Kate
Between calculated sips of tea and mouse-like nibbles of scone, I stave off the nausea gurgling low in my throat. Though it’s bright enough to have everyone at the table squinting slightly, the window frost is so thick I can’t feel the warmth of the sunrays despite the way they cloak me.
One by one, ranch hands grab their bagged lunches, fill dented travel mugs with coffee—one of the first things I had an aversion to, hence the tea—and wearily heckle each other in the large kitchen.
In the middle of a strategic slow trickle of tea down my throat, I glance over the rim of my mug in time to watch Rhett pick his nose and wipe it on Odessa’s forearm, which is swiftly followed up by an attempted spoon-stabbing in retaliation.
If it were a knife, or maybe even a fork, I’d intervene.
This morning I’m too exhausted, and the last thing I want to deal with is the two of them arguing, so I pretend not to notice.
“Mom-uh.”
I loathe the additional syllable Odessa’s started adding to the ends of words when she’s annoyed.
So much for me not getting involved.
Odessa whines while wiping her brother’s snot off on his shirt. “He’s being disgusting.”
Rhett’s unfazed. He’s focused solely on driving a salt grinder around the table like it’s a truck.
I set my mug down with an exhale. “Odessa, why don’t you go down to the barn and help your dad so you two can get on the road sooner?”
Her lips purse. “Does that earn me more money toward the horse I’m gonna buy?”
“It earns you grace for trying to stab your brother, so you don’t have to sit in your room grounded for the rest of spring break.”
“But he started—”
I tilt my head, giving her the look. The one that means I’m not fucking around. The one that all of our ranch hands know not to argue with. The one that’s landed me in a fight or two with women who didn’t understand when to quit running their mouth.
The chair makes a grating nose as Odessa pushes back from the table, rolling her eyes. “Fine-uh.”
In socked feet, she tromps across the floor, clearly doing her best to cause a scene.
Though nobody notices, since there’s still half a dozen cowboys lingering around the island, scarfing down scones and coffee before they start their day.
They should consider themselves lucky that Austin, the eldest Wells brother, isn’t here yet.
He doesn’t exactly appreciate dillydallying.
The scone and tea seem to be sitting fine, so I leave Rhett to happily play pretend at the table and begin cleaning up the mess my hurricane-force family left behind.
It’s merely the start of a long day around here.
Baking homemade bread for sandwiches, driving an hour and a half away to Sheridan—the closest small city with large enough grocery stores to feed our entire crew—then assembling tomorrow’s bagged lunches for twenty cowboys.
Not to mention, the bunkhouses we have on site for the guys need to be cleaned.
And to think I used to do it all myself.
Though the number of “ranch wives” has increased exponentially in the last few years, the work seems never ending.
Maybe it’s because of all the extra kids.
Though Denny and his wife, Blair, live in the town of Wells Canyon now, she’s here with their toddler almost daily.
Blair’s best friend, Cassidy, married our ranch foreman, Red, and because she runs her own leatherworking business, she has the flexibility to be here as often as she wants.
Austin’s wife, Cecily, works in the kitchen full time with Beryl…
at least, she will until she gives birth in a few months.
It’s truly a family-run ranch in every sense of the word. Fresh out of my care-aide program in college, I moved here to provide hospice care to the Wells family matriarch, Lucy. And from the moment I stepped foot on this property, I knew it was someplace special. A place I’d never want to leave.
Not only because of the stunning sunsets that cloak the valley in a golden glow, or the crisp mountain air, or even the overwhelming feeling of being away from it all. The Wells family took me in and filled my life with so much joy, even as they were losing the source of theirs.
And it just so happened that Lucy’s middle son, Jackson, was my soulmate.
We fell in love sitting in this very kitchen, talking for hours over chamomile tea when neither of us could sleep.
Somehow it seems fitting that Lucy was my one and only patient, because no other job placement would’ve felt right after that.
I stare down at the suds gathered in my hands, realizing I apparently zoned out in the middle of washing up.
Who knows how long I’ve been standing here, water at full blast into the farmhouse-style sink, slippery hands wringing together.
After a quick rinse, I shut the tap off and head to the pantry.
Bread time.
I could make sandwich loaves with my eyes closed. And on a day like today, that sounds lovely. Get some rest and be productive.
“You look a little pale, honey.” Beryl wipes a damp cloth over the countertop, collecting stray crumbs the cowboys left in their wake. “Still sick?”
I shake my head, reaching behind me to tie the ivory apron strings in a neat bow at the small of my back. “Just need a couple good nights to get back to one hundred percent.”
“Well, good thing it’s only you and Rhett tonight. Make sure you get to bed the same time he does.”
