“It looks... substantial.”
Jackson nodded at her attempt to say something kind, all the while scanning the property with a critical eye as they drew closer. Some of the fence rails had fallen loose, but the barn looked sturdy enough. He halted the wagon in front of the house and sat for a moment, taking in the peeling paint and sagging porch with determination firming his jaw. “It'll need work, no doubt about that, but the bones are good. We can make something of this. I know we can.”
Amanda didn’t respond, just stared at the house, bewildered.
“Well,” he said, turning to her with a hint of a smile, “shall we?”
Without waiting for an answer, Jackson swung down from the wagon with renewed vigor. He set Amanda on the ground and began unloading. “I'll get the supplies put away and the horses fed and stabled,” he called over his shoulder. “Then we can see about making this place livable.”
Amanda stood beside the wagon, staring at their new home as Jackson carried a bag of feed to the barn. The weathered wood was shadowed and dulled in the fading sunlight, yet she could see the grand house it used to be.
Her hand drifted to her abdomen, fingers splaying protectively over her growing child. “It needs a lot of work,” she whispered, “but you’ll have a home.”
Thanks to Jackson, she would, too.
He paused on his way back. “You all right?”
Amanda nodded. “Just taking it all in.” She looked at him, suddenly aware of how unprepared she was. “I’ve never lived on a farm. How will I know what to do?”
Jackson’s mouth curved into that easy, amused smile of his, the one she hadn’t seen since before she’d told him about Ross and her pregnancy. “You grew up around horses and without maids, and you know how to cook and clean and sew—that’s the bulk of it. You just manage the house. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Amanda exhaled a slow breath. Maybe she could do this after all.
“Let's take a look inside,” Jackson said, helping her navigate the overgrown path to the porch. “The Tiptons left the stove behind. If we can get a fire going, we can have a hot supper.”
The stairs to the porch creaked under their weight as they ascended, and the rusted hinges protested as Jackson pushed the door open. A musty smell wafted out, carrying months of neglect.
“Wait here,” he murmured, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He paused just inside, with an odd tension in hisshoulders, and scanned the space, then went to the nearest window and wiped away a thick layer of grime. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
“Oh my,” Amanda said as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Scattered about were remnants of the previous occupants' lives—a rocking chair with a faded cushion, a set of coffee cups on a rickety shelf, a child's wooden toy horse lying forgotten in a corner.
Jackson’s brow furrowed. “I wonder what happened to make them abandon so much.”
Amanda's fingers trailed along the dusty dining table that was flanked by chairs on all four sides. “Do you think they'll come back for these things?”
“No. Whatever’s left was included with the property. It’s ours.” He paused, meeting her gaze. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but I'll turn this into a home you can be proud of.”
Amanda nodded, her gaze skimming over the room.
Jackson moved to inspect a sagging cabinet. “We'll need to shore this up. And replace some of these boards.”
“The windows need new curtains,” Amanda added, her fingers brushing over tattered scraps of fabric. “I can make some.”
Jackson glanced at her. “That's the spirit.”
Her stomach rumbled, and her cheeks warmed. “I suppose we should look at the kitchen.”
“Good idea,” he agreed, leading the way.
It was in a similar state of disarray, dust-covered pots and pans scattered about. Amanda's eyes fell on the rust-spotted stove. “Do you think it still works?”
Jackson knelt to examine it. “Might need some repairs, but it's salvageable.” He stood and checked the integrity of the flue, bringing a chorus of chirping from within the vent pipe. “We’ll have to wait to light the stove. I'll get it working, though. Don't you worry.”
As they continued their exploration, what little energy Amanda had deserted her. How would she manage everything that needed to be done? All she wanted to do anymore was sleep.
“Come, sit,” Jackson said, dusting off the rocker. He rummaged in his satchel, producing some matches, and lit a half-melted candle. The wick flickered to life, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. “I’ll finish up outside, then I’ll build a small campfire and cook some frybread.”
