Five
Wes
My boots track mud through the kitchen upon entering the farmhouse. That old familiar ache burrows its way into my muscles, and I pull my shoulders back, stretching before ambling to the refrigerator.
One lemon sits lonely on the top shelf next to a package of lunch meat. A few other items are scattered around the fridge, but I need to go to the grocery store tomorrow.
It’s a task that will have to wait since Cass should be in again, and I can’t leave her alone to work. Especially since Grady called off sick. Walton always has Thursdays off, and I refuse to ask him to come in and cover for any of the young kids I hire.
Walton Garth has been at the farm since I was a kid, acting as a barn manager.
He knows more about horses than I could ever hope to.
With a permanent scowl and rough hands that saw the back of my head often as a firm reminder to not be an idiot after I’d hit puberty, Walt is not someone I plan on asking to bend.
The sound of the screen door slamming startles me, causing me to knock my elbow into the refrigerator door so hard that needles prick at my fingertips.
“Shit,” I mutter, finding my sister, Rosemary, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, backed by the old wooden cabinets our grandparents made for the house when they built it.
She’s supposed to be in Tennessee, but her presence doesn’t surprise me as much as it should.
She goes wherever she wishes—always has.
“Nice greeting, Farm Boy,” she says. Her sandy blonde hair looks wild and curly, reminding me of running through muddy pastures barefoot and swimming in the pond at the bottom of the hill.
The newest addition to Roe’s nose snaps me back to who my sister is now.
The septum piercing glints in the dim kitchen lights, shining almost as bright as the full smile her face breaks into.
“Nice piercing, Spike. Want a sandwich?”
Gold necklaces rattle as she hops onto the counter, her black boots kicking the cabinet.
“True hospitality. I’d love one!” Her heel comes in contact with the cabinet again, and I wince.
It isn’t as if the paint isn’t chipped already, but many of the original elements from when this house was built still remain—including the cabinets.
The house is nearly one hundred years old, so I vehemently disagree with the abuse my sister is putting the handcrafted cabinets through.
I certainly don’t need another thing to fix around here. “I also had a question,” she adds.
I grab the bread off the fridge and slip a butter knife from the drying rack next to the sink. Two plates later, I’m grunting my encouragement for her to ask her question as I assemble the very plain turkey sandwiches.
Roe gives up on a real response and taps her fingers on the ledge of the counter. “Surprise visit and all, I don’t have a place to stay. Is the house at the end of the drive up for grabs?”
I wipe the mayo off the knife with a paper towel and dump the cutlery into the sink with a noisy clank. “Not this time,” I answer. “Someone will be moving in any day now.”
I keep my eyes averted as I hand her a plate before digging into my own sandwich. The calories settle the gnawing hunger in my stomach.
Roe knows about Scarlett. In fact, she was privy to a number of arguments on her visits to Miller Run. And unfortunately for me, having her around for all of that gave her unwavering opinions on my love life.
“You found someone?” Roe asks, hazel eyes brightening.
I pause, watching the cogs turn with my sandwich hovering inches from my mouth. One slip about the gender of the new hire, and Roe’s sure to take an interest. At the very least, she will begin meddling.
Since Scarlett, dating has become not only less frequent, but non-existent. It’s not easy to meet women when your life revolves around your job, and you refuse to date someone who hangs around your place of employment.
I watched my parents pour everything they had into the farm, only to divorce once they parted from it. They disagreed about everything—how to handle Rosemary’s wild years as a teenager, how to handle our personal finances outside of Miller run, how to handle love and family.
In fact, there wasn’t a single thing I remember my parents agreeing upon aside from the horses. Letting this place go meant letting their marriage go right along with it.
I saw similarities in Scarlett and decided it was something I never wanted for myself, so I put my head down and lost myself in work.
I’m still lost, I suppose. Roe would call it no fun and a real waste.
Not that she has ever been the type for relationships. Pursuing music in Nashville, Roe became just as goal-oriented as I did despite the disorganization to it all. She hardly ever has a plan—I have always been full of them.
I’ve wanted this place for as long as I can remember.
It’s home.
“Yeah,” I answer, before taking a bite of the sandwich in my hands.
“Well,” she starts, her boots thumping against the cabinet again. “Can I stay here then? I swear it won’t be for long. I wanted to see Mom and Dad tomorrow, and thought about visiting Avery for a bit.”
I shove the last bit of sandwich into my mouth, working to chew and swallow as I wipe my hands on the used paper towel from earlier. With more mayo clinging to my fingers than before, I take the last towel off the roll and use that instead.
I really need to go to the store.
“You drove all the way to Ohio from Nashville without any idea as to where you might stay?” I scold, knowing it’s nothing new.
Roe just chuckles. “I usually stay here.”
I pour a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge. “Could have asked in advance,” I mutter.
“Would you tell me no?” she questions, her eyes wide the way they’d get when we were younger, and she’d wanted me to take the fall for whatever mischief she’d gotten into. Despite her best efforts, she usually got caught, anyway.
I don’t answer her, and Roe pops off the counter like a whack-a-mole.
“There’s a girl, isn’t there!” she nearly squeals. “Oh, Mom is going to be so happy. Has she met her yet?”
I down the glass of water and set the mason jar in the sink. “No girl.” And just to ensure she isn’t suspicious, I add “And you’re always welcome to stay here.”
Roe’s eyes narrow as if she doesn’t believe me. “What if there was a girl?” she asks. “Would I be welcome then?”
I lean against the sink, fingertips tapping the countertop as I cross one ankle over the other. “Sure thing,” I say, fighting the smile flirting with my lips. “But I’d move to the guest bedroom. That way, we’re on the ground floor for anyone with sensitive ears.”