I suspect she knows the real reason behind my sudden paleness and lack of energy, but I promised Jackson we’d tell everyone together after he gets home tomorrow night. And I’m grateful Beryl doesn’t push it further, instead resuming her morning routine.
“Can we listen to music?” Rhett pipes up from the table where he’s intently focused on folding a paper napkin into something. A boat? A swan? A pirate’s hat?
Without a single second of hesitation, Beryl’s tapping the power button on a small black Bluetooth speaker. “Great idea, baby.”
Rhett’s thrilled when we start with his favorite song by a talking cartoon snowman.
He’s seated at the kitchen table, looking like a miniature version of his father, with a slight wave in his brown hair, curious almond eyes, and a tall-yet-stocky build.
He sings along—loud and off-key—squinting out at the scant traces of snow left on the ground, feet merrily swinging under the table.
After a few moments, Rhett busies himself with stacking wood blocks into a precarious tower on the floor. And Beryl moves with quiet efficiency behind me, checking items off the grocery list and muttering under her breath when she can’t remember if we’re out of baking powder or baking soda.
It’s peaceful, in its own chaotic, domestic way. The rhythm of shaping bread is oddly meditative. Roll, tuck, turn, set aside. The counter’s quickly filled with soft, rounded mounds of dough.
“Morning!” Cecily’s voice cuts through the music as she steps inside, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, cheeks flushed from the cold, or maybe it’s that pregnant glow she wears like it’s natural. Of course she looks effortlessly radiant in a stretched-out T-shirt and leggings.
“Morning, honey,” Beryl says as she looks up from the multi-page shopping list she’s scribbling at the kitchen table. “Need anything from the grocery store?”
I do a double take, eyes cutting from Cecily to Beryl. “Wait—I thought I was going today?”
She gives me a look that dares me to argue.
“No, ma’am. Nope, you’re going to take a long nap after the bread is done.
With this one”—she hooks a thumb toward Cecily, who’s tugging the hem of her shirt down to try and cover her exposed stomach—“just about into her third trimester, we need you healthy.”
“Okay, well, I’m not a napper. But I appreciate the sentiment.” I pick at dried dough around my nail beds. “I’m perfectly healthy. No need to worry about me.”
The front door closes with a slam that reverberates through the hundred-year-old farmhouse, vibrating in the old floorboards and echoing through thin walls.
It’s followed by heavy footsteps, and Austin Wells steps into the room.
Hair still damp from the shower, wearing a long-sleeve navy plaid shirt, and with his signature scowl already in place.
He instinctively moves toward his wife, spreading a large hand across her round baby bump and planting a kiss on top of her head. Austin’s grumpy, gruff demeanor shifts when she’s around. It’s not dramatic, but to those of us who have known him for years, it’s noticeable. It’s good.
“Coffee’s fresh,” Beryl says.
“Smells like a bakery in here.” Grabbing his usual mug from the cabinet, he makes a beeline for the coffeepot.
Beryl shrugs. “With how much your guys eat, that’s basically what this place is.”
He pours the steaming dark roast into his cup. “Could always buy the cheapest bread they have at the grocery store instead.”
Cecily gasps, wide eyes trained on her husband. “How could you suggest that? Kate’s bread has ruined me for anything else. I could…Wow. I could actually cry thinking about not having fresh bread every day.”
I throw my hands up, laughing. “Great, Aus. Now you’re gonna make your pregnant wife cry.”
“Jesus Christ. It was a suggestion. Ignore me. Just a stupid man here.”
“Hey, you said it.” I shrug impishly.
Austin starts toward his usual spot at the kitchen table.
Even before Cecily came into his life, he spent mornings here with Beryl and me.
He takes ranch phone calls, pores over financial paperwork, or reads his cattlemen’s magazine.
He’s never been one to socialize with the ranch hands, so there were many times over the years when Beryl and I were the only people he talked to for days on end.
He trips over Rhett’s blocks, fumbling his coffee mug, and miraculously catches himself before he’s spilled a single drop. “Seriously, buddy? In the middle of the floor? Come on.”
“I’m building a tower.”
“Great.” Austin exhales, settling into his seat. “But can we not build it in the middle of the highway?”
Rhett grumbles but pushes his blocks a few inches to the left.
The tea and scone did the trick for a while, but nausea is curling in my stomach again, and I need a minute to sit.
At that moment, someone flies through the front door of the big house, and their heavy panting breath is heard throughout the kitchen long before they’ve reached us.
“Kate,” a man shouts from the hallway. Red appears in the doorway in filthy jeans and a tattered plaid button-up, his face flushed and hair disheveled. “Kate. Austin. You need to come.”
“What’s going on?” Austin’s mug clunks against the tabletop.
There’s nothing but the steady stream of the kitchen faucet and the smell of fresh bread and my hands are dripping water across the floor.
“There’s been an accident.”