Chapter 3
Through taciturn statements and grunted affirmatives, Grace learns Halcyon Ranch is just south of two hundred thousand acres. It’s nearly a third of the size of Rhode Island. It has its own zip code.
“What was it like,” Grace asks, her body angled almost entirely toward the passenger window, “growing up here?”
Crew doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t huff out a humorless laugh like he has in response to some of her other questions.
Grace sneaks a glance at him over her shoulder, and he looks pensive.
After another beat of silence, he seems to remember himself as he grumbles, “Lotta shit shovelin’ and lawn mowin’. ”
Grace refrains from rolling her eyes. “Really?”
“Thought you’d worked on a ranch before,” he says, side-eyeing her.
“This ranch, compared to Braxton…” Grace shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
He grunts and starts to tap his thumb against the steering wheel in rhythm with the George Strait song now playing on the radio. “You get used to it.”
She gives him one last glance before turning back to the window, still in awe of the way the hills seem to go on forever. No, she thinks—she isn’t sure she ever could.
Eventually, a structure on the horizon line comes into view.
A log cabin at its heart, but in reality, it’s something straight out of one of those fancy architecture magazines.
Tall roofs, artful dormers, lined with cobblestone and dark, lush wood siding.
All coming together to make a storybook mansion, the biggest and nicest house Grace has ever seen with her own eyes.
“Wow,” she blurts out when they turn onto the quarter-mile-long driveway.
Gravel crunches under the truck’s giant tires almost comically, as if it ever stood a chance against the steel-strong rubber.
“Don’t get too excited,” Crew says. He jerks his chin toward a different house in the distance, one decidedly less magnificent than the one ahead. “You get the job, that’s where you’ll be living.”
It’s a barn—whether it was actually ever used as one before is unclear—with stark-white shiplap, black eaves, and a giant H on the side.
Crew doesn’t—can’t—understand how even this barn-turned-bunkhouse would possibly be the nicest place Grace has ever lived.
She hasn’t even seen the inside of it, but she knows it’s far and away better than the bunkhouse at Braxton, which was basically a tiny sauna that stunk constantly of mildew and stale armpit.
The digs here look spacious and new, built in this century.
Probably even air-conditioned, and she’d be willing to bet the mattresses don’t feel like they’re stuffed with hay.
“Looks all right to me,” Grace counters quietly.
A grid of large, well-maintained paddocks spans the area between the bunkhouse and the stables, and it’s obvious already that Halcyon takes better care of its horses than Braxton could ever hope to. They probably grow their alfalfa from the finest soil and have an equine vet on retainer.
They pull up to the house and park next to two trucks identical to Crew’s, all bearing the same flourishing H as the bunkhouse on their driver-side doors.
It’s strange to be thrust so quickly into a place where money is clearly not a concern, where everything in sight drips of wealth and prosperity.
The awe of it must be all over Grace’s face, because when Crew shuts off the truck and makes to get out, he does a double take after he looks at her.
Leaning in to rest his arm on the center console, he says, “It’s just a house. ”
Grace barks a laugh, peeling her eyes from the house to gape at him. “I wouldn’t call it a house. It’s a freaking ski lodge.”
His lips twitch. “You ever been to a ski lodge?”
Her mouth snaps shut, and her eyes narrow. “No, but I’ve seen one on TV.”
Crew nods toward the passenger door. “C’mon,” he says, reaching for his hat where it lies on the back seat. He pops it on, then opens his own door and steps out. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Somehow, the interior of the house is even more gorgeous than the exterior.
It shouldn’t surprise Grace—Renata Caldwell is a woman of impeccable taste, and though Grace knows next to nothing about interior design and styling, it’s evident that great care and thoughtfulness has gone into every inch of the home.
There’s such refinement to it, an ease and sophistication that doesn’t scream old money but whispers it elegantly, a comforting caress across your cheek instead of a slap.
The cherrywood floors squeak with every step Grace takes through the foyer, which leads into a sitting room complete with dark brown leather couches covered in plush, soft-looking pillows.
Taking in the art on the walls, the shelves lined with hundreds of books and gilded trinkets, Grace notices a shelf dedicated to framed pictures, all varying in sizes and shapes.
