Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dakota
I stand on the porch, my arms crossed as I watch the car roll up the gravel driveway. My stomach twists in that familiar knot. Tighter than I’d like to admit.
Selling this house has been on my mind for so long now, but today, for some reason, it feels more real.
The man from Buck Realty stepping out of the car is the one who will hopefully handle the sale. Why is my heart hammering against my ribcage?
He’s dressed in a sharp suit, the kind that screams “I know money,” and it rubs me the wrong way. I don’t know why.
His polished leather shoes crunch against the gravel as he approaches, his eyes already scanning the house like it’s something he can’t wait to be rid of.
“Ms. Fletcher?” he says, checking me off a list.
I force a smile, trying not to let my irritation show. “That’s me.”
My voice comes out cool, even though my insides feel anything but.
He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
He gestures toward the house as an afterthought, his eyes already darting from one small imperfection to the next.
I follow him inside, my shoes tapping softly against floorboards that have seen far better days.
He takes a quick glance around the living room, a curl of distaste tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Needs work,” he mutters. “But you knew that already, right?”
I nod, trying to hold back the frustration that’s starting to bubble up. This man’s got no tact. No respect for the years this house has seen, the life that’s been lived within its walls.
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he’s moving on, walking through the rooms, and calculating their worth in seconds. “Plumbing’s outdated, the roof’s probably leaking. You’ll be lucky if anyone’s interested.”
My stomach clenches, the words striking a nerve I hadn’t realized was so raw.
“It’s not just about the condition,” I say, the words coming out sharp. “This house has a history.”
He stops mid-step, glancing back at me. There’s no warmth in his eyes, just a cold, businesslike calculation.
“History doesn’t sell, lady. People want convenience. And in a place like Colter Creek? You need something better than history.”
Heat rises in my chest, and I bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret. I knew I didn’t like him from the first moment I saw him.
“I’m aware of the issues,” I say, trying to stay calm. “But this house means something to me. It’s where my grandfather lived, where I grew up. So, if you’re only here to put down the place, we can call it a day.”
His eyes narrow, his lips tightening slightly in irritation. “Look, I’m just doing my job. You’ve got a good location, but that’s about it. People aren’t going to pay a premium for a fixer-upper.”
I inhale sharply, swallowing down the frustration that’s threatening to boil over. “I want to do this right.”
He glances at me, unimpressed. “You might want to reconsider your asking price. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck with this place for a lot longer than you’d like.”
I force a smile, though I’m grinding my teeth behind it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He stands there, not moving, like he’s waiting for a thank-you card. When I don’t offer one, he sighs. “Perhaps you should think it over and get back to me.”
I nod, about two seconds away from tossing him out the door like an unwanted Craigslist ad.
“I think that’s for the best,” I say, with the politeness of someone about to fire someone, but with a smile that says, “You’re not as charming as you think.”
He doesn’t say another word before he heads for the door like he’s running away from a bad date.
I watch him leave, feeling a strange mixture of frustration and relief. He was a bad taste in my mouth that refuses to go away.
Great. Now I get to figure out if I should lower my expectations or just sell my soul to get this house off my hands.
Hearing Charlie’s laughter from the other room, I forget all about the man who just tried to give me a panic attack. I head toward the sound, trying to shake off the weird energy of the whole thing.
Charlie’s sitting on the floor playing with his toys, his giggles filling the air like sunshine. “You having fun, buddy?”
“Yeah!” He grins. “My toys love this living room. It’s so much bigger than any one we have ever had before.”
The simplicity of his statement hits me right in the chest. For him, this house is magical. It’s not the run-down structure that the realtor sees; to him, it’s a palace. It’s a safe haven.
My heart tugs as I look around. I know I need to sell this place. I do. But the thought of it, cutting ties to something that still holds so much of me, is harder than I expected.
How do you walk away from a place that’s been in your family for generations? A place where every crack in the ceiling and every creak of the floor carries a memory?
But I need to make a move soon. I need to make a decision one way or another. I can’t homeschool forever. Charlie needs stability and a routine. We need a permanent place to settle down.
What if that place was here…?
I shake my head. No. I need to focus on the future. On my plans. Whatever they may be.
I can hear the ticking of the clock, the days slipping by faster than I want them to. I need to figure this out. I actually need a plan.
“Okay, well, I’m just going to sit at my desk to work,” I tell Charlie. “I have a horse to draw.”
Charlie doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s already too busy organizing his toys into intricate little “cities” on the floor. His enthusiasm for imaginary worlds never gets old.
I pull my sketchbook from my desk drawer and flip to a fresh page, hoping to somehow summon some inspiration. The horse I’m supposed to illustrate is nothing like the one I’ve drawn a hundred times before.
