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)
“See, that’s already one blessing,” I tell my son, my voice cracking a little on the last word. “There are always blessings to count.”
It’s what my parents used to say. They passed away just a month before I graduated high school. The three of us didn’t have much, but we always had each other. I wish they could see Danny. They’d adore him just as much as I do.
As the grief wells up, I reach for my phone. The first thing to do is let Mary know that I’m running late. After that, well, I’ll figure out the next step when I get to it. One crisis at a time.
When Mary answers the phone on the first ring, I realize how early it is and instantly feel bad for calling. I could have waited. I could have sorted this out on my own.
“It’s Callie, you know the new baker for your ranch. I’m running a little late. My car isn’t starting, and I’m kind of stranded. It’s starting to snow, and I don’t know how I’m going to get there. But I’ll figure it out. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” I grip my cellphone tightly, praying that she doesn’t fire me before I’ve even had a chance to show up.
“Oh, goodness,” Mary clucks. “Are you safe? Are you warm? How’s Danny?”
Her concern has me biting the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood. I don’t remember the last time someone cared about the two of us.
“We’re good,” I manage to croak out rather than tell her that everything has felt so hard for so long. This job was the first good thing to happen to us in months, and I’m afraid it’s about to be yanked away from me.
“If you wait, I can send one of my boys. He’ll pick you up and get you here.”
“Are you sure?” I hate the tearful note of hope in my voice.
“I’m positive! He’s a good boy. You just sit tight and wait for the handsome cowboy to show up and rescue you,” she says the words with a small laugh. Mary mentioned that she and her husband, Christopher, have fostered dozens of teenage boys over the years.
“If he doesn’t mind,” I mutter even though I don’t have any other good options.
“Just send me your location, and try not to worry, dear,” she reassures me before ending the call.
I know the damsel in distress waiting for a man to rescue her isn’t a great idea. But I’ve been running on fumes for so long, and whatever happens, something good is around the corner. It has to be.
The next three hours pass slowly. Danny sleeps through most of it except when Corey calls. I silence it without bothering to answer. I already know he’s going to leave a string of angry voice messages accusing me of stealing things.
“It’s OK. You can go back to sleep,” I promise Danny and start singing the lullaby my dad always sang to me when I was scared.
He eventually settles, and I watch as the rest stop slowly comes to life. Businessmen in fancy suits come and go. Families with kids eventually arrive, hustling their little ones hurriedly into the warmth of the building.
I watch as one father lifts his three-year-old onto his shoulders so he can gesture at what he wants from the vending machine.
I wanted that for my son, a loving father who would accept him. Not once has Corey asked about him. He never wants to know how he’s doing or if he’s hitting his milestones or even if my son is happy.
“I’ll love you enough for both of us,” I whisper into the silence. It’s the same promise I made to him on the day he was born.
A bright red truck pulls into the rest stop and parks two spaces down from my beat-up old clunker. I assume the person is just another traveler until a man climbs down from the cab, those faded blue jeans hugging him tighter than a clingy toddler being left behind at day care for the first time.
“God bless Wranglers,” I mutter under my breath. For the first time in well over a year, my dormant libido wakes up. There’s a swooping sensation in my belly, and my mouth is suddenly dry.
He’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s snug across his broad shoulders and a red Stetson with white fur on it. It almost seems as if he were going for a cowboy Santa Claus aesthetic.
He surveys the lot, zeroing in on my car before he stalks toward it. His dark beard is neat and trimmed though it’s his eyes that steal away my breath. They’re blue, the kind of blue you might see in a painting of a lake.
When our gazes connect through the windshield, a shiver goes down my spine. He’s here for me. I don’t know why that thought fills me with so much delight, but it does.