She takes a few steps closer to get a better look, seeing first that there are three large frames with three similar-looking portraits—school pictures.
The one on the far left looks a lot like Crew, though he had yet to build the muscle that would eventually complement his too-tall frame.
In the photo, he looks like he’s all limbs, and the smirk on his mouth is far less serious than anything she’s seen on the man she’s encountered today.
But it’s the eyes that give him away, signaling that it’s definitely him—as dark and discerning as they are now, and far deeper than any belonging to a teenager.
Next to Crew’s photo is one of a girl, and it’s uncanny how much she looks like Renata.
Though her teeth are covered in braces and there are stubborn sprinkles of acne on her cheeks, Grace knows immediately, in the same undeniable way she recognized Crew, that the girl is Renata’s daughter and Crew’s sister.
And the last of the three—another boy, the youngest and most carefree of them all.
He’s smiling wide, showing off a gap where a canine baby tooth used to be, and his eyes are alight with joy and mischief.
Grace smiles, wondering how long it must’ve taken him to sit still for the photograph.
Though it’s not visible from where she stands, the kitchen can’t be far off, because a delicious, savory smell hits Grace’s nose and a pang of hunger throbs in her belly.
She’s been so caught up in the magic of the house that she hasn’t noticed Crew leaning against the threshold, hands in his pockets.
Watching her. A flare of self-consciousness sparks under his scrutiny, and Grace folds her arms over her chest as she says, “Nice place you’ve got here. ”
Crew lifts a shoulder—a gesture Grace is beginning to notice he is wont to do. “It’s not mine. I live up the hill.”
It’s a different version of I’m not rich; my parents are rich—such a typical response from someone with generational wealth that she almost has to laugh.
“Right,” Grace says, nodding. “I’m sure it’s a real fixer-upper.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and he appears to be gearing up for a retort when he’s cut off by the click of heels against the wood floor.
Renata Caldwell bursts into the room seconds later, her entire face lighting up in a sparkling grin as soon as she sees Grace.
“Grace, ah—honey, I’m so glad you made it,” she exclaims melodically, walking directly into Grace’s immediate space and wrapping her up in a hug that is surprisingly firm for such a petite woman.
It lasts about five seconds longer than Grace expects it to, and when the woman finally pulls back, she’s still grinning from ear to ear.
“My son didn’t give you any trouble, did he?
He’s a real curmudgeon, but we love him for it.
” She doesn’t look at him when she asks this; Grace looks over his mother’s shoulder to see Crew ruefully shaking his head.
“Not at all,” Grace replies, returning Renata’s smile with a small, reserved one of her own. “I appreciated the ride. I didn’t think you’d bring me out so quickly.”
Renata nods, then takes a step back. “I hope it’s all right. We have a stud who needs some serious work.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Grace says. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
“You hungry, honey? Ronnie cooked up some enchiladas, rice and beans, and sopapillas. But if you’re not a Tex-Mex person, she can make you whatever you like.”
The little upturn of Grace’s lips, that conservative smile she keeps on for the sake of politeness, evolves into a real, full-blown grin.
It’s been three months of eating cheeseburgers and tacos out of greasy paper bags; the thought of a homemade meal has her practically salivating. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
Renata waves a hand, encouraging Grace to follow.
She leads her into a dining room, bright with natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows and anchored by an enormous table that’s really just a giant slab of what looks like unfinished mahogany, deeply red and rustic with industrial bolts scattered about the middle.
Two seats at the table are already occupied—an older gentleman at the head, dressed smartly in an expertly starched pearl-snap shirt, and a younger, scruffier man to his left, two seats down.
They’re leaning in to talk to each other, not yet noticing the new people in the room, and Grace recognizes similarities in the way they both smile—wryly, slowly, like they’re hard-earned and always brief. It reminds her of someone…
She turns around then, catching Crew’s eyes as he makes his way toward the table, lingering behind them by a few steps.
The puzzle pieces fall into place, and Grace looks back to the table, now understanding this must be his father, and this appears to be the grown-up version of the other boy from the photographs—the younger brother, surely.
They all look too much alike to be anything but immediate family.