Page 50

A laugh split my face when I remembered Joseph Palmer running errands with his three kids and me in tow. “He’d take us shopping with him and insist we hold the door open for Dial, which she hated.”

“You remember when we all went to that fancy restaurant?”

“And Dial was in a dress.” I recalled being sore for much of the meal because I wasn’t seated next to her.

“She wouldn’t stop squirming.”

“Your dad understood the importance of spending time with his family. My old man thinks he deserves Father of the Year because he was a provider. I just don’t wanna end up like that.”

“Then don’t.”

Easy for Cyrus to say—he had parents who’d encouraged him to dream beyond his backyard. Palmer Horse Ranch wasn’t an option. It was considered my destiny, my birthright. And according to Ernest Palmer, I was his legacy. Which meant I had to do what was best for the company and the family.

“Shit, those horses are all I know. I’m not like you; I just can’t run for mayor and win. I’m good at one thing… training horses. Dammit, I’m better with animals than I am with humans.”

“Expectations can be a motherfucker.”

I’d never been considered book smart. The only reason I had graduated high school was because the teachers thought I was funny and they knew a job at the ranch was waiting for me. My attendance was spotty; I frequently missed morning classes to feed the animals or clean out stalls. But my father was Ernest Palmer, the richest man in Hume, so I got a pass. “What would I look like trying to learn new tricks?”

“The ranch is as good as yours when your father retires. Maybe you think long term, since you can’t dictate the short-term direction. Look at Dial and Edison—they’re making all sorts of changes since taking over the nursery.” Cy snapped his fingers. “That’s who you need to talk to. Dial has a head for this business stuff.”

Dial loved that nursery. Growing up, she never missed an opportunity to tag along with her mother on a Saturday morning. She worked there part-time as a kid, and unlike me, who rushed through my ranch chores so I could hang out with my friends, Dial never complained. Sitting with a customer, helping them plot the plants and flowers for a backyard upgrade, or chatting with a newbie looking to start their first garden, made her feel useful. I was convinced half of Figs and Twine’s sales were from Dial walking through the nursery floor with patrons, talking about the vision she had for their yard. She’d use words like retreat and sanctuary, and the wallets flew open.

“I need to figure out the best way to tell Dial I might be leaving Hume,” I said.

“She’s not going to take that well.”

“No shit. Either I break the news to her, or I tell my dad I’m not going.” Honestly, the thought of having either one of those conversations sent chills down my spine. “Hey, could you not tell her about Texas? I want her to hear it from me first.”

“I got you. She won’t hear shit about it from me.”

Saturday found me back home after a week on a movie set in Arizona. My weekend plans were low effort—attempting to make pad thai. Did I know what I was doing? No. Did I have a step-by-step video tutorial that would walk me through it? Also no. I had the necessary ingredients in my pantry, a recipe on the back of a noodle box, and a dream.

In the middle of my chopping vegetables, one of my favorite songs came on, and I dropped my knife and started to groove.

Maple was at a sleepover, so I had the night to myself. On the agenda was cooking dinner, watching my favorite sci-fi movie, and heading to bed with a probiotic cocktail. But right now, I was dancing around the kitchen like a chick in a romcom, singing along to every word. Unlike Fancy, I could barely hold a tune, but I still sang with maximum effort.

My revelry made its way from the kitchen to the rest of the house, and a song about stargazing and forever love had me letting loose. I shuffled my way to the hall and performed an impromptu line dance. Left foot stomp, right foot stomp, turn around.

Spinning toward the entrance, I found Dial on the other side of the screen door. There was a hint of humor behind her eyes, no doubt because of my horrible dance moves.

“You don’t have to stop dancing on account of me,” she called out.

“Kinda do. It feels silly performing in front of an audience.” I used my phone to silence the music.

Dial pushed through the screen door.

“What are you doing here?”

“Maple forgot Shabba.” Shabba was our daughter’s stuffed bunny, with floppy ears that Dial or I were sewing back on every other week. “She wanted me to break in while you were gone, but I told her she could make it through the week without her bunny.”

“I’m sure that landed well.”

“I got the silent treatment for a couple of hours. But I promised her Shabba would be back in her arms before the end of the night. So I’m just here to make good on that.”

“You could’ve just sent a text and had me run it over.”

“You just got back to town and deserve your downtime.”