkened field. To the west is the small lake our ranch borders, but to the north is the edge of the woods that rest at the bottom of the mountain.
Whimsey could have made it to the dirt road, but as a nosy, adventurous thirteen-year-old Australian shepherd, I knowshe’s wandered beyond the tree line and more than likely can’t find her way back.
We adopted her as a one-year-old rescue, and Jessie fell head-over-heels in love with the pup, so we decided to let her live on the ranch. Originally, her name was Whiskey—named by my dad—but the name Whimsey stuck one summer when Dylan and Indy came out over the Fourth of July, and Indy renamed her.
My heart sinks when the memory of Indy falling in love with her plays through my mind like a movie.
“Oh my God! Who is this?” Indy squeals, dropping to her knees in the dirt the second she hops out of my beat-up Suburban.
Her hair’s pulled up into a messy pile on her head, and a strand of pink from the front pieces falls in front of her face as she lets Whiskey kiss her, slobber coating her cheeks and nose, but Indy couldn’t care less.
“Our ranch dog, Whiskey.” I laugh when Whiskey knocks Indy over, climbing into her lap.
“He’s just the most precious thing! Aren’t you, my guy? Aren’t you!” She scratches behind Whiskey’s ears, peppering kisses against her fur.
Behind me, the passenger door slams shut as Dylan gets out of the truck and makes his way toward us.
“He’s actually a she.” I laugh as I feel my best friend come stand beside me. His hands are in his pockets, his brows pinched.
“Whiskey’s a boy's name,” Indy quips, pulling the dog further into her lap. She’s completely sitting in the dirt now without a care in the world.
