Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Janey’s eyes move slowly over the space. “It feels like a real home,” she says softly. “I like it.”
I hadn’t realized how badly I needed her to feel that way.
Buck, our old mutt, lumbers from his bed, his arthritic legs taking a while to warm up as he drags himself over to inspect the visitor. Janey immediately drops to her haunches, letting Buck sniff her hand, and then petting his rough, gray fur on the back of his neck hard enough to make the poor bastard's eyes roll. Yeah, dude. I know how good it feels to be touched by those hands.
Mason shakes his head and whistles. “She’s got Buck eating out of the palm of her hand. He’s usually an ornery old mutt.”
“He isn’t ornery. He’s friendly and very handsome.”
Mason huffs, and I laugh.
“It’s okay, fool,” I say. “It isn’t a competition. She still thinks you’re handsome, too.”
We show her around. The kitchen has a large wooden table that’s seen decades of meals, an old but reliable stove, and wide windows overlooking the back pasture.
In the family room, Janey drifts towards the books, her hands drifting across the spines of the older volumes. She pulls out a small, leather-bound book and opens the cover. “Who’s Melissa Fletcher?”
“Our grandmother,” I say.
“She liked poetry?”
“I guess. There are a lot of old things in this house we should probably toss.”
“No. Old things are your family's history.”
She replaces the book and follows us into the hallway.
Upstairs, there are four bedrooms and a bathroom that could use updating. We give her the biggest guest room with the most light and a small balcony facing the fields.
Mason sets her bag barely inside the door like he’s afraid of crossing too far into her space, even though it’s technically our space. It’s strange and uncomfortable to see my big, gruff brother treading on eggshells. I think Janey notices it too, because she moves to the balcony and encourages us to join her.
“Look at that view,” she says. “So much wild, open space.”
“The sunsets are spectacular from up here,” I say.
She nods, rubbing her upper arm as she contemplates.
After she freshens up, we take her outside to get a close-up view of the land.
The ranch spreads out around us in gentle green waves. Sturdy fencing lines the pastures, and the big red barn stands proudly near the corral. A couple of ranch hands are working near the equipment shed. I introduce her to Hank and Riley, and they tip their hats politely, curious but respectful.
Hank keeps his questions to himself, which I appreciate. Riley gives Janey a friendly nod, then goes right back to checking a hydraulic line on the tractor.
We walk her through the barn, where she meets the horses. When we reach the last stall, I stop.
“This is Mabel,” I say, nodding at the big, gentle sorrel mare who pokes her head out with soft curiosity. “She’s older, sweet as pie, and about as bombproof as they come. Thought she might suit you.”
Janey’s face lights up as she lets Mabel sniff her hand. “She’s lovely.”
Mason grins. “We figured we’d saddle up and show you a bit more of the land if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Yeah. That sounds great.”
We ride out together with Janey on Mabel, Mason on his big bay, Bandit, and me on my gray gelding I named Storm. The air feels fresh, and the land looks good this time of year. We keep the pace easy, letting Janey settle into the saddle.
At first, she’s quiet. She takes in the low hills, the cattle grazing near the creek, and the old oak standing alone at the rise. Every now and then, her hand drops to Mabel’s neck to pat and caress, and the mare flicks an ear back like she’s listening.
About twenty minutes in, we spot one of our older cows standing apart from the herd. She’s clearly in distress, her sides heaving, straining hard with a calf halfway born and stuck.
Janey doesn’t hesitate, sliding from the horse in one smooth motion and hooking the reins over a fence post. The uncertainty that’s been clouding her expression disappears so quickly it almost steals my breath. One second, she’s a woman trying to find her place in a shifting world. The next, she’s all focus and instinct.
She moves straight toward the cow with calm confidence.
“Brookes, hold her head,” she says, already assessing the situation. “Mason, go back to my car and get my vet bag. The black one in the trunk. Quickly.”
Mason spins his horse and gallops away.
I move in to help, murmuring soothing words to the laboring cow while Janey works with quiet efficiency. Her voice is calm as she talks to the animal. When Mason returns at a run with her bag, she pulls on gloves, lubes up, and carefully repositions the calf.