The moment my feet hit the ground, I let go of his hand and make a show of straightening my coat.
Roan lifts Meg out, swooping her up in an arc before he puts her down, which makes her laugh.
“I’m too big for that, Dad,” she says with a giant smile.
“Never,” he says firmly. “Not until you’re thirty.”
“What if I have little kids by then?” she asks.
“They’ll just have to wait their turn,” he decides, which really cracks her up.
We’re all smiling as we head to the front door of the rancher, which swings open before we reach it.
“Good morning,” a lady who must be Roan’s mother says fondly. She has wavy gray hair to her shoulders, a pretty blue dress, and she’s holding a cane made of polished wood.
“Grandma,” Meg yells, running up quickly, but hugging her grandmother gently.
“There’s my girl,” her grandmother says. “And you must be Taylor. We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Connelly,” I say politely. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Get over here,” she says, holding out the arm that isn’t holding the cane. “It’s just Ellie, not Mrs. Connelly. And don’t worry about the stick, it’s only for knocking my granddaughter on the coconut when she misbehaves.”
“No it isn’t,” Meg giggles, delighted, as her grandmother hugs me close. “I don’t misbehave.”
Ellie’s arms are warm and she smells like cinnamon. I’m almost sorry when she lets me go.
“Of course you don’t misbehave,” Ellie tells Meg. “Now come on in, you three. It’s just a simple breakfast today, but we’ve got places to be.”
Meg takes her hand and they head inside together.
I glance up at Roan and see that he’s frowning at his mother’s cane.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him.
He starts to shake his head and then looks back at me.
“If she’s using the cane, she might be having a flare-up,” he admits softly. “And if she is, she shouldn’t go to town and walk around all day.”
I nod, sympathizing with his feelings. It has to be the worst to worry about your parent but not want to tell them what to do.
After thirty seconds around Ellie Connelly, I’m already pretty sure she wouldn’t listen even if he did.
“Will your dad talk to her?” I ask.
He nods and then gives me a crooked smile before indicating the door.
I head inside and marvel at how lovely the place is.
There’s a small center hall with light pouring in from the back of the house. We follow it past a couple of doors that I’m assuming lead to bedrooms and then it opens into a sunny great room with a wall of windows overlooking the tree-lined hillside.
The whole space is hung with fragrant evergreen garlands and there’s a beautifully decorated tree in the far corner. Family photos are hung lovingly against theback wall, along with an old acoustic guitar with a faded blue strap.
A man who looks like an older version of Roan is standing in the open kitchen with a big cast iron pan in front of him. I’ve seen him through the shop window, but he seems larger than life in person.
“Howdy,” he says, giving me a wave. “Good to see you, Taylor.”
“You too, Mr. Connelly,” I say.