“Ew!” she yells, the word coming from somewhere deep in her chest. Roe grabs her sandwich and takes a big bite before setting it back down and turning to the door. “Watch that,” she says around her food. “I’m going to let Mud in. Don’t let him eat the rest of my sandwich.”
“You’ll have to whistle for him,” I toss toward her retreating back. “Damn dog’s been out all afternoon.”
When the screen door slams, I look around at the dirt littered across the floor, the pile of nails next to the sink serving as a reminder of the incomplete projects around the house.
I’ve really fallen behind as of late.
Running my hand down my face, I heave out a sigh. Maybe Rosemary will be willing to help out a bit, after all.
Instead of starting another project, I opt for the electric kettle and a tea bag from one of the poorly abused cabinets. I even grab the lone lemon from the fridge.
Tea and a book after a long day’s worth of work.
Thirty never felt quite so old.
Adjusting the wire-framed glasses on my nose, I squint at the book in my hand.
I’m about halfway through some historical fiction masterpiece that I suddenly can’t bring myself to focus on or care about.
I peel the glasses from my face and close the book around an old receipt.
The tea on my nightstand has long since gone cold, but I pick it up and drink anyway, hoping the chamomile will lead me into a pleasant sleep before I have to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
When the sound of pans banging in the kitchen makes Roe’s presence known, I realize I have at least one midnight snack left before I’ll be able to fall asleep.
At least her muttered “shit,” after one particularly loud noise, tells me she’s trying to be considerate. Roe’s personality is just too big to be contained. She takes up space. And while I find myself somewhat irritated by how nosy she can be, deep down, I truly admire her for it.
I’ve always found myself hyperfocusing on being competent and capable. Rosemary is more preoccupied with being present and alive. It doesn’t matter what other people think of her if she gets to do something she loves.
Grabbing my phone from the charger, I busy myself by scrolling through a number of emails.
My glasses now back on my face, I’m confronted with reminders of vet appointments, farrier bills, and client questions.
When I see a particularly harrowing email listing Scarlett Lowell as a possible trainer for one of my clients' horses, I close out of the app entirely.
On a whim, I open up Instagram, fully recognizing how neglected my personal page must look to the public.
The last picture I posted was from over five years ago. I’m sitting with Walt and my parents. Roe’s there too, holding a glass of water up next to our raised beers.
She’d been nineteen at the time and was pissed she couldn’t drink to the passing of the farm with us.
I remember how much joy I’d felt that night—knowing all I’d worked toward was about to become a reality. It was two months later that our parents let us know about the divorce.
It kind of soured the whole deal.
Curiosity nips at the back of my neck, and I don’t know why I do it, but I find myself typing Cassidy’s name in the search bar.
I tell myself it’s extra screening—a second background check, really.
She’s easy to find. Her profile picture is her smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around a man who is certainly not smiling. In fact, he stares at the camera as if he’s irritated, the expression betrayed by the twinkle in his brown eyes—the inverse of the clear June sky shade of Cassidy’s.
Upon further investigation, I find his name is Gus, and he is, in fact, her brother.
Her social media is full of photos of her friends and the sky. There are pictures of animals at what appears to be a shelter, snapshots of random wildflowers, and one from a bonfire last autumn.
Further down, I see a shot of her on a boat, head tossed back, laughing with a glass of champagne in her hand. The man next to her gives the camera a tight smile, as if the entire experience of having Cassidy laugh that loudly displeases him.
I can’t imagine that would be the case.
Staring at the image, I zoom in, noting the few freckles dusting her cheeks. She hadn’t had those the other day, but she has a tan in the photo. I wonder if those freckles will come out the more time she spends in the sun—the more time she spends here.
I zoom out to look at the date and adjust my glasses. “Goddamn,” I whisper, realizing I’d scrolled back nearly two years.
As if I’m a teen getting caught watching porn for the first time, I glance at the door to check that Roe is not there and zoom in.
Yep, definitely light freckles. A few darker ones kiss the side of her throat, and one is still visible by her collarbone. I wonder if there are more covered by the white, linen dress blowing in the wind on the boat.
A large heart appears on the screen, and mine drops into the basement of the farmhouse, ready to take up residence with the monsters I feared as a kid.
“Shit,” I mutter, tapping again to remove it. “Shit!” I say a bit louder when it appears I’m just liking the photo over and over again.
I exit out of the app as if it’ll undo my mistake.
Leaning back against the pillows, I blow out a breath and rub my eyes.
“That doesn’t look good,” I say to the empty room as I debate how to handle this situation tomorrow. I opt for ignoring it entirely.
“Wes?” Roe hollers from downstairs.
“What?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.“Yes! What do you need, Rosemary?”
Her yelled response calls up the stairs. “Don’t call me by my government name!” she yells. “Who are you talking to?”
“Myself,” I grunt.
Roe chuckles, the sound bouncing off the walls of the hallway. “I don’t believe you, but whatever! I’m going to bed.”
“Night, Spike!” I yell, settling back further into the bed.
There’s a very real possibility that Cassidy Summers will take one look at her social media and quit. If she does, we can skip over any kind of uncomfortable conversation.
Or maybe she has so many people liking her photos that notification will get lost in a sea of endless praise.
Unfortunately for me, if she quits, my desperation for help around here will increase tenfold, and I don’t know that I can bear that.
I close my eyes, letting the chamomile tea finally work its way into my bloodstream—or whatever the stuff does to make sleep come easier.
Either way, a minute or so in, and I’m out like a light.