Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32426 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32426 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Seeing the dark farmhouse makes my heart hurt the same way your hand does when you’ve bumped into something. You don’t remember quite how the bruise got there, only that it aches when pressed on.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I mutter at the same moment that Rudy lets out a menacing growl and lays his ears back.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I take the porch steps two at a time. I only have to swing my door open to spot the problem. There is an intruder in my living room, or rather, what I’m sure Rudy would classify as an intruder.
Hunter, my brother, so rarely drops by that Rudy doesn’t know him or his scent very well.
“Help yourself to some of my jam,” I tell him because he’s stretched out in one of my plush leather recliners with a jar of jam and some table crackers. I’ve been making that jam and working on it for two years now. I’ve perfected it. I know I have.
“You’ve got jars of it,” Hunter says, spewing crackers everywhere. But he at least has the decency to put down the footrest of the recliner and click off the sports game he was watching. “Nice hat. Are you supposed to be western Santa?”
“What are you doing here?” I think I can count on one hand the number of times he’s come down the mountain.
“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” he answers as if my farm is one of those suburbs with two thousand houses all built within a square mile. I’d break out in hives if I had more neighbors than trees. Huh, maybe that’s why city folks are always complaining about their allergies.
I make a noise of disbelief and head into the kitchen, pulling three steaks from the fridge where I’ve had them marinating. I didn’t plan for company, but as long as Hunter doesn’t annoy me, I reckon I could throw him a bite of food. “Yeah, I know what a social butterfly you are.”
He has the decency to look sheepish. He rarely leaves his cabin on the mountain. In fact, there’s only one person who could have put him up to this.
“Emma May,” I say under my breath.
He nods, confirming my guess. Emma May is our adoptive foster mother. She was already fostering Hunter and Ford, my biological brothers. Somehow, she and Mary Maas connected online after realizing they both had part of a set of triplets.
At first, when Mary told me about my teenage brothers in North Carolina, I didn’t believe her. But after talking with Hunter and Ford, I quickly realized we shared a connection.
I flew down to spend a weekend with them and two days turned into a summer then the rest of our lives. I don’t have much in the way of biological family other than my two brothers, but these two guys are alright.
“Have you heard from Ford?” I ask as we head out onto the back deck, so I can fire up the grill. There’s a light dusting of snow already on the grill cover.
Hunter blows a breath then shakes his head. Ford rarely talks to us anymore. Not since his time in the military. He’s been hiding in a cabin since his discharge. He’s even more of a recluse than Hunter, and that’s already a pretty high bar.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. Minutes pass with neither of us speaking. “You should do something with your jams.”
“I already tried to find a baker,” I tell him. I want to sell my jams, but they’re best paired with fresh rolls and biscuits. If I can get a good baker, then I can take advantage of all that traffic that comes through the Kringle Christmas Tree Ranch. I’d be able to launch my line of jams and be profitable from day one.
“I could do it,” Hunter volunteers. He’s as much of a disaster in the kitchen as I am. Neither of us can cook to save our lives. Now, the grill is a different story. I can grill with the best of them.
I crack a smile, the first one I’ve had all day. Feels foreign on my face. “I’m not that desperate yet.”
Dinner with Hunter passes easily enough. We barely talk. We don’t have to, and I appreciate the silence he lets hang between us. It’s late by the time he finally leaves, but at least, he can call Emma May and say he checked in on me.
The next morning, I’ve already been up and working on my farm for close to two hours when I get a call from Mary.
I frown at my screen. It’s unusual for Mary to call me twice in as many days. She might want me there, but she’s never been a nag. I answer on the second ring, wanting to know what’s going on.