Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Atticus tugs his little red Converse sneakers tighter, then pauses at the glass-paneled back door, eyes squinting toward the sun-dappled barn.
“We should get a pony,” he says, not for the first time. “And I’m going to need cowboy boots and a cowboy hat.”
I chuckle. He’s been asking for a pony for years now, ever since he went to a birthday party on some hobby farm outside of Winterset.
“We’ll see,” I tell him. “But we have to unpack before we can talk livestock, little cowpoke.”
“’Kay, Mom, I’m gonna go check out the barn.” The door slams behind him, and I’m alone with the echo of his excitement.
I wander deeper into the house, touching plaster walls, brushing dust from windowsills, opening doors like each one holds a different version of the life I’m trying to rebuild. There’s a small dining room with gossamer-thin curtains, a galley kitchen with navy blue painted cupboards and butcher-block countertops, and a mudroom that smells faintly of the outdoors. Every room whispers stories of whoever lived here before—but none loud enough to drown out all the ones I hope to write now that it’s my turn.
It isn’t until I reach the front of the house again that I find it—the room.
Not sure how I missed it before.
It’s tucked just off the main hallway, all warm wood floors and quiet charm, with a wide bow window that arcs out like an invitation. The view from here is something out of a storybook: a winding dirt driveway accented with soaring hundred-year-old oaks, sunlight cutting through the branches like gold ribbons.
I sit on the window seat, dust motes dancing in the air around me like whimsical fireflies. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel suffocated by silence. I feel . . . still.
And then I see it.
A white truck—big, boxy, and gleaming with chrome. It rolls to a slow stop at the edge of the drive, then idles for a moment, like it’s deciding something.
I squint, shielding my eyes. It’s too far to make out much detail, but I catch a man’s figure. A hand tapping the steering wheel. Other than some dark hair shoved under a ball cap, I can’t make out much else.
Not being neighborly in a small town is practically a crime, so I retreat from the window and trot to the door to introduce myself, only by the time I set foot on the front steps, the truck quickly accelerates, leaving nothing but a trail of dust.
Weird . . .
I watch until it disappears around the bend, a little frown tightening between my brows. Maybe someone just missed a turn. Or maybe they were thinking about turning in to say hi to the former owner and changed their mind when they saw my car.
A nosy neighbor?
A friend of the seller?
“Mom?” Atticus’s voice breaks the quiet. He’s standing in the hallway again, cheeks flushed, dirt already on his knees. I didn’t even hear him come back inside. “Are we staying here tonight?”
“Yes,” I say, standing and brushing off my jeans. “The movers should be here in an hour, so you’re heading to Grandma’s for the day while I get things settled, then you’ll be back tonight. Sound like a plan?”
He shrugs, half disappointed he can’t stay and pal around the acreage, but the glimmer in his crystal-blue eyes tells me he’s excited for a day at Grandma Trish’s. Besides, he has all summer to explore everything this property has to offer. There are endless adventures to be had . . . once we’re unpacked.
“You’ll have plenty of time to explore, I promise,” I assure him, quietly relieved at how well he’s taking to this place already.
Atticus scampers off to finish surveying our new digs, and I head up the creaky stairs to the second floor, where three large bedrooms with light-soaked panoramic views await me.
With the office on the main floor and the two of us only needing two of these rooms, maybe I’ll turn the third one into a playroom—though I’d prefer Atticus to do most of his playing outside. He’s spent almost his entire life—a whopping four, almost five years—doing mostly inside things. As a single mom, technology has been a godsend more times than I can count. But deep down, I worry that he’s not bored enough.
When you’re bored, when you have time to be alone with your thoughts, when you have room to breathe, that’s how a person really figures out who they are.
I want Atticus to know who he is. I don’t want his past—my past—to write his story for him.
Moving here wasn’t just for me.
It was for both of us.
3
Hunter
I never come to the store this time of day if I can help it.
Even in a town of two thousand, the predinner rush packs this little grocery store with too many people any given day of the week. Too many carts clogging the aisles and too many neighbors wanting to catch up like I’ve got all day to talk about the weather and speculate on grain prices. But I had a hell of a time getting that planter fixed earlier, ended up skipping lunch, and spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about a juicy rib eye. Didn’t even get a chance to call Rich Sanders about that property.