Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “Sounds good.” I clutch the blanket to my chest and shift from one foot to the other. “Anything else I should know?”
“There’s a bathroom in the hall, and oh! Don’t get too close to the stove here, ’cause she’ll roast your ass.”
I laugh. “Noted. Goodnight, then. And…thanks. For the help in the snow and the hospitality now.”
“Anytime, Breezy Bishop. Anytime.”
As Tad stumbles down the hall, I sink onto the couch and pull off my wet shoes, leaving them by the woodstove to dry.
It’s late and I’m tired and I desperately want to sleep. But I can’t help marveling at how far the mighty have fallen.
A month ago, I was single-handedly running one of the biggest art gallery empires in the country. Now, I’m without a job, temporarily without a car, and completely adrift in all aspects of my life.
And I’m about to have a sleepover at a small-town sheep farmer’s house.
Goodness, things have certainly taken a drastic turn.
3
Tad
Tuesday, January 12th
My head pounds and my stomach turns, but the thing about sheep is…they don’t give a damn about your plans or your hangover.
I’ve just finished up with the morning feed routine, and some of my flock is already trying to find a way to get into trouble—which isn’t new, but it is inconvenient.
“Back in!” I yell, clapping my hands like an idiot as three woolly little bastards try to shove through a sagging section of fence. Again.
They scatter into the snow, bleating like they’re in on some private joke at my expense. Good one, Tad. How about we shove a giant rod in the middle of your already vibrating brain? Sheep have that smug, blank look that says we win, you lose, and they’re usually right.
Or at least, my sheep have that look. I don’t know about other farmers because I’ve never researched it.
Randy keeps telling me we need dogs. Border collies, heelers—apparently, it’s a must for people who take this shit seriously. Every shepherd worth his salt has dogs, Tad, he lectures almost daily, all the while missing the whole fucking point.
I’m not in this business to succeed. I’m in it to forget.
Plus, my general inclination when it comes to my older brother is to do the opposite of what he wants me to do because it’s his fault we’re in Red Bridge in the first place. The whole state of our lives today, as it were, is his own damn fault, even if he doesn’t see it that way.
Don’t get me wrong; I love my brother. Randy is a good man and an even better older brother, but he should’ve stayed in Chicago and focused on himself instead of worrying so goddamn much about saving me from myself.
But that’s Randy for you. He’s only two years older than me—forty-three to my forty-one, but he refuses to drop the protective older brother act, and as a result, he’s farming sheep—which he fucking hates—while I’m pretending to farm sheep in the name of passing time.
I have nothing to lose and nowhere to be because almost a decade ago, I already lost everything. I basically closed my eyes and randomly pointed to a spot on a map, drained my savings to purchase the one and only farmhouse that was for sale in Red Bridge, Vermont, at the time, and moved here.
It’s not my issue that Randy’s dumb ass followed.
“Ah, ah, Mabel. Get your pregnant ass over here.” My girl Mabel darts around me, beelining straight for Bennett Bishop’s property, of course, my flock’s homing beacon for pissing off my neighbor alive and fucking well.
I skid on my feet and nearly fall on my ass, but I manage to stop her while two other sheep halt dead in the drift and stare at me like they wish they had some popcorn to eat while they enjoy the show.
“Mind your business, Crosby and Nash!” I shout over at them. “Go make yourselves useful by sticking with the group!”
They bleat at me, but thankfully, they actually listen.
I’m at least grateful Randy bought Rose Ellis’s old house from Josie and Clay and is no longer all up in my shit twenty-four seven—and blissfully missing now—because the constant stream of shit he’d be giving me would only serve to make Mabel’s escape ruse ten times more annoying.
With Mabel on her way back toward the barn, I grab the useless fence wire she broke on her way out in my hands. I sigh. Another repair I’ll try to fit in before Randy sees it and has a conniption.
Trust me, a little space from each other is a good thing, for me and for him. I’m no fucking picnic to deal with, I know, but he has a habit of riding my ass that I’m not too fond of either.
I head back toward the barn to grab some tools, but as I pass the farmhouse, a female mess of long legs, fancy clothes, and wide eyes poised at the top step of my porch grabs my attention.