Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
My cheeks burn. Will they resent me for treating the man they apparently adored so poorly? I sure as hell would.
Nothing I can do about that now, except show them the character I (hopefully) have now that I didn’t back then as a hurt, headstrong kid.
I’m hit by the homiest, most delicious smell ever the second I step through the house’s massive door. It’s sweet, and it’s savory, and good Lord am I hungry.
Goody smiles at the audible rumble of my stomach. “I’m glad you arrived early. Patsy’s lunch spread is not to be missed.”
“Patsy?”
“Lucky Ranch’s chef, and dare I say the best cook in Hart County.”
The house is cool, but not at all quiet. Voices ramble down the long, wide hallway ahead. I follow Goody toward it, taking in the house as we go. It’s huge, and it’s got Mom’s fingerprints all over it. I recognize the twelve-foot ceilings from the house she built in Dallas. The iron light fixtures, exposed stone walls, and enormous windows too. Even the furnishings look like items she would’ve picked out: antique chairs, neutral upholstery, lots of pillows.
I frown. Everything is in pristine shape. No way Mom picked it all out twenty-plus years ago?
Goody must read my mind, because she says, “Recognize any of this?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“Your dad didn’t change a thing after you and your mom left. To be fair, he didn’t live here for very long after that either. He preferred your grandparents’ place.”
“He moved back to the farmhouse?”
Goody dips her head. The voices get louder. “He did.”
Huh. Dad must’ve really hated this house if he preferred a tiny, hundred-year-old clapboard spot instead. Did he hate it because it reminded him of Mom and me?
Or did he hate it because he hated her? She sure as hell did not like him.
My stomach twists. Growing up, all I wanted was a normal family. One where my mom didn’t despise my dad. Seeing my friends’ parents flirt, or kiss, or even just sit at the dinner table beside each other always felt so special.
Now that I’m an adult and I understand the complexities of adult relationships, I know there were good reasons why my parents split. But it never stopped hurting like hell when Mom would talk shit about Dad or when I’d convince myself that Dad hated me, too, because I was on Mom’s side, and that’s why he never brought me back to the ranch. I didn’t mean to pick sides. It just kind of happened. And then years passed, and resentments grew, and…yeah, now I’m here, ready to burst into tears at any moment.
“The kitchen is really the only part of the house people regularly use,” Goody continues. “It’s the only place big enough for us to sit down and eat. Of course, when your dad entertained guests, they’d stay here. I imagine you’d like to stay here as well? The primary bedroom is lovely.”
I nod, pulse drumming as we approach the kitchen. I tell myself not to be nervous. I own the ranch now, which means I own this house and employ all the people I’m about to meet. Maybe they’re nervous to meet their new boss too.
I’m still downright nauseous as I follow Goody through a large doorway on our right. I bet Cash isn’t the only one who hates me.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen has generous proportions. There’s a massive table at the far end, which is simply but beautifully set with cream plates and light-blue glassware.
A commercial-style range with two ovens and more burners than I can count occupies the center of the room. Mom definitely picked that out, along with the bleached oak cabinets and soapstone countertops. The vibe is luxe rustic, with an enormous island dominating the space.
But it’s the spread set out on that island that makes my eyes bulge. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so much food. There are several platters of what appear to be chicken-fried steaks, smothered in thick white gravy. Sweating jugs of tea and lemonade sit beside them. There’s a huge bowl of green beans and two bowls of the most delicious-looking potato salad. Then a tray of brownies, each one slathered in white frosting and drizzled with more chocolate.
The petite woman behind the counter is pulling another tray of brownies out of the oven when she turns around and sees us.
Her face splits into a smile. “Well, hey there, y’all! Come on in! Mollie, we’ve been waiting for you to arrive. I’m Patsy. Welcome to the ranch.”
I watch her set down the brownies on top of the oven. My stomach grumbles. I wish I could eat that kind of thing and not be in pain afterward.
Patsy is mid-fifties, if I had to guess, her gray hair neatly parted down the middle and pulled into a low ponytail. She’s got a warm smile and bright, curious brown eyes.