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)
I laugh. “So you’re the reliable one.”
He shrugs like it’s what has to be done.
“Where’d you learn?”
“My grandma. She could feed thirty on a bag of flour and a bone. Said if you knew how to make a good meal, you’d never be without a seat at someone’s table.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She was. Tough, too. Cared for us... well, when everything changed.”
I glance over. “When your parents died?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press, avoiding yet another mine. Instead, I let the silence stretch for a moment, filled only by the sound of bubbling broth and my peeler scraping across the carrots Corbin slipped in front of me gratefully.
“So if you weren’t doing this—ranching, raising kids, cooking for seventeen—what would you be doing?”
“Eighteen.” He smiles, reminding me I’m another mouth he needs to feed. He stirs the pot. “Something with food. Maybe a bakery or owning a little diner in town. Something full of people.”
“And service,” I say. “You’d be good at it.”
He glances over, his brown eyes kind but shrewd. “What about you? What do you want out of this story?”
“The truth,” I say, rinsing the carrots and moving to slice. “I want to show people something that isn’t polished to death or filtered through a salacious lens. Something real. You don’t see families like this anymore. Or men like you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Men like me?”
“Ones who don’t run from responsibility. Who cook and care and don’t think either makes them less of a man.”
His face shifts at that, flickering with an appreciation at being seen. I wonder when anyone last gave these men that kind of recognition. Maybe no one ever has.
“There are plenty of men out there like us,” he says. “We’re doing what needs to be done… what’s put in front of us. Every day, there are demands right across this ranch that won’t wait. We can’t take a day off unless we’re sick, and even then, we feel guilty for shirking responsibility. What one of us doesn’t do falls to the rest to pick up.”
“So, you work as a team?”
“It’s the only way. No man is an island, especially on a ranch.”
I think about my solitary life, shunting back and forth between my office and my apartment, nights out with friends who are mostly there for the good time rather than the relationship, one-night stands with men who only ever seem to want to know what it feels like to get inside my body and not my heart. I’ve made myself an island, allowing others to visit, but not for long.
“Would you like to be?” I ask, interested to discover if this lifestyle is a choice, rather than an obligation.
“No way.” He leaves the spoon in the pot, taking the diced carrots and scraping them in with celery, potatoes, onions, and shredded chicken. The oven timer goes off again, and he ducks to pull three rustic loaves from its depths. “I grew up with two brothers, Brody and Nash, but the rest of these men are like my brothers, too. We were always in and out of each other’s houses, even before the accident.”
He rests the loaves on the counter and wipes his hands on a cloth he has resting over one broad shoulder. “I never have to worry about anything, Grace. Do you know what it’s like to have ten men standing shoulder to shoulder with you, unconditionally? The worst kind of shit could hit the fan, and no one in this house would duck.”
What would it feel like to have that kind of support? I mean, I have my mom, and she’s great, if a little flaky and distracted, but she has a lot going on, and I’m a grown woman who can handle life. But having a whole squad behind you must give a whole different level of security to everyone in this house.
“So, you see yourself here for the rest of your life?”
“Sure. This ranch has been in our family for three generations. Our kids will be the fourth. They’ll grow up together and have the same support network that we have.”
“You think they’ll want to stay here, too? What about the girls?”
He studies me for a moment, then busies himself seasoning the pot. “I haven’t thought that far ahead, I guess. If they want to stay…”
He appears crestfallen at the idea they might move on.
“What are you looking for in a woman?” I ask, changing the subject to catch him off guard.
He pauses grinding the pepper, his shoulders stiffening. “I had a woman,” he says, his tone low and sad. “I guess I’m not the driving force behind this quest, but I won’t stand in the way of what my family needs.”
“You’re not ready?”
He shrugs, and I lean my hip against the counter to watch him find herbs to flavor the soup like he’s a wizard crafting a potion. “Who’s ever ready?”