Chapter 2
Wren Harris
“Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen. Eighteen strawberry. Two, four, six, eight blueberry, and two, four, six, eight, ten, ten? Shit. Two more,” I say as I count the jam order for The Phoxes Den.
Talking to my bestie Reece’s crazy ass while counting was a bad idea. I’d just spent fifteen minutes on the phone with her and swear I counted and recounted at least five times. That’s what we do though; we talk each other through every damn thing. When you see her, you see me.
We’re best friends because we are basically the same damn person: hardworking cowgirls doing all we have to keep our family’s land in the family.
We both have skills and hustle. While I make and sell jam and soap, she makes and sells jewelry and buckles.
We are also early risers. She wakes up at the crack of dawn just like me.
I just didn’t this morning and I’m rushing.
I promised Mrs. Phox this month’s order will be delivered today before nine and it’s already almost seven.
I was hoping to have all my morning tasks done before seven but I’d slept in.
I hate it when I hit snooze on my damn alarm.
Those stupid little extra eight minutes always mess up my entire morning.
After grabbing two more jars of my peach jam, I check the lids to make sure their centers are concave then do my press test. None move or pop. They are good, so I attach the You Jam Right! labels on them then place them in the crates.
Carefully, I carry the crates out of my canning shed and trek through the small layer of snow on the ground toward the house.
Normally, I would feed my goats, collect eggs from the coop, and check on my soap, but not today.
I’d actually hit snooze twice and I’m running really behind.
If I don’t get in here and wake Amara’s lil ass up, she’ll never make it to school on time.
I enter the house through the back porch and place the two crates on the kitchen island.
After washing my hands, I place two strips of beef bacon on the griddle side of the stove and a frozen hash-brown patty into the air fryer.
Then I walk to her bedroom. As expected, she’s knocked out with a book in bed with her, and her alarm screaming.
I don’t know how she doesn’t hear that.
I rush over, smash it with the palm of my hand, then gently shake her shoulder.
“Amara. Amara. A, get up!” I coax. Her body moves, barely, but she doesn’t open her eyes at all.
I swear she could sleep through a damn tornado.
My dad was a hard sleeper but she has it ten times worse.
“A-mar-a!” I yell this time as I shake her with more force.
“What,” she slowly drags out with closed eyes.
“It’s seven. You need to get up.”
“Ten more minutes,” she whines.
“Are your clothes picked out?” I ask and she nods. “Alright. I’m going to finish your breakfast. When I come back, you have to get up, no exceptions,” I tell her and she turns onto her side.
I walk back to the kitchen, flip the bacon over, and check on her hash-brown patty. To buy time, I pour chocolate milk into a saucepan, turn it on low, then break a piece of dark chocolate into it. It simmers while I finish the bacon and plate her food.
After dividing the hot chocolate into two coffee mugs, I grab a peppermint stick and drop it into one then take both cups back with me into her room.
I don’t play nice this time. After placing her cup on the table by her bed, I use the remote to power the TV on then turn the volume up high. That gets her ass up immediately.
“Wren! You’re so extra,” she screams as she jumps out of her bed and rushes toward the TV to turn it off. “I was going to get up,” she scoffs.
“I just made sure,” I smirk. “Your cup is on the table. Get dressed.”
After playfully rolling her eyes, she looks up at my cup then at hers on the table. “Wrong mugs. It’s Christmas. We have to use the other ones,” she says.
I love Christmas but Amara is obsessed with it. It was Daddy’s favorite holiday. He made sure that he chopped down the biggest trees, decorated the outside of the house, and always made us hot chocolate in our Ho-Ho-Ho coffee mugs.
“I’ll remember tomorrow.”
“And what about the tree and lights?”
“This week,” I remind her. Financially, things are tighter than normal.
We are blessed to own the house and the land but the upkeep of forty acres, our berry farm, goats, chickens, and wear and tear on the house adds up.
I do pretty good with my jams and natural soaps and I’m really depending on that this season.
Rodeo season and Christmas are my biggest times, especially Jubilee.
Our little town is overrun with visitors and tourists during rodeo and Jubilee.
People love to see Black cowboys in the flesh.
