Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I love your enthusiasm, but as your oldest and longest friend, I’d like to remind you that you’ve never kept a single houseplant or goldfish alive, so it worries me to hear you talk so casually about growing your own food and raising large animals.”
I snort. She’s not wrong, but I think this could be good for me.
I need to refocus.
I need to get out of my funk.
I need a change of scenery.
I need nature and purpose and to be closer to family—to my roots.
I need inspiration . . .
My god, do I need inspiration.
“I’m excited for this new chapter,” I tell her. I don’t want to devote more energy to Nick than necessary, and while I’m not angry at him anymore—he personally did me a favor—I’m still struggling to forgive him for the giant hole he left in my son’s heart. That’s what hurts the most. He promised to raise and love Atticus like his own—same as what my stepdad, Will, did with me. Nick and Atti were inseparable—until Nick’s ex-girlfriend reached out to him the morning of our wedding, and that was all it took. “Atticus has had a hard year, and so have I. I miss seeing him smile. I miss writing. And I need to see my family more often. This place is beautiful, Reese. Once you see it, you’ll understand why I couldn’t pass it up. Here. I have pictures.”
I pull out my phone and open one of the first images my mom sent me—the little white two-story house nestled among thick green trees under a blanket of clear blue sky. It’s the perfect size for the two of us, and with all that space, Atti can actually touch grass instead of growing up in a concrete jungle.
Reese studies the image before letting out a long breath, her head cocked and her eyes softening as she hands my phone back.
“It’s cute,” she says. “But I worry you’re romanticizing it.”
“I’m a romance author. I romanticize everything. It’s kind of what I do . . .”
“Okay, fair.” She uncurls her shoulders. “But I also have another concern that you probably haven’t even thought about.”
I sniff a laugh. “What’s that?”
“Pretty sure they don’t have food delivery in Colton Valley.”
She’s not wrong. And it’s a valid concern, given my robust DoorDash reliance. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means being able to write again.
“All razzing aside, I’m happy for you,” she adds, leaning close to wrap her arms around me. She squeezes me longer and tighter than she ever has, and I breathe her in: a mix of her musky vanilla perfume and the comfort of best friendship. “If anyone can jump without looking and land on their feet, it’s you.”
Last month, when I was crying on the phone to my mother about my writer’s block and feeling stuck in life, she proposed the idea of me moving back to my hometown, mentioning there was some man they knew who was thinking about selling his forty-acre farmhouse plot by the river.
After she told me the price—which was a fraction of what I paid for my downtown loft—and rattled off all the other reasons I should make this move, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop envisioning spending endless days enveloped by the gorgeous landscape of this farmhouse retreat, slow mornings sipping coffee while watching deer graze in the meadow, writing next to open windows with gauzy curtains, curling up with a good book on the front porch swing, midday walks along the riverbanks under a warm sun, Atticus skipping happily by my side as birds chirp around us.
In the strangest way—one I still can’t explain—the moment I saw that photo, it instantly felt like home.
1
Hunter
The tractor hums beneath me like a living beast, all steel and muscle and diesel breath. I’ve been out here since before sunup, dropping blades into dirt that smells like home and every decision—good and bad—I’ve ever made. Autosteer’s doing most of the work, but I sit up straight, one hand on the armrest, the other on the throttle.
I’ve never been good at sitting still for too long.
I glance down at the monitor. Eighteen point three acres an hour. Not bad. If the rain holds off and nothing breaks, I might get this north section done by nightfall.
Sky’s a little darker than I’d like today, so I won’t hold my breath.
I take a swig of lukewarm coffee and scan the rolling hills of the horizon. The ladies at the coffee shop this morning were buzzing about some writer who grew up around here who’s now moving back. I didn’t catch her name, but they sure seemed excited. Based on all the stars in their eyes, a guy would’ve thought they were discussing a local celebrity. Can’t blame them, though. We don’t get much for excitement around here, so every little thing quickly becomes the talk of the town.