Rustic Hearts (Poplar Falls Book 1) Page 5

  I gasp, “No.”

  “Yep. I had no clue. I was so stupid.” She shakes her head and continues, “After his arrest, they froze all our accounts and assets. We lost everything—the shop, the house, both our cars, and every penny we had in the bank. The government seized it all and sold it off to pay restitution. He went to prison, and I came home to Momma and Daddy with my tail between my legs and a baby in tow. They took us in, and we lived with them. They watched Beau for me while I worked at the diner during the day and at Butch’s Tavern a few nights a week to save enough money to get us on our feet.”

  “So, where do you live now?”

  “Dad and Uncle Jimbo turned one of the old grain silos on the farm into a house for us. It’s cool as shit. Industrial and functional. We made it farmhouse chic.”

  I try to imagine what farmhouse chic looks like. I assume it’s probably like the old converted warehouses in the city.

  “Listen, Momma cooks, and I have built-in sitters, so there’s no need to be in a hurry to leave. Right?”

  “No need at all,” I agree.

  “So, you’re all caught up on me. What’s your story? I mean, you just take off and leave your very best friend in the whole wide world, never to be heard from again. I was devastated. You left me to face middle school alone. Not cool, dude. Not cool at all.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my choice. Mom just upped and moved us in the middle of the night. I thought it was one of her whims and that we’d be back in a day or two, but somehow, it turned into twenty years. Honestly, I kept waiting for Daddy to come and get me. It just didn’t happen, and after a while, I stopped expecting him.”

  It sounds foolish. Here I am, a grown woman, trying to explain the fantasies of a little girl.

  “I did the same thing. I’d walk the whole way out here all the time to see if you were back yet. Must have done it every day after school the entire first year. Gram was so used to it that she would have milk and cookies waiting when I got here. Finally, I just stopped coming by. I figured, if you ever showed back up, you would call me.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

  “It’s fine. You’re here now. Tell me all about New York. Is it as gray as it looks on TV?” She wrinkles her nose at the thought.

  “Gray?”

  “You know, all concrete and buildings. No trees or grass, no houses?”

  “There are trees and grass. They’re just in the parks. And as far as houses, most people live in condos or apartments.”

  She looks confused. “Do you like that? The only yard you get is in a park?”

  “Well, sure. I have a great apartment in the city. It’s got incredible views of the river, and there are so many great shops and restaurants within walking distance at the Chelsea Market. There is a subway line right around the corner. Which is super convenient. Plus, my office is just a short train or taxi ride.”

  “Hmm, maybe I can visit one day and see what all the fuss is about.”

  “I’d love that.”

  We hear someone approach from the side of the house.

  And Dallas looks up and shouts, “Braxton Young, you’d better come over here and say hello to me.”

  Braxton rounds the corner and stops in front of the porch. He is covered in dirt and sweat. He removes his ball cap from his head and squeezes the content of the water bottle in his hand over his head, washing the sweat from his eyes. Then, he pulls his tee from his jeans and wipes his face dry.

  “Ladies,” he mumbles in greeting.

  “Hey, sexy. You can remove the drenched T-shirt if you want. We don’t mind,” Dallas croons in his direction.

  I elbow her in the side.

  “Ouch. What?”

  He shakes his head at her. Then, he stomps up the steps just as Madeline emerges with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses. He takes the tray from her hands.

  “Thank you, Brax.”

  “You’re welcome, Aunt Mads.” He gives her a genuine smile and kisses her cheek.

  She lovingly pats the side of his face and walks back into the house.

  “Thanks, Mrs. L,” Dallas yells through the screen door as she leaps from the swing and saunters over to Braxton. She arches her back and tosses her hair over her shoulder in a flirtatious manner. “Can I help?”

  He gives her an exasperated look and shoves the tray into her hands. “I have to get back to the cattle.”

  “Oh, you’re no fun.” She snatches the tray, sets it on the table, and pours us each a glass.

