Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“There you are.” Astrid comes into the room. “Your brother has the best hand soap that I’ve ever smelled.” She sniffs her fingers. “It’s vanilla, I think. Maybe with blueberries.”
“You’ll have to ask Cathy. I’m sure Hartley has no idea.”
She moves to the window overlooking the backyard. “Who’s Cathy?”
“She’s worked here since I was nine or ten years old. She takes care of the house and took care of Pap. Mom was an ER nurse and worked long shifts, and Dad was busy with the ranch, so Cathy came in and took care of things while everyone was busy.”
“I love that you all lived here together.”
I join her at the window. “Yeah, I loved it, too. Pap had a Playboy subscription and a cigar habit. When you’re a teenage boy, those are great things to have at your disposal.”
“You were a handful as a kid, weren’t you?”
“You could say that.”
She grins softly. “How much of this do you own?”
“Me? I don’t own shit, but Hart has over a thousand acres.”
“Oh. Wow.”
I slide a hand in my pocket. “It’s pretty impressive. He has … I don’t know how many head of cattle. Horses. Chickens. Goats.” I study her before I speak again. “Want to take a ride around the property?”
She smiles. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”
We exit the house and head outside. She grabs one of the water bottles from my truck that I bought at Piper’s, so I hop on the side-by-side and pick her up.
Astrid giggles as we whip around the side of the house, leaving tracks in the yard that I’m sure Hartley will yell at me about later. I hate to tell my brother, but it’s worth it. Hearing Astrid enjoy herself is worth all the shit he’ll undoubtedly give me, because I sense this doesn’t happen often with her.
The more I see Astrid without her trusty clipboard, the more I kind of like her. I find myself wanting to know more about her, wondering what makes this confusing woman tick. She handles herself with complete confidence in some moments. In others, she seems almost fearful. Why?
“Look at that,” she says, pointing at a little spring trickling out of the side of a rock ledge. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I wheel us over to it and slow down. “Want to get out and take a drink?”
“No, thanks. I don’t want to die of dysentery.”
“Dysentery?” I snort. “Really?”
She wrinkles her button nose. “Fine. I don’t want a parasite. Better?”
“You won’t get a parasite.”
She looks at me like I’m full of shit.
“I mean it,” I say, entertained by her reaction. “Mom used to bring jugs out here and fill them up a few times a week. She swore it was healthier than tap water because we got minerals and shit from it. Hartley and I turned out fine.”
She makes a face. “That’s debatable.”
I laugh, bumping her shoulder with mine as I press the gas once again, and we ride along quietly for a while. Astrid points out the buzzards circling a clearing in the trees, and two deer jumping the fence before darting into the forest. Her eyes twinkle as she takes everything in, and I wish we had more time for me to show her the barns and fields.
“Your mom seems pretty cool,” she says out of nowhere.
“I don’t know about cool, but she was a great mom.”
Astrid leans back in the seat and turns her head to me. “Did you have a good relationship with her?”
“Yeah. We all had a good relationship, really. Mom and Dad were strict with us, but we had a lot of fun, too. We’d play euchre together, we had fun traditions for every holiday, and they never missed our games or school shit.” I pilot the machine down the hill on a path that’s only faintly still visible. “What about your parents? Did you get along with them?”
It’s a touchy topic. She’s told me enough to paint a clear picture of her upbringing—specifically with her father—but I don’t want to dig and ask the pointed questions I’d like to have answered.
Where was her mother? Was Astrid neglected? Abused?
My jaw clenches at the thought of a baby Astrid being in pain and having no one give a shit.
“My mom died in childbirth,” she says just loud enough to be heard over the motor.
Fuck. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs helplessly. “You didn’t know.” She takes a breath. “My grandma lived next door to my dad and me until I was eight, but then she had a heart attack in the front yard while she was taking her trash to the road. I found her after school.”
My God. My heart aches for her. My fingers itch to grasp her shoulder and pull her into my side—to offer comfort that I doubt she got from her father.