Chapter 11
Brookes
I watch the familiar landscape roll by as we turn onto the long dirt road leading home.
Mason drives the truck ahead with most of Janey’s things, while I ride beside her in her car.
Even though we’ve been talking most of the way, I can sense her nerves.
Her hands keep shifting on the steering wheel, her thumbs brushing over the leather like she’s trying to smooth her thoughts flat.
I speak gently, giving her an honest picture of what she’s about to walk into.
“You’ll meet a couple of the ranch hands today,” I tell her.
“They’re solid guys. They’ve already handled the morning dairy chores, so the barn should be quiet.
” I glance over at her. “The house… well, it’s lived-in.
We didn’t have time to clean before we left yesterday.
I’m a little mortified about that, but I’d rather you see us as we really are. ”
Janey glances over at me with a small smile. “I don’t expect perfection, Brookes.”
“Good.” I rub the back of my neck. “Because you won’t get it. We want you to see the real version of our life here. The good and the messy. If you’re ever going to consider staying with us, it has to be because you love the real thing, not some cleaned-up fantasy.”
She nods. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Despite what happened last night, she’s still as wary as she was when we were texting. Even though so much has changed, she’s still holding herself back. I don’t know what it’ll take to get her to change her mind.
I let the silence settle again as the main house comes into view.
We pull up beside the truck. Mason’s already waiting, leaning against the hood, trying to look casual and failing because he keeps watching Janey like he’s afraid she might change her mind and drive away.
The house stands solid and familiar, a two-story white clapboard with a deep wraparound porch.
The paint is fading in places, and one shutter hangs slightly crooked, but it’s sturdy and reliable.
There are boots lined up by the steps, and two rocking chairs angled toward the pasture where they’ve been keeping watch on the same spot for years.
I climb out and round the vehicle to open Janey’s door for her. She steps out slowly, taking everything in.
“Welcome to Fletcher Ranch,” I say.
Mason joins us, carrying one of her smaller bags. “It’s not fancy, but it’s ours.”
She lingers to take in the house, pivoting to view the surrounding land and buildings. I wish I could hear what she’s thinking. I hope it’s positive.
We lead her inside.
The moment we step through the front door, the familiar scent of home hits me: coffee, old leather, woodsmoke, and that faint trace of hay that never quite leaves, no matter how strict we are about taking our boots off outside.
The living room is comfortable but cluttered.
Worn leather couches face the big stone fireplace.
Bookshelves overflow with ranch manuals and dog-eared novels.
One of my flannel shirts is tossed over the back of a chair.
“Sorry about the mess,” I mutter, feeling a flicker of embarrassment. “We’re not used to having female company over.”
Janey’s eyes move slowly over the space. “It feels like a real home,” she says softly. “I like it.”
I hadn’t realized how badly I needed her to feel that way.
Buck, our old mutt, lumbers from his bed, his arthritic legs taking a while to warm up as he drags himself over to inspect the visitor.
Janey immediately drops to her haunches, letting Buck sniff her hand, and then petting his rough, gray fur on the back of his neck hard enough to make the poor bastard's eyes roll.
Yeah, dude. I know how good it feels to be touched by those hands.
Mason shakes his head and whistles. “She’s got Buck eating out of the palm of her hand. He’s usually an ornery old mutt.”
“He isn’t ornery. He’s friendly and very handsome.”
Mason huffs, and I laugh.
“It’s okay, fool,” I say. “It isn’t a competition. She still thinks you’re handsome, too.”
We show her around. The kitchen has a large wooden table that’s seen decades of meals, an old but reliable stove, and wide windows overlooking the back pasture.
In the family room, Janey drifts towards the books, her hands drifting across the spines of the older volumes. She pulls out a small, leather-bound book and opens the cover. “Who’s Melissa Fletcher?”
“Our grandmother,” I say.
“She liked poetry?”
“I guess. There are a lot of old things in this house we should probably toss.”
“No. Old things are your family's history.”
She replaces the book and follows us into the hallway.
