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The coffee brewing in the drip maker is still hot. I pour myself a cup and grab one more for Quinn before walking out the back door, looking for signs of activity as I walk down the steps.
Besides a smaller metal workshop building, there’s a large barn behind the house.
Noting the open door, I make my way over.
Owl, with his sixth sense, rushes out of the barn and races up the small hill to greet me. I give him a friendly bump with my hip—the best I can manage with my hands full—before we walk to the barn together.
The building is old, but it’s been painted recently on the outside. Classic red with white trim, which makes me smile.
“Mornin’, Peach.” Quinn steps out carrying a dustpan.
My heart skips a beat at the sight of him.
Basically the normal thing it does now. Actually, it was already a thing when it came to seeing him, but I’m not dwelling on it for too many reasons.
“Good morning.” I stare at the broom in his hand. “You’re sweeping out the barn with a dustpan?”
“No, just the corner.” He dumps the contents of the dustpan in a cardboard box on the ground. “There was some old broken glass. Never noticed it before, probably something from way back when Gramps was around. He liked to have his whiskey out here sometimes.”
I nod, grinning as I step toward the open door. “I remember a big party in this barn one summer. That time he was out of town, fishing in Montana…”
“A party you were too young to be at,” he growls, his eyes flashing mock-serious.
“Yeah, right. I was as old as half the other kids here,” I say, heading inside for a good look around.
The Faulkner barn has happy memories etched in its worn wood. The barn is just as spacious as I remember, with big brace timber framing overhead and an old scuffed-up wooden floor.
He follows me inside. “The other kids were also too damn young to be here.”
“I know. Here, figured you could use a refill.” I take a sip off my coffee and pass him the extra mug. “You were always Mr. Hall Monitor, sending everyone underage home.”
“And you didn’t listen.” He takes a loud slurp off his coffee.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t make me.” I laugh, flashing him an evil smile.
“Brat now, brat then. What else is new?”
“I think you’d agree we’ve both done some growing up.” I laugh again as a sense of genuine happiness fills me. And also at how he sputters on his next sip. “I distinctly recall leaving well before eleven, my curfew time.”
“Because if you hadn’t, your granny would’ve come looking. Probably riding Edison to help sniff you out.”
Laughing, I nod.
She totally would’ve.
I walk deeper into the barn, sipping coffee and staring at the rafters. This place really is huge and so wide open. I’m not sure they make them like this anymore.
“What happened to the old tractor? Didn’t he park it here in the winter?” I ask.
“Sold it at the auction,” he says. “Hated to give it up, but it’s in better hands with somebody who needs it for work.”
Slowly, I turn, watching him pull a couple cans of paint off a shelf in the corner. “What auction was that?”
“My brother Alan and I inherited this place, but he didn’t want anything to do with it. So we decided to auction off what we could from Gramps’ old tools and antiques. He got some money, and I got the place.”
“Won’t you be a little sad to sell it?” I bite my lips, knowing it’s none of my business.
He sets the paint cans on the floor and leans back, arms crossed.
“Honestly? Yeah. The longer I’m here, the more it’s grown on me. I’m a country boy to my bones, I guess, even if I’ve spent half my life away from farming. I thought I could just spend a few months fixing it up and sell it real easy, but now, after a year and a half…I’m wondering if I should keep it. Maybe rent it out, or, hell, I don’t know, turn it into another place Ridge and Grace can use for their projects.”
“Aren’t they like bazillionaires? They probably don’t need the space,” I say softly. “You could just live here.”
He nods once, but then shakes his head.
“I mean…nah, it ain’t practical. No matter how long I stay in Dallas, I can’t be running after a place this big forever all by myself. Tons of upkeep.”
“Why’s that? Looks like you’ve been managing just fine,” I say. “Are you thinking ahead? Once you go back to the FBI?”
He picks up the paint cans with a shrug that almost seems annoyed.
“I won’t be going back to the FBI, Peach.”
Whoa.
What?
Confused, I shake my head and speed up to follow him to the door. “Why? You said you were on a sabbatical.”
