Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Eli nods as though she understands completely.
We all crowd around for a big group hug. The kids weave in and out of the forest of our legs, laughing like it’s the best thing in the world, before being snatched up and smooshed into the middle for hugs and kisses. The cabin is small, but somehow, we all fit, and this simple room, created with love and hard work, is full of everything we’re building together.
53
HARRISON
It’s been four months since Grace came back. Four months since the air around this place started tasting sweeter. You wouldn’t think a woman could change so much without shouting, stomping, or rearranging every piece of furniture in sight, but she did. Some women arrive like storms. Grace… she eased in, quiet and steady, and now there ain’t a single room on this ranch untouched by her.
The house smells different: warm, like vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh bread, and fragrant, like lavender and rose. She bakes now because it helps her think, and no one complains about the surplus of cookies or the pies that show up like clockwork on Sunday evenings. Even Levi, who claims he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, always finds an excuse to hover near the oven when Grace’s got her apron on. Brody keeps patting his stomach like he’s worried about putting on weight.
The garden has become her pride and joy. What used to be a patch of stubborn, scorched earth now bursts with tomatoes and zucchini, little herbs in mismatched pots, and even wild strawberries that she guards like they’re made of gold. I’ve seen her out there at sunrise, hair tied up, hands in the soil, smiling like the world is waiting to open up for her.
Conway bought her a horse, a pretty, chestnut mare with the same elegance as Grace. She’s called it Hope, and learned to ride confidently now, following us around the ranch, surveying her kingdom. Her quiet confidence has inspired Eli. She’s a different kid now, ever since Grace coaxed her up on that horse and convinced her she could ride alone. She grinned so wide when she took the reins for the first time that Dylan cried. The big softy.
She taught Corbin to French braid, and he helps the girls look neat and pretty every day. Grace even made a reading corner in the den for special story time with the kids. It’s become a favorite place for them all.
She’s built herself a rhythm here. Morning coffee on the porch, chores with the rest of us, her garden, the kitchen, an hour or two with the kids, and then, every afternoon like clockwork, she disappears into that little writing nook tucked behind the barn.
The sign out front says Grace’s Writing Nook—Bestseller in Progress, hand-painted by McCartney in his signature messy scrawl. She laughed when he hung it, but she didn’t take it down. That place is sacred now. No one knocks. No one dares peek inside.
Until today.
Today, she asked me to come read a few chapters of her work-in-progress. Said she’s nervous, which is wild because she’s one of the bravest people I know. But I get it. Sharing a piece of yourself like that is no small thing.
So here I am, walking toward her little cabin, heart knocking around in my chest like I’m about to saddle break a new colt, and through the dusty window, I catch sight of her with legs tucked under and glasses perched on her nose, typing away like her life depends on it.
She looks up when I open the door, biting her bottom lip like she’s about to offer me bad news instead of the thing she’s poured her whole heart into. There’s a printed stack of pages on the desk, neatly clipped together, and beside it, a second mug of coffee. She’s thought this through.
“Hey,” she says, a little breathless, tucking a wave behind her ear. “No backing out now.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I shut the door behind me and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She smells like honey and printer ink, like warm paper and nerves. “You sure about this?”
She nods, but it’s not confident. “Don’t be too nice, okay? I need honesty. But also... not soul-crushing honesty.”
I grin, sinking into the worn leather chair across from her. “I’ll try to strike a balance.”
She passes me the pages, fingers brushing mine. “It’s the first three chapters. It’s rough.”
“I like rough,” I say, arching a brow and flipping to the first page. “Grit is where the heart is.”
She snorts. “God, you’re such a cowboy.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
I start to read, and the world narrows to the black ink on white paper and her words, her rhythm, and her voice. The land she’s describing might as well be ours: hot skies, red dirt, horses with more personality than half the town, and a man who keeps too much inside because he doesn’t know what to do with the soft parts of his heart. The female main character is sharp but hopeful and so deeply unsure of herself that I want to step onto the page and tell her she’s already enough.