  Braxton looks over at me. Looks me up and down and comments, “Nice outfit.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I have an evening gown on. I only packed a couple of outfits and a dress for Gram’s service. I didn’t have time to shop for appropriate ranch attire. Get the hell over it.”

  He looks me in the eye for the first time, and he grins.

  Then, he puts his ball cap back on, pulls it over his eyes, and heads back toward the barn.

  “Wow, you got a grin. That’s more than he ever gives me. Stubborn ass.”

  “You like him, huh?”

  She hands me a glass. “Every female with a pulse in a fifty-mile radius likes him. You do have eyes. I know you can see him.”

  I shrug. “He’s attractive, I guess, but …”

  “You guess?” She looks at me like I’ve grown another head.

  “He’s a jerk. And I don’t find assholes attractive.”

  She grins. “Well, that’s part of his charm. Give it time. You’ll see.”

  I wouldn’t bet on it.

  Sophie

  Dallas and I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up. It’s strange how all the years and all the miles apart seem to just melt away. I thought I’d have to grovel for her forgiveness or that maybe we would be too different now and the friendship of the little girls we’d once been wouldn’t translate into one for the adults we now are, but it’s easy. I guess that’s just how it goes with true friendship. No matter how long you’re apart, you can pick back up the second you find your way back to each other. No anger. No resentment. No explanations or apologies needed.

  I hate to see her drive away as I wave to Mrs. Henderson, who came by to pick her up. She felt like an ally in this hostile environment.

  Okay, maybe not hostile per se, but I definitely feel like an outsider, and it’s uncomfortable, to say the least.

  My stomach growls, and I venture inside to find Aunt Doreen and Aunt Ria in the kitchen, kneading what looks like enough dough to make biscuits for the entire town.

  “What are you two doing?”

  “Starting supper,” Aunt Ria answers.

  I look at the clock above the stove, and it says 2:04 p.m.

  “Isn’t it awfully early for that? And how many people are you cooking for anyway?”

  “The family and some of the staff. That’s Jefferson and Madeline, Braxton and Elle, Pop, Emmett, the two of us, Walker and Silas, two of the boys who work for us … and you, dear. Those men get up and start working at the break of dawn, and they’re starving by four p.m. That’s when they end their day. So, we try to have supper on the table by four thirty p.m. sharp.”

  Dinner before five p.m.? That is unheard of where I come from.

  “No one is home until well after six p.m. in the city. We don’t even think about dinner until eight p.m. at the earliest.”

  “Eight p.m.?” Aunt Ria gasps in question.

  They both laugh.

  “That’s bedtime around here. We’re usually up and at it by four a.m. So, nine p.m. is a stretch for us. If we tried to feed those boys that late, there would be a riot,” she informs.

  “It’s like you guys live on a different planet,” I accuse.

  “I seem to remember a little girl who woke with us and helped gather eggs to make breakfast well before it was time to catch her school bus,” Aunt Doreen muses.

  “Well, now, she is an adult who still gets up way too early to fight Midtown traffic, and coffee is usually he
r only breakfast.”

  “Sounds like you need more rest and better food to fuel your day, Sophia Doreen.” Aunt Ria has her hands on her hips and is giving me her stern, disapproving look.

  I forgot what it felt like to have her focus on me. It’s quite intimidating.

  “I’ll get there. One day. I just opened my own jewelry design business a few months ago, and everything has been happening so fast.”

  “Life needs balance. It can’t be all work. And the good Lord only gave us one body. We have to take care of it. You don’t want to wear it out too early, do you?” Aunt Ria gently scolds, and they both turn their motherly stares on me.

  This is laughable, coming from the two women who work harder than most people I know in Manhattan.

  I start to argue, but my good manners override my tongue.

  “No, ma’am,” I quickly agree. I grab a banana from a bowl on the kitchen table and watch them continue to work. “Can I help?” I effectively change the subject.

  Aunt Doreen’s eyes light up at my offer, and she moves down the counter as Aunt Ria hands me an apron.

  “What are we making?”