This one needs to be wild, untamed, something out of a western movie. It’s supposed to look free, the kind of animal that runs without thinking about where it’s going.
Instead, what I’m getting looks more like a tired donkey than a proud stallion.
I tap my pencil against the paper, staring at the sketch like it’s personally offended me.
“Come on… come on, just… be a horse,” I mutter under my breath.
But it’s not happening. The pencil doesn’t care about my frustration, and neither does the paper.
Charlie, still engrossed in his cities, suddenly stops and glances over at me. His face is full of innocence and curiosity.
“Mama, can I help?”
I look over, half-expecting him to offer me some kind of bizarre solution involving a spaceship or a stuffed animal. But instead, he walks up to me and points at the drawing.
“Maybe the horse needs a race,” he says, his eyes wide with that pure, unfettered hope that only a five-year-old can have.
“A race?” I repeat, blinking at him.
“Yeah! Horses like to race, right? Make it run!” He throws his arms out like he’s mid-gallop.
I blink again, completely taken aback by his unfiltered logic. “You know what? That’s not a bad idea. Okay, let’s try that.”
I push aside the frustration that’s been creeping in and focus on what Charlie’s said. A horse running. Maybe that’s the key. I pick up my pencil again, determined to capture the spirit he’s describing.
I make a few new marks, an angle to the body, a sense of movement in the legs, and suddenly, there’s something. It’s not perfect, but it’s closer.
Charlie, as always, is the perfect little sidekick. He stands beside me, nodding as I work.
“See, it’s getting better!” he says, as if he’s the one doing all the heavy lifting.
“Yeah,” I laugh, putting down my pencil and leaning back in my chair. “I think you’re right, Charlie. It’s much better.”
He grins like he’s just helped invent the wheel. “I’m good at this!”
I reach over and ruffle his hair. “You sure are. You’re a natural artist, kiddo.”
“It would be better to draw a real horse, you know?” he continues with his head cocked to one side. “A picture isn’t good enough. It doesn’t have enough horseness.”
I blink, trying not to laugh. “Horseness?”
“Yeah! Like the horse has to look like it’s running fast! Like whoosh!” he says, throwing his arms out in an exaggerated running motion. “And you gotta draw the tail flying like this! But you have to see it.”
Charlie’s version of a galloping horse is more “flap” than “gallop,” but I’m still smiling. He’s got heart, I’ll give him that.
“You’re right, Charlie,” I say, putting my pencil down. “It’s not horsey enough. So let’s go find one.”
“We can?”
“Yeah.” I rise to my feet. “We’re not in New York City now, are we? Colter Creek has lots of horses. We just need to find one.”
I can see Charlie’s mind racing, his little wheels turning faster than I ever could have expected.
“We’re gonna see a real horse?” he asks, like we’re embarking on some grand adventure.
“Yep. We’ll find one. And I’ll draw it from life. You’ll see.”
Charlie immediately begins running in circles. “I’m gonna tell the horse it’s gonna be in your picture! The horse is gonna be famous!”
I grin, heading toward the door, and he follows me, still mumbling about how he’s going to make sure the horse knows it’s a star.
Outside, the fresh air hits me in the face, and I instantly feel better. Charlie grabs my hand, and we walk toward the nearby pasture, where I know a few horses are grazing.
Charlie skips ahead, his energy infecting the whole moment. I can already picture the light catching in his curls, his excitement matching mine. He’s all in.
We approach the fence, where a few horses are lazily munching on grass. The one closest to us is a beautiful chestnut mare, with a glossy coat and a calm but curious expression. She stands tall, her tail flicking lazily at the flies as we approach.
“That’s her,” I say, gesturing toward the horse. “She’s perfect.”
Charlie looks up at me with wide eyes, clearly impressed. “Wow. She’s… huge!”
I laugh. “Yep. Horses are like that. Now, I just need to capture all that horseness.”
I pull out my sketchbook and start drawing, humming as I work. The mare stands so still, so majestic, that I feel like I’m sketching something from a dream.
Charlie watches for a while, his chin resting on the fence as he’s completely absorbed. Then, in his usual way, he speaks up.
“Mama?”
“Yeah, bud?”
“Do you think the horse has a name?”
I glance up, catching a flash of curiosity in his eyes. “I’m sure she does. Horses are very important. They need names like… Windstorm or Thunderhoof or—”
“Or Mighty Hoof!” Charlie interrupts, grinning widely.
I laugh. “That’s a good one. Mighty Hoof will do. Let’s stick with that.”
Charlie nods as if the horse has just been officially knighted. He looks back at the mare, whose tail swishes lazily, and says seriously, “I think she likes the name. Mighty Hoof is perfect.”
I shake my head, smiling. “You may be right.”