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)
Maybe I’ve gotten her all wrong. The others seem to like her, including my kids, but I’ve been wary of women since Nora left me high and dry, and now all I see in their faces is the mask that conceals their untrustworthiness.
“You’re going out?” Her voice is husky, and she takes another sip of water.
I wait, keeping my gaze away from her breasts, which I’m certain will be barely concealed by the thin baby-blue fabric. “Need to check the barn. Cameras down. One of the foals has been off lately.” I take a step closer to the door. “Don’t like the idea of her alone in all this.”
She hesitates. Then says, “Can I come?”
I pause, surprised she’d offer.
“It’s pouring.”
“I’m not made of sugar.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“You’re not dressed for the outdoors.”
She strides to the mudroom and pulls on Cody’s long winter jacket and a pair of boots that are huge enough to make her look like a clown. The sleeves hang so low that they conceal her hands, and when she tries to walk in the boots, it’s comedic. My lips twitch, which is a surprise. It’s been a while.
Grace follows me before I can stop her and takes the torch I hand her.
The rain is steady but not punishing, the kind that soaks you through if you stay still too long. Thunder grumbles again, low and rough across the open sky. I hold the door for her, and she gives me a tight nod, like we’re stepping into battle together.
Her bare legs catch the lightning flash as we cross the yard, and something about the sight of her, loose and alive in this storm, makes my chest feel a little too full.
In the barn, the air is warmer. Grace runs her fingers through her soaked hair, which curls around her wind-pink cheeks.
The horses whinny as we enter, unsettled but thankfully not panicked. I check the stalls out of habit because routine keeps my hands busy when my thoughts want to drift to places I don’t let them.
Grace doesn’t talk at first, which I appreciate. She moves beside me, her flashlight bouncing across the floor, scanning the shadows like a detective in an HBO crime show.
“You really didn’t need to come,” I say eventually, adjusting the latch on the foal’s stall.
“I was awake,” she replies, voice quiet but clear. “And… I’m not a fan of storms.”
“Who is?” I ask.
“My mama,” she says. “She loves the electrical ones that tear across the sky like children’s scribbles.”
“Nice description,” I say, thinking about Eli and how much she liked to draw before her momma left, and how painfully stilted her efforts are now.
“Anyway, you shouldn’t be out here alone.”
That catches me off guard.
I glance over. Grace is standing close to the foal now, palm flat against its damp, twitching flank. She’s calm. Present. There’s a storm raging outside, and she’s channeled the quiet inside.
“You good with animals?” I ask.
“I grew up in a house with more foster kids than bedrooms. Learning how to keep creatures calm kind of came with the territory.”
I nod. That makes sense. She has that grounded way about her and a voice that cuts through noise with tone rather than volume.
The foal calms beneath her touch, and she smiles, soft and open, different from the professional smile or the half-smirk she uses to keep people at arm’s length. This one is different.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she says, glancing at me sideways.
I shake my head. “Not unless I have something worth saying.”
“And yet... you came out into a thunderstorm for this one.”
I shrug, but she isn’t wrong. The animals are safe and predictable. People are harder.
Grace doesn’t press but keeps rubbing slow circles on the foal’s neck that I can imagine on my own. I look away, feeling stupid.
“You like it here?” I ask after a beat. “The ranch.”
She considers it for longer than I expected. “I do. More than I thought I would.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody here is trying to be cooler or smarter or louder than the next guy. You all just… are.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, but it sits with me and settles under my ribs. It’s good to confirm that she recognizes our strength as a unit and how well we work as a team. If she can bring that into the article, it will help the outside world focus on the good at Cooper Hill Ranch.
Lightning flashes again, this time close enough to light up Grace’s face fully. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her hair curling even more at the edges from the damp. She looks tired, but not in the way most people do when they’re overworked. There’s a fragility that she keeps hidden during the day that seems obvious now.
She meets my eyes and holds them. “Junie’s yours?”