Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
My phone buzzes on the quilt beside me.
Logan’s name lights up the screen again, but this time, it’s a text.
Logan: Breeze. For fuck’s sake, stop ignoring me. Call me back. Clearly, I’m struggling without you, but I also really miss my sister.
I stare at his name for a long beat, the familiar frustration and feelings of betrayal coiling in my belly, but I still can’t bring myself to respond to him. I swipe the notification away and open my ongoing text thread with Tad instead.
My thumb hovers over the message bubble, and before I can stop myself, the truth spills out in typed words that feel like a confession.
We went to the cemetery to visit Summer’s grave today. I miss her so much. I don’t know how my brother survives it. And I keep wondering if I spent my life chasing the wrong things. If I let time run out on something I didn’t even realize I wanted until it was too late.
The sight of it on the screen makes my chest ache. Because it’s true. All of it. But it’s too much for what I have with Tad. Too open.
I stare at my own words for a long time, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper.
Eventually, I delete every word, backspace by backspace, until the screen is empty again.
And I start over, sending something safe and teasing and casual. Just like it’s supposed to be.
Me: Hope your sheep behaved today. Or should I be watching for your mug shot in the Chronicle tomorrow?
Three dots appear immediately, and a smile already tugs at my lips.
Tad: They’ve been plotting all day. Crosby’s their ringleader. I swear he’s one union meeting away from demanding benefits.
A laugh slips out, and I set the knitting needles aside to text back.
Me: You should probably give them dental. Or at least better snacks.
Tad: You volunteering to bring treats, City Girl? You seem to have a thing for lost causes.
Me: Oh, c’mon, Tad. You’re not a lost cause. I can name at least fifty single ladies in Red Bridge who would sign that petition.
Tad: Would you be one of those fifty ladies?
Me: Hell no. I’ve seen how badly you burn pancakes.
Tad: You LOVED my pancakes.
Me: I couldn’t even finish them, Farm Daddy.
Tad: That’s only because I distracted you with orgasms.
Me: Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that.
Tad: Woman, you best not ever forget the power of my tongue.
Me: Is that a threat?
Tad: It’s a promise. One I’d like to make good on tonight. My door will be unlocked.
Me: Door unlocked? That sounds like a safety hazard…
Tad: Only if you’re planning on breaking in.
Me: What if I am? Hypothetically.
Tad: Then hypothetically, I’d have to frisk you for weapons.
Me: Oh boy. That sounds dirty.
Tad: Farm Daddy better see your ass tonight.
The fact that I’ve now got him referring to himself as Farm Daddy has me cracking up. Out loud.
Me: LOL. I’ll be there.
Eventually, I pick my knitting back up, yarn sliding through my fingers as my heart thuds lighter than it has all day.
Outside, Autumn’s laughter carries through the cold air. And inside, my scarf grows by another few uneven rows.
And for the first time all day, I don’t feel so alone.
21
Tad
Monday, February 8th
“You realize this makes three times in the last two months? We’re idiots, Tad. Certified dumbasses,” he gripes, kicking at an empty sack of feed like maybe it’ll magically fill up with grain.
The farm’s feed delivery is late, and Randy’s pacing the barn like he’s rehearsing for a one-man show called We’re Doomed. It’s not even ten in the morning, and the day’s feeling like spoiled milk before the sun can burn off the frost.
“We’re not idiots, Randy. Just a little unlucky.”
He snorts and shoulders open the barn door. “Unlucky’s stepping in dog shit on your way into a restaurant. This is incompetence.”
“We’re not incompetent,” I mutter, checking the latch on a stall. “Life is just handing us some lemons, and we’re being resourceful.”
“Resourceful?” He barks out a laugh. “Tad, we’re down to one bag of feed because our sheep keep getting into the feed shed, and the delivery’s still in Montpelier. We’ve got to buy local. Again. Which costs us twice as much. Which makes us idiots. And makes this farm not profitable.”
He’s not wrong, but I’ve learned not to fuel the fire. The thing he can’t face is that this farm isn’t about profit; it’s about existing. I bought it so I’d have a reason to get out of bed every day.
I bought it to save me from myself. Because Lord knows, I’ll never be able to forget.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re loading into my truck and heading into town. By the time we arrive, Main Street’s wide awake. Josie’s chalkboard sign is propped outside CAFFEINE, the scent of fresh bread sneaks out from Melba’s bakery, and a couple of locals scrape ice off their windshields.