Despite what happened last night, she’s still as wary as she was when we were texting. Even though so much has changed, she’s still holding herself back. I don’t know what it’ll take to get her to change her mind.
I let the silence settle again as the main house comes into view.
We pull up beside the truck. Mason’s already waiting, leaning against the hood, trying to look casual and failing because he keeps watching Janey like he’s afraid she might change her mind and drive away.
The house stands solid and familiar, a two-story white clapboard with a deep wraparound porch. The paint is fading in places, and one shutter hangs slightly crooked, but it’s sturdy and reliable. There are boots lined up by the steps, and two rocking chairs angled toward the pasture where they’ve been keeping watch on the same spot for years.
I climb out and round the vehicle to open Janey’s door for her. She steps out slowly, taking everything in.
“Welcome to Fletcher Ranch,” I say.
Mason joins us, carrying one of her smaller bags. “It’s not fancy, but it’s ours.”
She lingers to take in the house, pivoting to view the surrounding land and buildings. I wish I could hear what she’s thinking. I hope it’s positive.
We lead her inside.
The moment we step through the front door, the familiar scent of home hits me: coffee, old leather, woodsmoke, and that faint trace of hay that never quite leaves, no matter how strict we are about taking our boots off outside. The living room is comfortable but cluttered. Worn leather couches face the big stone fireplace. Bookshelves overflow with ranch manuals and dog-eared novels. One of my flannel shirts is tossed over the back of a chair.
“Sorry about the mess,” I mutter, feeling a flicker of embarrassment. “We’re not used to having female company over.”
Janey’s eyes move slowly over the space. “It feels like a real home,” she says softly. “I like it.”
I hadn’t realized how badly I needed her to feel that way.
Buck, our old mutt, lumbers from his bed, his arthritic legs taking a while to warm up as he drags himself over to inspect the visitor. Janey immediately drops to her haunches, letting Buck sniff her hand, and then petting his rough, gray fur on the back of his neck hard enough to make the poor bastard's eyes roll.Yeah, dude. I know how good it feels to be touched by those hands.
Mason shakes his head and whistles. “She’s got Buck eating out of the palm of her hand. He’s usually an ornery old mutt.”
“He isn’t ornery. He’s friendly and very handsome.”
Mason huffs, and I laugh.
“It’s okay, fool,” I say. “It isn’t a competition. She still thinks you’re handsome, too.”
We show her around. The kitchen has a large wooden table that’s seen decades of meals, an old but reliable stove, and wide windows overlooking the back pasture.
In the family room, Janey drifts towards the books, her hands drifting across the spines of the older volumes. She pulls out a small, leather-bound book and opens the cover. “Who’s Melissa Fletcher?”
“Our grandmother,” I say.
“She liked poetry?”
“I guess. There are a lot of old things in this house we should probably toss.”
“No. Old things are your family's history.”
She replaces the book and follows us into the hallway.
Upstairs, there are four bedrooms and a bathroom that could use updating. We give her the biggest guest room with the most light and a small balcony facing the fields.
Mason sets her bag barely inside the door like he’s afraid of crossing too far into her space, even though it’s technically our space. It’s strange and uncomfortable to see my big, gruff brother treading on eggshells. I think Janey notices it too, because she moves to the balcony and encourages us to join her.
“Look at that view,” she says. “So much wild, open space.”
“The sunsets are spectacular from up here,” I say.
She nods, rubbing her upper arm as she contemplates.
