Chapter 13 Oil, Inheritance, and His Other Life #2
Emmy’s got a little broom and she’s sweeping near the stalls with a concentration that makes me grin. “You’re hired,” I tell her.
“I want five dollars,” she says seriously.
I glance at Avery, who laughs. “She drives a hard bargain.”
After the barn, we move to the chicken coop.
It’s been overrun with cobwebs and a few angry hens, but Harper’s not afraid to throw open the door and start tossing out old feed sacks.
Emmy sticks close to her, wearing gloves three sizes too big and chattering about how she wants to name all the chickens.
“Especially that one,” she points to the meanest hen. “That’s Priscilla. She’s spicy.”
Avery wipes sweat from her brow, watching her daughter with a fond, tired smile. “She’s definitely mine.”
By midday, we break for sandwiches on the porch. The siding on the house is nearly finished, white boards with bold black trim that make it look straight out of a magazine farm style. The only thing left is the stonework, stacked neatly in pallets beside the driveway, waiting to be installed.
I lean back against the railing, sandwich in one hand, watching Avery glance over the place like she’s seeing it through new eyes.
“When the house is done,” she says, “we’ll finish the inside. Then move on to the bunkhouses and finish the barns right.”
I nod. “One thing at a time. But we’re getting there.”
She turns to me, eyes glowing with that mix of exhaustion and satisfaction that only a day of honest work can bring. “You think my dad would’ve liked what we’re doing?” I ask, my voice quieter than I expected.
My throat tightens a little as I watch Avery glance around, her fingers still curled around the sandwich crust.
I stood next to Jack on that hill, sweaty and tired, covered in dirt and paint, but proud. We took evening rides a lot growing up. Those memories hit hard now, sharper than I thought they would. I feel the weight of carrying on his dream, for her, for Emmy, for all of us.
I look out across the land, the bright siding, the half-cleared barnyard, the brilliant flower boxes and landscaping around the house “Yeah. I think he’d be damn proud.”
We’re sitting on the porch, Emmy nibbling on some gummy bears, when the sound of tires crunching over gravel pulls all our attention toward the drive.
A dusty blue SUV rolls up, its engine rattling to a stop before the door swings open. And out steps Carol Whitaker, the neighborhood’s self-appointed welcome committee, gossip queen, and professional meddler.
She adjusts her oversized sunglasses, even though the sun’s nearly behind the house, and waves like she’s just caught us returning from church. “Well, well. Look at this crew. Didn’t know the Blake Ranch had a full-blown renovation underway.”
Harper mutters, “Brace yourselves,” and stands with her hands on her hips.
Carol’s eyes take in everything, the scaffolding, the siding, the stack of stone, the muddy boots lined up by the porch steps. Her smile stretches, tight as her hairspray. “and Cash,” she says, stepping toward me. “haven't see you for awhile”
I shake her hand, firm and quick. “Ma’am.”
“Avery,” she turns, practically buzzing with curiosity. “Jack would’ve never believed it. You back here, turning this place around. Makes for quite the glorious return.”
Avery lifts her chin. “Nice to see you, Carol.”
“I just had to swing by,” Carol says, already peering past us toward the front door. “Heard talk at the feed store that the house was getting a facelift. Figured I’d drop off a pie and see how things were going.”
She thrusts a foil-wrapped package into Avery’s hands and then zeroes in on Emmy. “And who is this little darling?”
Emmy hides slightly behind Harper’s leg.
“That’s my daughter, Emmy,” Avery says smoothly. “She’s five. Loves horses and chickens.”
“Well, she’s precious,” Carol coos, crouching slightly. “Bet she’s got this whole place wrapped around her finger.”
“Just about,” I admit, ruffling Emmy’s hair.
Carol’s gaze flicks back and forth between Avery and me now, eyes sharp behind her smile. “Looks like you two are working well together.”
I feel the burn of her gaze like she’s dissecting every inch of us under a microscope. Part of me wants to roll my eyes, the other part wants to tip my hat and make some smart-ass remark about how well we wield hammers together.
Instead, I just smile tight and resist the urge to check if she’s already texting the group chat. Avery's smirk suggests she’s thinking the same thing.
Avery doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re rebuilding. One board at a time.”
“And what a lovely board it is,” Carol murmurs.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.
“Well, I’ll let you all get back to it,” she says finally, stepping back toward her car. “Do let me know if you need anything, or if any juicy updates come along. You know I hate to be the last to know.”
Harper waves. “We’ll be sure to CC you on all our scandal.”
Once Carol’s SUV disappears down the drive, Avery exhales hard. “She’s probably already posting about this on Facebook.”
“Hashtag ranch rehab,” Harper quips.
We laugh, the four of us standing there in our sweat and dust and pride, watching the sun dip low over the fields.
And somehow, even with nosy neighbors and chicken poop, this feels like exactly where we’re supposed to be. It hits me then, how far we’ve come. From cold stares and slammed doors to shared laughter and rebuilt barns.
This isn’t just survival anymore. It’s a beginning. A second chance carved out with sweat, stubborn hearts, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you while you’re knee-deep in mud and memories.