I step into the kitchen, running my fingers along the worn countertops. Something about the imperfections of this place makes it feel homely. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I felt this way about anything.
I pull open the back door that leads out to the small backyard, a patch of land my grandfather always insisted on keeping wild and untamed.
Now, it’s overgrown with weeds, but I can see traces of the old garden he loved so much. The small patch of lavender in the corner, the stone path that used to lead to a bench where he’d sit and watch the sun go down.
I step out into the yard, feeling the cool breeze against my skin as it sweeps through the tangled weeds. The earth still smells faintly of lavender, a reminder of the love my grandfather poured into this place.
It’s like he’s still here in the soil, in the wildness of the garden, in the cracks of the stone path leading to nowhere.
Charlie’s words drift out from the kitchen, but I don’t move. Instead, I stand still, breathing it all in. This is what I left behind, what I walked away from. It was both a lifetime ago and just yesterday.
The ache in my chest tightens, but there’s also a glimmer of something. Maybe hope, maybe nostalgia. Maybe I’ve just forgotten what it feels like to breathe in the air of a place that’s always been part of me.
Charlie comes running up behind me, his feet shuffling over the grass as he spins in circles. “Mama, can I play? It’s so cool here!”
I smile and nod, pointing to the far corner where the trees begin to stand tall. “Just stay close, okay? And be careful of the fence.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Off he goes, running wild, his laughter ringing through the atmosphere.
I turn back to the house, and there’s an almost welcome feeling to the dusty rooms inside.
I move through the rooms, picking up a few things here and there, mentally making a checklist of what needs to be done. I haven’t even begun to sort through the boxes of my grandfather’s things yet, but for now, it feels like the right place to be.
When I head back to the living room, Charlie’s playing on the old carpet, making faces in the dust motes that float in the sunlight. I watch him for a moment before moving to the wall next to the staircase.
I pull out the vintage postcards I’ve been carrying in my bag. Vivid snapshots of towns just like this one, moments captured in time. I begin pinning them to the wall with a slight smile, not because I’m making myself at home here, but just because I like to look at them.
While Charlie plays, I grab my sketchbook and settle on the couch by the window. As my pencil moves across the paper, I hum to myself, my mind drifting.
The sound of Charlie’s footsteps running across the floor, the occasional clink of something being dropped, adds a soundtrack to my work. I sketch quickly, as I often do when I’m focused, capturing the simple beauty of the wildflowers in the yard outside the window.
It is lovely here, no doubt about it. But I already know we can’t stay, so I need to push that thought out of my head right away.
Before it sticks.
CHAPTER TWO
Clint
The sun’salready beating down when I pull into the yard at High Ridge Ranch. A gust of wind stirs the dust in the air, and I squint against the harsh light.
The place hasn’t changed much over the years, and I’m starting to doubt it ever will. The corral fence stands tall, a few posts leaning in a way that says it’s seen more than its share of storms. Literal and otherwise.
I hear the low rumble of the tractor from the back pasture, and the sound of Reid Stone’s voice drifts through the breeze as he works with the cattle. That’s Reid for you. Always talking to the animals, calling them his friends.
I shake my head, pulling the truck to a stop by the barn, its red paint faded from the years under the sun. The wood’s weathered and worn, but it’s sturdy, holding up just as the men who work it do.
Sawyer’s inside the office, probably buried in a stack of receipts and invoices, doing what he does best. He’s the only one who can make sense of the numbers.
I can handle the cattle, the land, but the finances? That’s Sawyer’s domain. The man’s a miracle worker with a pencil and paper.
I climb out of the truck, my boots crunching the gravel beneath me. The sun’s already hot and relentless. I wipe a hand over my face, brushing away the sweat already collecting at my brow.
A gust of wind blows through, carrying with it the scent of fresh hay and dust, those familiar smells that mean home.
Sawyer steps out of the barn, squinting against the sun. “Clint! We’ve got a storm rolling in.”
I pause, wiping the back of my neck with the sleeve of my shirt, the rough denim sticking to my skin. “How bad?”