Cowboys and country living are the new fascination and I capitalize on it by selling jam and soaps.
Handmade, natural products are a draw and my fresh fruit canned jams and natural goat milk soaps are highly sought after.
While I do well during rodeo season, that nearly doubles during Jubilee.
The week of Christmas, the heart of Miller’s Point turns into a huge market.
Local vendors and farmers set up and sell.
People come from all over to shop. There are also food trucks, an ice-skating rink, and other holiday-themed festivities.
The culmination of the week is Jubilee night on Christmas Eve.
I will be selling all day, and that night, the Mayor lights the town’s fifty-foot tree.
Thank God because this year, I need to sell out.
Between the ventilation in my canning shed, electrical issues in the small barn, and the roof on the house, my expenses are higher than normal but I don’t want her to know.
The sales from today will cover the tree and gifts to put under it.
“Now, get dressed before you are late,” I tell her.
While she gets ready, I get ready too. First, I go outside and start my truck so it can warm.
I place my long braids up in a high bun, then load the crates in my backseat.
When I walk back into the house, she’s dressed and sitting at the island, scarfing down her breakfast. Amara and I are thirteen years apart but we practically have the same damn face.
We don’t have the same metabolism though.
She puts food away like a sumo wrestler but barely weighs a hundred pounds.
I, on the other hand, can look at a piece of bread and gain three pounds.
My ranching keeps me healthy and fit though.
These thighs are thick but they’re toned too.
“What are you going to do for lunch?” I ask.
“I’ll eat from the cafeteria. I still have thirty on my lunch account. But can you make papa’s stew tonight?” she asks.
“Are you gonna help chop up the veggies for that stew?” I ask because his Brunswick stew has chicken, potatoes, corn, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, and celery and it all has to be fresh, not frozen or canned.
“I will,” she says.
“Okay, then I’ll make it. Let’s go.”
She grabs her bag and coat then we head out. The high school is only twenty minutes from the ranch and we make it right before the first bell at eight-twenty. Five after nine, I’m pulling up to The Phoxes Den.
Because I make monthly deliveries here, the security, Terrance, buzzes me in as soon as I press the call button.
The Phoxes Den is one of my favorite ranches.
Not only is it big as a damn city, it’s just beautiful and the owners are just as beautiful.
Beauden and Yelena Phox love Miller’s Pointe and they support all local businesses.
Besides their monthly orders for the lodge, Yelena also allows me to sell in the merchandise store inside the lodge.
After tasting my jams and using my soaps, the guests love to take them back to their respective homes.
When I pull up, Beauden is out front. He’s sitting in one of the chairs feeding his goat. Unlike me, he only has one, Billy. I have seven: Bell, Biv, Devoe, Left Eye, T-Boz, Chilli, and Whitney. The Phoxes Den is a cattle and horse ranch not goat farm.
Yelena is one lucky woman. Beauden Phox is too damn fine. Before she came to town, he was one of the most sought-after ranchers. So many women were trying to be Mrs. Phox but Yelena killed that shit when she came to visit and never left.
The moment I’m out of my truck, Billy prances over to me. Normally, I have animal crackers in my pockets for him but not today. Waking up late really affected my entire morning.
“Sorry. I don’t have any crackers for you,” I tell him but that doesn’t stop his jumping and prancing.
“Billy,” Beauden’s deep and smooth baritone calls out as he walks over to me. Billy’s jumping stops, he drops his head, then he prances back to the porch and his food. “Are they on the bed?” Beauden asks me.
“Nah, in the back seat.” He walks over and grabs the crates then I follow him into the lodge. “Where’s Yelena?” I ask.
“She’s in the store. I’ll empty this and bring it back out,” he says.
“Thank you. I’m going to the store,” I tell him.
When I walk into the small store, Yelena is behind the counter stacking Christmas snow globes. She spots me when she turns to grab two more.
“Girl,” she sighs. “How long have you been standing there?”
“I just walked in. Are those new?” I ask as I step in.
“Yes. Stacy, who does the create-your-own snow globes at Jubilee, has started selling them. I thought they were two cute,” she says. “Where’s the jam?”