  “Dumplings. Here, just knead it like this and then take and sprinkle a little flour on the counter. Pinch off about this much and place it in the center.”

  I watch as Aunt Doreen takes a batch the size of a softball and uses a rolling pin to roll it out in a thin sheet.

  “Then, cut it into strips about this thick.” She picks up a strip to show me. “And lay it over here.” She places it on a pan to her right. “Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The three of us work in peaceful silence until two pans are overloaded with dumplings. Then, we set to shredding the chicken, which was boiling in the large cast iron pots on the stove. Once that’s done and the chicken and dumplings are back simmering in the stock, we start stripping the Silver Queen corn and shucking peas.

  Back in New York, we have a small community garden for Chelsea residents, and I’ve had the best intentions of contributing to and taking advantage of the fresh vegetables, but I never seem to get around to it. If I’m not eating at restaurants or ordering takeout, the closest I come to fresh, homemade food is heating up steamed veggies in the microwave and baking a chicken breast for one. I forgot how much I enjoy being in the kitchen and how rewarding it feels to make food to feed your family with your own two hands.

  Just as I finish the last of the peas and get up to discard the pods, the back door swings open, and Daddy walks into the kitchen.

  “Ladies.” He nods his head in our direction and scoots to the sink to fill a canteen with water. Then, he turns and leans against it. He focuses on me as he takes a drink. “You planning to join us for supper tonight?” he asks me.

  “Yes,” I answer him, but I keep my eyes on the bowl in my hands.

  “Good. It was rude of you not to show up at the table last night after Madeline and your aunts prepared a meal and held supper just for you.”

  I lift my head and look him in the eyes as anger flares. “I didn’t ask anyone to hold anything for me,” I snap.

  “I don’t know how they do it up there in New York, but around here, when people go out of their way to accommodate you, you show a little appreciation.”

  I set the bowl down on the counter hard. “Are you going to try to parent me now, Jefferson? Teach me how to behave? Because, by my calculations, you’re about two decades too late. I’m already grown, and you don’t get to raise me now. I was tired and overwhelmed last night. I couldn’t have eaten if I tried, especially with everyone looking at me like I was some kind of sideshow freak.”

  “No one thinks you’re a freak, Sophie,” Aunt Doreen interjects.

  Daddy just looks at me for a few minutes and doesn’t say a word. Then, he stands to his full height and says, “All right. See you gals at supper.”

  He takes his canteen and heads back out the door. That’s it. I guess having a real and candid conversation about the last twenty years is off the table. I shouldn’t have wasted my time coming here, thinking I might get any answers or the closure I need.

  Sunday and my flight back to my real life can’t come fast enough.

  “He’s not good with words. Never has been,” Aunt Ria explains as she watches him retreat through the backyard.

  “I need the words,” I whisper into the kitchen.

  She turns, looks at me, and nods. “You deserve them. Give him time. He’ll come around.”

  “He’s had a lot of time, Aunt Ria. Not sure I can give him much more.”

  With that, I take off the apron and head to my—Aunt Doreen’s room to grab my sketchpad. Then, I poke my head back in and ask them if there is anywhere with decent shade besides the front porch.

  “Yes, there’s a huge boo-hoo tree in the backyard, and it gives great shade. Just grab a quilt out of the living room,” Aunt Doreen answers over her shoulder as she washes a pan in the sink.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say as I start to head to the living room. Then, I stop. “Wait, what? What’s a boo-hoo tree?” I ask in confusion.

  “She means the weeping willow out back. She forgets what it’s called sometimes,” Aunt Ria answers from the pantry.

  “Oh.”

  That makes a strange kind of sense.

  She comes out with a jar of strawberry preserves and keeps explaining, “You should’ve seen us last week, trying to find the vet’s office on Sweet Water Road in Cedar Ridge. That GPS thingy had us nearly in the next county until I called their number and realized they were on Sugar Creek Road.”

  That makes me giggle.

  “I was close,” Aunt Doreen mumbles.

  “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. In a car with a puking pup, it just gets you lost and aggravated,” she mumbles her gripe in my direction.

