Chapter 7
Seven
WE’RE SO GLAD YOU’RE NOT A WEIRDO.
KINSLEY
I’m almost to Gritstone and I've second guessed this move at least once every mile.
Not because of the job—I can handle land rights and federal bureaucrats in my sleep. It's everything else. Like the fact that my father works somewhere in this town, and that I might actually run into him.
Or that Wyatt Halloway happens to be my new client's son. I’m not even sure why I’m worried about that. Wyatt’s on the rodeo trail. Nothing to stress about.
I'm grateful my truck handles the mountain curves without complaint—one less thing to think about.
The road crests, and there it is—Gritstone, Colorado.
Holy wow.
The town sits in the valley like a painting, a picture so pretty you’d never believe it was real.
I ease off the gas pedal trying to take it all in.
The afternoon sun beams down on Main Street.
Brick buildings boast of history and character, the streets wide enough to drive cattle down, and actual hitching posts in front of some stores.
There are lampposts lining the walks with hanging pots of Petunias.
It’s timeless and somehow modern at the same time.
I’m trying not to gawk like a total tourist when a hand-painted sign catches my eye: "Sweet Surrender Chocolates—Fresh Caramel Apples Daily.
" The storefront is painted sunshine yellow with flower boxes under the windows, and there's a little bell hanging over the door that probably rings when customers walk in.
The striped awning is new, and the sign is shellacked within an inch of its life.
For about three seconds I let myself imagine walking in there and buying a caramel apple. I glance in my rearview and all I see is the horse trailer—there’s no way I’m stopping. Rebel’s been cooped up long enough.
I shake off my desire—the shop will be here next week and I'm here to work, not to have some quarter-life crisis over candy. I don't chase my latest fancy like my father did. I may have his genes, but I have ten times the smarts he ever did.
I curse at the steering wheel as I realize that my father is somewhere in this town right now. Twenty-seven years, and we've never had a real conversation. Not one.
Part of me wonders what would happen if we actually came face to face while I’m in town. Would he recognize me? Would he feel even a tiny bit of regret for missing, oh, everything?
I follow the truck’s map, trying not to think about my father or the fact that Gritstone is Wyatt Halloway’s hometown.
It’s stupid to keep thinking about the bull rider, even if he singled me out in the crowd after his ride in Cheyenne.
I swear he looked at me from the arena like I was the only woman there.
Eventually I come to a gravel drive which winds through towering pines before opening up to something that makes me slow the truck to a crawl.
Hello, heaven.
Stonegate Ranch spreads out in front of me and my breath hitches—rolling pastures stretching toward the Colorado Rockies, which are way bigger and more intimidating than I expected.
The Blue River cuts through the landscape, catching the afternoon sun, with cottonwoods lining the banks, cotton drifting like summer snow.
But it's the gate that actually makes me stop the truck completely.
Two massive stone pillars rise on either side of the entrance; built from the same blue-gray rock I can see jutting out along the riverbank.
A thick timber beam connects them, weathered and solid, with "Stonegate Ranch" carved into the wood in letters.
Beyond the gate, dirt roads crisscross the property, leading to a cluster of buildings that look like they've grown up from the land itself.
Driving a little further, the first house I come to, the guest cottage I’ll be staying in, looks exactly the way Sarah said it would.
The white clapboard siding, blue shutters, and cozy porch make me think of sunsets and long conversations.
I pull my rig to a stop next to a wooden fence and before I can turn off the engine, the front door opens, and two women step out.
The first has dark brown hair, light gray eyes, and a smile that feels genuine. She's probably late twenties like me, but there's something about her that seems more settled, more sure.
Where the first is all quiet confidence, this second one radiates warmth like a campfire. Honey-brown hair escapes from a messy braid, sun-kissed freckles dust her cheeks, and when she smiles, it lights up her whole face.
"You must be Kinsley," the first woman calls out as I climb down from the truck. "I'm Brook Halloway, and this is my friend Hailey."
Brook Halloway. She was in one of the family photos I found when I was researching Wyatt online. There's another sister around here somewhere—a caboose in the family—but it's not Hailey.
"Nice to meet you," Hailey says with a Southern drawl that makes me think of magnolias and moss-covered trees.
