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That was a lie. My father died without grandchildren. The older I got, the less I idolized him. He taught me to be a man, to shoot and fight and push my will onto others, but he forgot to teach me to be more than that.
Oddly enough, it’s Sovereign who shows me I’m worth more. He’s the first man who doesn’t ask me to prove myself. He’s got a no bullshit approach to the world. In his mind, we’re brothers, and that’s that. My skills have nothing to do with it, and it’s my choice to use them for the good of the ranch.
We take care of the land, and the land takes care of us. The world turns, and suddenly, I’m thirty-six years old. I did my best not to become my father, but in the end, I found myself with nothing at all to show for it.
No wife. No family.
All I have is my resolve to do better. It’s kept me single and buried in my work for decades, right up until I made the foolish choice to go to Carter Farms to barter for some extra grain.
NOW
My eyes fall on her first while she’s setting the table. Avery Garrison, public enemy number one in my eyes, is harassing her. I scare him off, and she leaves before I can get a good look at her face.
I catch sight of her through the window. She’s sitting on the steps, facing away. My mind goes right back to being a boy and watching my mother cook for hours, only to eat leftovers after everyone was done.
I put food on a plate and shut it in the microwave.
Then, I eat with the men in the dining room. She comes in after everyone has cleaned their plates and walked out with the table in disarray.
I stay in the hall, transfixed.
She’s in a yellow sundress with a tight bodice and loose skirt, the straps barely clinging to her shoulders. When she turns, a thrill like electricity goes down my spine.
Goddamn, she’s pretty.
Her mouth is full but pursed, like she’s pissed. Her big, dark eyes have a droop to them, and her lashes are heavy. Her face is oval, her chin pointed, her lightly freckled cheeks rounded. There’s a fresh, girl-next-door look to her, but it’s dulled by annoyance.
She slams cupboards, clearly angry about the mess.
I can’t help but smile. I like her fire.
She pulls out a stool and reaches for the breadbox. I step out of the hall.
“There’s a plate in the microwave,” I say.
She jumps, whipping around as her lips part.
“What?”
“I put a plate for you in the microwave.”
She stares at me like I’m speaking another language. “Why?”
No one has ever cared if she ate or not, that much is obvious. We start talking, but I barely remember anything because I can’t stoplooking at her mouth, the way it moves when she talks. Her white teeth flash, her pink tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
God, she’s gorgeous.
My heart does a somersault. I think love feels a bit like this—but then again, what the fuck do I know about that?
It all comes crashing down when I ask her how old she is, and she says, “Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one at midnight.”
Fuck that; she can’t even have a drink at a bar. Right away, my mind goes to my mother standing in the back garden. My stomach is uneasy as we speak. I have an urge to stay, but a tingle of shame holds it back.
I go home, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel of my truck.
That night, it’s hot, and I can’t sleep. Even with the fan on and the window open, I’m tossing and turning. When I finally fall into oblivion, I dream about her face.
Head back, golden hair like a waterfall.
