Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
But I survived eleven years without Porter Dixon in my life, so I can survive even more. Even if laying eyes on him again makes my entire body thrum like a live wire.
In another minute, the rain finally lets up, lightly pattering my windowpane instead of pouring down in buckets. I spot fluffy, white clouds in the distance, pushing out the dark ones, and soon enough it’ll look as if there hasn’t been any storm at all. Unfortunately, there’ll still be mud and some cleanup from fallen branches.
My hair is still damp as I pull on fresh clothes and rubber boots. I’ll make sure the cattle are settled and check in on the horses too.
On my way out, I pass through the great room, where the fireplace is lit. My father is in his usual chair, and Mom, on the couch nearest the flickering flames, is poring over some document. “Where you headed?”
“Just checking on things,” I reply, now wishing I’d followed through on the idea of building my own house on the ranch. Time just got away from me, and before I knew it, years had passed. Most days I’m just too damn busy to even think about it. In times like this, I’ll admit them knowing my every move can be uncomfortable.
Thankfully, this house is big enough that our bedrooms are in different wings, and I do have my own entrance. But when I need to pass through the kitchen, like I do now, there’s no avoiding bumping into each other.
“Always working,” I hear Mom mutter as I reach for an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table.
“It’s what good ranchers do,” Dad replies as I chomp away and head out the door.
I can probably recite the rest of their conversation verbatim. Dad will tell Mom I’m doing what needs done to take over this ranch someday, and Mom will worry I’m trying to do too much. She’ll say I don’t have a social life, and she wouldn’t be wrong. But what she really means is that I don’t have a spouse and family. Or a sibling to share the load.
I know they’re proud of me. I’m pleased with myself too because there was a time in my life when I wanted to give it all up. I wanted to run away from the responsibility. It was the month right before I married Aimee. I still ached for Porter and wished I’d gone after him. With time, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, told myself I needed to do what was right, and then I got on with it.
I muck through the mud puddles to the barn. It’s calm in here, serene, and in that sense, I understand Porter’s obsession with these majestic animals. The horses compete for my attention, so I love on all of them as I move from stall to stall. When I get to Arrow, I marvel at the calm in him, which is likely because of Porter. I consider having a discussion with Dad about it. About putting Porter’s talent to better use.
Midnight whinnies for acknowledgment, so I turn to stroke his neck and softly coo to him.
Afterward, I do a quick walk-through past the chicken coop and the paddocks to make sure all’s in order. The door to the bunkhouse is ajar, and from the sounds of it, the men are sipping cheap whiskey and playing cards. I like the sound of their laughter, and on any other night, I might even head inside and stay for a drink. That’s pretty much my social life. It’s the same for all of us. We’re like family, bickering and all.
Instead, I head toward the firepit. The kindling is too wet to start a blaze, so I sit on the rounded stone bench, though it’s damp underneath me. I tell myself I’m not waiting on Porter to return, despite wondering where he is and if he’s coming back.
As dusk falls, I look up at the flickering stars behind the fluffy clouds. It’s a sight I’ll never take for granted. Same with the way the humidity clings to my skin after a good rain, the scent of mud mixed with grass and hay. It’s the smell of home, and it settles in my bones.
I shut my eyes and breathe in deeply to try and calm my nerves. That’s when I hear footsteps. My eyes spring open to find Wade heading my way, carrying an armful of dry kindling.
“You mind the company?” he asks, squatting in front of the pit.
“Not at all.” I watch him arrange the sticks in the stack. Wade is the one who taught me how to build a nest of tinder before arranging the kindling above it just so. He’s also the one who noticed the pain I felt when Porter left. Though he didn’t say anything, he was kind to me, would shield me from any conflict with the others over my unpredictable mood. In a way, he was like a second father figure instead of an employee. Employee is not a strong enough word for what he’s come to mean to me.