  They’re such a funny pair. Sometimes, I wish I had a sister. It’s just been Mom and me my entire life. Who am I going to give shit to when I’m old and grumpy? At the rate I’m going, I’m going to be an old spinster, bickering with my cats.

  I grab a blanket, head out in the yard to clear my head, and draw for a while before dinner.

  Braxton

  Jefferson was in a foul mood as he, Emmett, and I worked on repairing the tractor that had a broken timing chain while hauling bales of hay yesterday.

  He barely said a word the whole afternoon, and when he did, it was to bark an order at one of us. I can only guess that the princess’s appearance is what has him so on edge. Of course, we start culling the cows for next season this week, and that could be weighing on him too.

  I run up to my personal space above the barn to take a quick shower and wash the day’s dirt off before heading to the main house for supper.

  As I cross the yard toward the back door of the house, I notice a figure under one of the large trees.

  Sophie is lying on her stomach with her bare feet kicked in the air. Her hair is pulled up in a sloppy knot thing on top of her head. One of the sleeves of her top has slid down her shoulder, and as she absentmindedly reaches up to move it back in place, the pencil in her other hand moves furiously over the page of the book in front of her on the blanket.

  She’s humming as she draws. It’s the most serene I’ve seen her since she arrived. Carefree even.

  Her shirt rides up slightly, and I can see the beads of sweat pooling in the dip of her low back where it meets the hem of her pants. My gaze slides down further to her ass, and I notice how nice it looks in those ridiculous silk pants she’s had on all damn day.

  I shake my thoughts from her ass. It doesn’t matter how perfect it looks. She is off-limits. And even if she weren’t Jefferson’s daughter, I would never touch a woman who looks at and treats my family and me like we’re second-class citizens.

  She must hear my approach because she startles and gasps, rolls to her back, and protectively raises her hands and feet.

  “It’s just me.”

  She lets out a relieved breath.
“Sorry. Habit. People sneaking up on you in the park in the city isn’t exactly a good thing. I get lost in my head sometimes, and I don’t always pay enough attention to my surroundings,” she offers in explanation. Then, she rolls back to her stomach and continues to draw.

  She was almost polite.

  I keep walking toward the house and stop to look back over my shoulder at her. “You spend a lot of time in the park by yourself?” I have no idea why I asked or why I care.

  She looks up from her page and answers, “Yes. I can’t breathe in my apartment sometimes. Like the walls are closing in on me or something. I crave the outdoors, fresh air, and sunshine. Charlotte thinks I must be claustrophobic or something.” She shrugs.

  “Charlotte?”

  “My friend and assistant.”

  I nod. “I know the feeling—the need for wide-open spaces,” I reply, and then I open the door and walk inside.

  “Brax,” Elle squeals the second my feet hit the kitchen floor. “Look!”

  She pulls a piece of paper from her bag and excitedly shoves it an inch from my face as she starts talking in rapid-fire sentences, “Professor Madar thinks my essay on the benefits of organic farming to the local environment and economy is insightful and offers a great perspective on why ranchers in the area should consider co-opting parcels of their land to organic farmers. She thinks it’s good enough to be published. She submitted it to the local paper and The Denver Post!”

  I take the paper from her hands and get a closer look. “That’s amazing, sis.”

  “I know!”

  I look up, and she’s beaming as she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet.

  “This could help when I apply for funding for school.”

  It’s great to see her so excited about something.

  Since graduating from high school, she has struggled to find her passion. It was easy for me. All I ever wanted to do was follow in Jefferson’s footsteps and become a rancher, but Elle is restless. She tried her hand at vet tech school and realized that her love of animals did not translate to the love of caring for them when they were sick or injured. Then, she tried beauty school and realized her love of makeup and hairstyling did not apply to mixing chemicals for perms and dealing with finicky clients. Now, she’s trying her hand at writing and taking classes at the local community college. If it holds her interest, she hopes to enroll in the journalism program at the University of Denver next fall.