Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I blinked at them while my gaze continued to move from one to the other.
“What’s the matter, son? You look a little pale.” Dad smirked as he reached over and hit me on the side of the arm. “Who knows? We may even get a daughter-in-law out of this.”
My mouth dropped open, and I stared as they stood, joined hands, and walked out of the room…laughing their asses off.
Chapter One
KIPTON
Bozeman, MT – Late October
I drew in a deep breath as I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
“One, two…”
Please don’t be angry with me.
“Five, six…”
Oh, they’re going to be so angry with me.
A knock on my car window caused me to let out a small scream, and my hand flew to my chest.
My finger tapped the automatic window button. “Dad, you scared me!”
He grinned in response. “I saw you sitting out here in your car and couldn’t for the life of me figure out what you were doing. Some form of vehicle meditation, I suspect.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “No, I was just taking a moment.”
His brow rose, and he jerked his head toward the house. “Your mother and I will be waiting while you work up the courage to tell us whatever it is you’re about to tell us.”
Before I could respond to the fact he’d just read my mind, he turned and headed back into the two-story log home I’d lived in since I was five.
Gilbert and Laura Howse were not my biological parents. They adopted me after their best friends—and my parents—Robert and Carol Lancing, passed away in a plane accident. My father was a pilot, and he and my mother had been coming back from a convention for heart surgeons in Dallas, Texas, on their private plane. All I was ever told was that the plane wreck had been caused by a storm that had moved down from Canada. They were only forty miles from the airport when they crashed.
I’d tried so hard over the years to remember them, even the core memories that I knew must have been there, but I couldn’t. I saw their faces in my mind, but I had no memories to hold on to. Nothing. Even stranger, I remembered nothing before coming to live with Gilbert and Laura. It bothered me to this day not to have a memory of my real mother or father. One single memory. My father teaching me to ride a bike. Or my mother holding me and singing to me. But there was nothing there.
With another deep breath, I opened the door to my Honda Civic and made my way down the sidewalk to the house. It was a modest place, nothing like the place my biological mother and father had owned. The house was huge, or at least it had seemed that way to me when I was younger. But it was home, and I loved growing up here.
I smiled when I saw the fall wreath on the door. My mother loved to decorate for the seasons and holidays. Come November 1, the house would look like Father Christmas had thrown up inside. Don’t even get me started on poor Tom the Turkey and how that holiday was just passed over by nearly everyone. Thanksgiving was one day a year, my mother would say. Christmas was an entire season.
Before I could say anything, my father called out, “We’re in the kitchen.”
Attempting to look natural and not nervous at all, I made my way through the house. The exposed log beams carried over into the interior of the home. Wide-plank floors added to the rustic feel, as well as the leather furniture. My mother wasn’t one for knickknacks, but she did have a few prized paintings she’d sprinkled throughout the house.
The kitchen was my favorite room. It was large and airy, with black distressed cabinets that didn’t compete with the wood ceilings and exposed beams. A large island sat in the middle, covered by a cream-colored granite that had streaks of brown the same color as the wood floors. A large, eight-burner stove sat against one wall, with a stainless-steel hood. The refrigerator appeared to be commercial-grade, but it was a trick of the eye. It was actually a full-size fridge on the right, and a full-size freezer on the left. They’d put them together and framed it in, making it look like one massive unit.
My mother loved this kitchen, and she needed it to be this big. She had her own catering business, while my father was a CPA. That was how they’d met my biological parents. Dad was a CPA for Robert. They quickly became the best of friends, and it wasn’t long after that Carol went into business with my mother, and they started the catering company.
“Okay, Kipton, just come out with it,” my mother said as she peered at me over a piece of paper she’d been reading.