"Mom had to run into town for a meeting," Brook continues, "so we volunteered to get you settled. Hope that's okay."
"More than okay," I say, and I'm surprised to find I actually mean it. I'd like to get my feet under me before seeing Sarah again. We've talked and texted over the last ten days, mostly about the logistics of moving, but she's my boss and I want to have my tack stowed before getting to work.
"Let's get you unpacked," Hailey says, already heading toward my trailer.
“There's a temporary paddock ready if you want to turn your horse out there for now. The big barn is a little further up the road past the main house. We can help you get her settled after we unload," Brook smiles. "Mom said you have a gorgeous barrel horse."
"That’s nice of her to say." I open the trailer and step in to back Rebel out. She's more than ready to be done with this ride and prances like she’s proving a point. "They say the way to a cowgirl's heart is to compliment her horse."
Brook chuckles. "Ain't that the truth." She looks Rebel over and gives a low whistle.
I laugh as we walk down to the field behind the cottage. There’s a small enclosure with an automatic waterer. I lead Rebel in and undo her halter. She trots around, bucks and kicks, then sniffs out the new territory. Soon, she settles down and starts eating.
We head back to the cottage, and they help me unload.
"This place is incredible," I tell them as we carry the last of my bags up to the porch.
"Back when Grandma decided they needed a guest house; Mom helped them remodel the cottage.” Brook explains. “You wouldn't believe who has stayed here over the years. Everyone from Hollywood heartthrobs to politicians."
The inside is every bit as inviting as the outside—hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, light paint. It's the kind of place that makes you want to kick off your boots and stay awhile.
"Kitchen's fully stocked," Hailey says, opening cabinets to show me where everything is. "Bathroom too. I left you a full product sample from my new line of apple-based skin-care products."
I cock my head. "Your what now?"
She blushes modestly. "I'm a master esthetician and I'm always mixing up something to protect against sun exposure—do you know what the altitude is here? We need to feed our skin all the glorious things it needs to be vibrant."
I look back and forth between the two of them. "Okay, that explains why you both glow."
Brook laughs. "That and the Snowcap Creamery in town—totally addictive!"
Hailey leans in and says quietly. "She says cream is good for the skin, but I keep telling her that's only when you put it on, not when you eat it by the pint."
"And I keep telling her," Brook points towards Hailey, obviously having heard everything, "that you have to feed your skin from the inside out as much as you do from the outside in."
"You can lead a friend to ice cream, but you can't make her eat," I quip. Seeing these two and their easy back and forth makes me miss Jess. I'm giving her a video tour of this house tonight.
Brook throws her hands at me. "Thank goodness you're here. If we gang up on her, we might save her from a life without any happiness."
Hailey rolls her eyes.
Brook wrinkles her nose. "But seriously, if you need anything—and I mean anything—we're renting a house from the neighbor while he's deployed. We’re just over the ridge. Easy to find us."
Something flickers across Brook's face at the mention of the neighbor, but it's gone so fast I might have imagined it.
"Thank you," I say. "Both of you. This is really nice."
Brook smiles. “You’re welcome. We’re glad you're here.”
Hailey pipes in. “And we’re so glad you’re not a weirdo.”
I laugh. “You just met me, so maybe hold onto your verdict for a week or two.”
“Not necessary. Mom’s a pretty good judge of character.” Brook takes a seat on a bar stool.
Well, that’s good to know. “So, what do you do for fun in Gritstone?” I ask, ready for a change of subject.
Brook laughs. "Work."
Hailey shoots her a look. "Movies, bon fires, and there's a swing dancing club open on Fridays and Saturdays if you're into that sort of thing."
I look back and forth between them. "I wouldn’t mind going sometime.” I promised Jess I’d do something other than work while I was here.
“The club’s a good place to meet people.
” Hailey’s brow arches. “Not that I’m looking for anyone in particular.
I've got a husband I've been mad at for over a year now.
" She holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers.
A plain, thin silver band glints in the sunlight.
"But I'm not ready to replace him just yet.
" She lifts a shoulder and then ducks into the fridge to pull out a pitcher of iced tea.
I turn to Brook, and she shrugs. "I grew up in this town. If there's a man worth marrying within city limits, I would know him."