Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
But after the credits rolled on my last project, I closed the door.
Three years. That was what I’d given myself to stand still, to breathe, to figure out who Lofton Beck was when nobody was asking. And doing it on the farm, with Devon beside me every morning, had made standing still feel less like stopping and more like finally arriving.
A few weeks after we’d gotten back to the farm, I finally followed through on the idea I’d had about turning the old hayloft into a space for entertaining, but more, a space for me and Devon to call our own.
We’d paid a small fortune for a contractor who was willing to work odd hours around Daddy’s sleep schedule and stay out of sight as much as humanly possible. We’d had a few hiccups, but for the most part, Dad was none the wiser.
It wasn’t anything big or lavish. Just a bed, a bathroom, and a few couches for when people came to visit. Those visits became entirely entertaining when our guests realized we hadn’t changed the rickety wooden ladder to get up there.
The look on Devon’s mom’s face when she’d come to meet me for the first time had been hilarious. The woman was absolutely gorgeous, with long dark hair, tan skin, and a megawatt smile. It wasn’t hard to see where Devon had gotten his good looks. It also wasn’t hard to understand where he’d gotten his attitude from either.
She’d taken one look at that ladder and said, “Oh hell no. I’m not climbing up that.”
So, instead, the three of us sat on a blanket under the trees and got to know each other. She was an incredible woman: smart, funny, and so damn quick to put Devon in his place. The two of us had laughed so hard, Devon declared it was worse than when me and Brooke got together.
I wouldn’t have gone that far, but it was certainly close.
And over the last six months, he’d gotten plenty of experience dealing with us together.
Brooke and Zoey’s house sat at the far end of the south field, with a bright yellow front door, because Zoey had chosen the color from a paint swatch with the finality of a supreme court justice and none of us had been willing to argue with her. Brooke had called it hideous for four days and then quietly admitted it was perfect, because it was quiet, safe, and theirs.
Zoey was doing as well as possible after the trauma she’d endured. She’d had hard weeks. Nightmares. A period where she wouldn’t let Brooke leave a room without her. A brief phase where she’d decided that Devon needed to be within sight at all times, which Devon had accommodated without comment, simply adjusting where he was in the day so that she could always find him.
When I mentioned it to my therapist, she called it a temporary trauma response.
I called it a four-year-old who had impeccable taste in people to trust.
I’d once found them asleep in the hammock in Brooke’s backyard on a random Tuesday. Zoey’s head on Devon’s chest, his arm around her, both of them completely gone, lost in a peace I hadn’t been sure any of us would ever find again.
The animals had helped tremendously too. And not just Zoey. All of us had gravitated toward them, Devon included.
Within the first month, I’d tried to teach Devon to ride.
I’d leased Biscuit from the neighbors for a few months. He was a twenty-year-old quarter horse, sixteen hands tall, and the equine equivalent of a living room couch. The neighbor’s daughter had put children on him at birthday parties. He had once stood completely still while a toddler fell asleep on his back.
Devon had found none of that reassuring.
The first time I’d saddled him up, Devon had stood at the entrance to the round pen conducting what could only be described as a tactical assessment. Eyes moving. Jaw set. No doubt calculating exit routes in case the situation deteriorated.
Meanwhile, Biscuit was quite literally asleep.
Devon Grant didn’t fear men, weapons, or chaos, but apparently, a horse with the personality of a throw pillow was where he drew the line.
Devon lasted eleven minutes on his first ride. Fourteen the second. By the fourth lesson he had progressed ten whole strides at a trot. When Zoey clapped and told him, “That was so good!” Devon had accepted that praise with the puffed chest of a man being decorated for valor.
I never wore mascara on the days he’d ride, because I always ended up laughing until I cried.
And God, tears coming from a place of happiness, was such a nice change of pace.
It had been scary for the first few weeks after Alex had been shot. There had been quite a few complications, including one night where all of us had held our breaths and started praying.