“Beauden took them into the kitchen. I brought all thirty-six jars. I’ll bring the soap Wednesday. They should all be set by then.”
“All fifty bars?” she asks excitedly.
“Yes. I did half and half lavender and coconut.”
“Okay. Hold on, let me get your money. I sold all the jars and soap in here and they have the empty jars in the kitchen,” she says as she walks over to the small desk.
I offer a dollar off for each jam jar returned.
I thoroughly clean and sanitize them before reusing.
It saves on jars, is good for the environment, and just makes sense.
The canning process requires a lot of sterilization.
I normally sell my twelve-ounce jars of jam for fifteen dollars and my soaps for eight dollars a bar but she gets it wholesale, obviously.
The money from today will go a long ass way.
“Here you go,” she says, holding an envelope out to me. “Eleven hundred.”
“Eleven hundred. It should be eight,” I say, a little confused.
“I just went ahead and added the money for the soap. That way you can just drop it off on Thursday and don’t have to see me. I’ll be at the house Thursday. We have a corporate retreat starting Wednesday and I like to stay out the way when the lodge is booked.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, truly appreciative.
“No, thank you. I’m obsessed with your stuff. If you can, bring more soaps and jam for in here Thursday. This retreat has thirty people. I’m sure they will want to take something authentic back to the city.”
“I’ll definitely bring some. Thanks again.”
“Of course. Did you get a tree yet?” she asks as we walk out of the store.
“Not yet. I need to get one. Amara is so ready for it to be up.”
“Then, I’ll make sure Beauden has one cut and tied for you Thursday too.”
“You don’t have to do that. I was going to buy one.”
“But I wasn’t going to let you,” she says with a smile.
“Then I’ll have something for you too. I tried a new peppermint soap. I’ll bring you a few bars to test for me.”
“I can’t wait. I love peppermint bath oils. I know I’ll love the soap and maybe it’ll calm her during bath time,” she says while rubbing her tiny belly. Yelena’s the prettiest pregnant lady. Her skin truly glows and her little belly is perfectly round.
We make it to the counter in the lobby of the lounge. My crates with the empty jars are stacked on the floor in front. Liberty, the lodge manager, is standing behind the desk.
“Mr. Phox had to head to the stables. He said he’ll be back in an hour so you can take a break,” Liberty tells Yelena.
“He swears I do too much. I’m only five months and he wants me in bed all day,” Yelena scoffs with a smile.
“I can finish in the store for you if you want,” Liberty insists.
“I got it,” Yelena tells her, then turns to me. “Thanks again and I can’t wait for the peppermint.”
When she walks off, I grab my crates and walk to the front door.
Liberty rushes over and opens the door. I walk out then remember my keys are in my pocket.
As carefully as I can, I balance the crates with one hand and use the other to grab my keys.
Right when I get my keys out, a force bumps into my back and my crates drop.
I watch mortified as they hit the shoveled driveway and the majority of my jars fall out and shatter.
“What the fuck!” I yell. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I huff loud as hell.
“Damn. My bad,” a deep tenor says from behind me.
Ready to curse out whoever the fuck this is, I swing my body around so damn fast, my head spins.
It comes to a complete halt when I see him.
Over six feet of pure chocolate looks down at me with the prettiest eyes—dark as coal—I’ve seen.
His smooth skin, trimmed beard, and mustache catch my eyes first, followed by the intricate ink on his neck.
This man is gorgeous, but as fine as he is, I’m still cursing his ass out.
“So you didn’t see me?” I snap.
After removing his Jaxson from his head, he says, “I was looking in my phone and I shouldn’t have been. I’m so sorry. Let me get this up for you.”
His smooth tone is in complete contradiction to my sharp one. That’s about fifty jars ruined. There’s nothing but broken glass to get up. I don’t need help; I need a damn broom.
“Just go. You’ve done enough already,” I huff and roll my eyes.
“Nah. This is all me. I got it. Let me make this right,” he says, still smooth and calm with a smile, before rushing off.
Again, I roll my damn eyes. He has the nerve to be sexy and charming when I’m out of fifty fucking jars. This was not on my damn bingo card today. And why is he so damn fine!