Upstairs, there are four bedrooms and a bathroom that could use updating. We give her the biggest guest room with the most light and a small balcony facing the fields.
Mason sets her bag barely inside the door like he’s afraid of crossing too far into her space, even though it’s technically our space.
It’s strange and uncomfortable to see my big, gruff brother treading on eggshells.
I think Janey notices it too, because she moves to the balcony and encourages us to join her.
“Look at that view,” she says. “So much wild, open space.”
“The sunsets are spectacular from up here,” I say.
She nods, rubbing her upper arm as she contemplates.
After she freshens up, we take her outside to get a close-up view of the land.
The ranch spreads out around us in gentle green waves. Sturdy fencing lines the pastures, and the big red barn stands proudly near the corral. A couple of ranch hands are working near the equipment shed. I introduce her to Hank and Riley, and they tip their hats politely, curious but respectful.
Hank keeps his questions to himself, which I appreciate. Riley gives Janey a friendly nod, then goes right back to checking a hydraulic line on the tractor.
We walk her through the barn, where she meets the horses. When we reach the last stall, I stop.
“This is Mabel,” I say, nodding at the big, gentle sorrel mare who pokes her head out with soft curiosity. “She’s older, sweet as pie, and about as bombproof as they come. Thought she might suit you.”
Janey’s face lights up as she lets Mabel sniff her hand. “She’s lovely.”
Mason grins. “We figured we’d saddle up and show you a bit more of the land if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Yeah. That sounds great.”
We ride out together with Janey on Mabel, Mason on his big bay, Bandit, and me on my gray gelding I named Storm. The air feels fresh, and the land looks good this time of year. We keep the pace easy, letting Janey settle into the saddle.
At first, she’s quiet. She takes in the low hills, the cattle grazing near the creek, and the old oak standing alone at the rise. Every now and then, her hand drops to Mabel’s neck to pat and caress, and the mare flicks an ear back like she’s listening.
About twenty minutes in, we spot one of our older cows standing apart from the herd. She’s clearly in distress, her sides heaving, straining hard with a calf halfway born and stuck.
Janey doesn’t hesitate, sliding from the horse in one smooth motion and hooking the reins over a fence post. The uncertainty that’s been clouding her expression disappears so quickly it almost steals my breath.
One second, she’s a woman trying to find her place in a shifting world. The next, she’s all focus and instinct.
She moves straight toward the cow with calm confidence.
“Brookes, hold her head,” she says, already assessing the situation. “Mason, go back to my car and get my vet bag. The black one in the trunk. Quickly.”
Mason spins his horse and gallops away.
I move in to help, murmuring soothing words to the laboring cow while Janey works with quiet efficiency. Her voice is calm as she talks to the animal. When Mason returns at a run with her bag, she pulls on gloves, lubes up, and carefully repositions the calf.
I watch her in quiet awe.
With pure confidence and competence, she guides the calf through the birth canal. A few minutes later, a wet, wobbly little heifer slides onto the grass and lets out her first shaky cry. The mother begins cleaning the newborn, lowing softly.
Janey steps back, stripping off her gloves. There’s a small, satisfied smile on her face despite the mess on her clothes and arms.
“Nice work, Doc,” I say, unable to hide the admiration in my voice.
I might have handled it. Maybe Mason would’ve, too. We’ve had to learn to deal with the less complicated issues. But not with the professionalism that Janey showed. She has such a gentle way with animals that makes them calm and easy to manage.
She looks over at me, breathless and flushed, with loose strands of hair stuck to her cheek and sunlight catching in her eyes.
“Thanks,” she says.
Mason stands there holding her bag, staring at her with new eyes.
I know the feeling.
She really is something.
Watching her today, all calm, capable, and completely in her element, makes one thing crystal clear.
Having Janey here permanently wouldn’t only be good for her and the baby.
It wouldn’t just make this house less empty or give Mason and me more to protect besides land and livestock and old family promises. It would be damn good for us too.
This isn’t about how much she needs us, but how much we already need her.