15. Olivia
OLIVIA
Clipboard in hand, I survey the old barn.
The wooden beams, weathered by seasons of neglect, groan beneath the weight of my scrutiny.
Paint peels like shed skin, and I trace my fingers over it.
Dust stirs beneath my boots, restless as my thoughts, as I bend over the worktable and map out a plan for salvation on the timeworn blueprint.
Replace damaged siding, upgrade the lighting.
There’s too much to do, but if I start somewhere, anywhere, I might just have a chance.
The blueprint sprawls across the worktable, a dusty road map to the barn’s resurrection.
I mark sections with a firm hand, the scratch of the pencil a comforting sound in the silence.
The wood beneath the paper is scarred and pitted, a history etched in every gouge.
Like the barn itself, it’s a surface that has known hard use and harder times.
Every detail demands my attention, each line and note a piece of the larger puzzle I’m trying to solve. I can’t afford to miss anything. Not if this project is going to succeed. I move from section to section, my movements deliberate, like a surgeon performing delicate work.
The place has a stubborn will to survive. I can only hope that my own will is enough to match it. With one last look at the beams overhead, I plant my feet, square my shoulders, and dive back into the work.
“I’m not sure I can handle all these repairs and renovations on my own,” I admit, the words falling like confessionals.
Serena steps forward. “We’ll tackle one thing at a time, just like fixing a fence—step by step.”
Coffee cups, half-empty, leave rings on the paper, small reminders of how long I’ve been at this. “I don’t know what I was thinking, starting all this by myself. It’s too much.”
Serena’s smile is immediate. “Olivia, if anyone can do this, it’s you. We’ll break it down. Make a plan. I’ve seen you pull off things twice this size and make it look easy.”
Her faith in me is a comfort I don’t quite know how to accept.
I want to believe her, but the enormity of the task looms large in my mind, a shadow that’s hard to shake.
“I just—” I pause, searching for words that won’t betray how deeply I’m feeling this, “—I just need to know I’m not crazy for trying. ”
Serena laughs, the sound bright and infectious. “Crazy? Maybe. But that’s why it’s going to work.”
Each sheet of paper is a potential reality, each scribbled note a possible path. There’s too much here, too many directions to go. But maybe, if I let Serena help, there’s also a way through.
She is already marking notes, her pencil moving with the surety of someone who believes in what we’re doing. “How about this section here?” she asks, pointing. “We could start with something smaller, maybe work on this first.”
The suggestion is practical, a reminder that I don’t have to conquer everything at once. I nod, the gesture feeling like a small surrender and a huge relief. “Yes, okay. One thing at a time.”
Serena’s pencil continues to move, drawing lines and arrows, filling the plans with possibilities. “Exactly. One step at a time. We’ll get there.”
I need a change of scenery. “I’m going to go to the Rusty Mug to get a coffee and nail down the timeline. Wanna come?”
Serena shakes her head. “I’ve still got errands to run.”
I leave the barn, jump in the truck and head into town.
The Rusty Mug Café holds its own against the afternoon heat, the coolness inside a gentle reprieve.
I sit alone at a corner table, the iced coffee sweating beneath my grip.
My attention drifts between fragments of other people’s stories and my own half-formed thoughts, but then I catch a sentence like a thorn: “I heard Olivia made sure Ace would back off the auction—that’s how she got the ranch back.
” Laughter floats above, leaving me to wonder whose voices have twisted the truth.
My hand tightens around the cup as a waiter clears a nearby table, and I fix my gaze on the doorway.
My mind wanders over the plans and notes that clutter the table, a messy blueprint of what I want to build and the parts of me that threaten to get in the way. I try to focus, but my thoughts are as scattered as the sugar packets strewn across the tabletop.
The conversations blend together, a comforting white noise that keeps me company in the absence of something more solid. I catch snippets here and there. They’re not mine, but I listen anyway.
I turn the cup in my hands, watching the condensation trace rivulets across the ceramic, my mind tracing similar paths over the rumor that’s taken root. Ace. The ranch. The comment cuts deep, its accuracy a question I’m not sure I want to answer.
But what I want matters less than what’s at stake, and the stakes have never felt higher. I hold onto the thought like a lifeline, letting it pull me back from the undertow of doubt. The coffee grows tepid, the ice melting into a pale echo of its former self, and I set it down.
I wait, because there’s nothing else to do. The door, the voices, the empty chair across from me—each holds the potential to shift everything once again.
Is that really what the town thinks?