By the time we get back to the house, the sun has already started to dip. My muscles ache in that satisfying, bone-deep way that comes from a full day outside, and there’s still mess on my jeans from the calf delivery.
I should feel exhausted. I do feel exhausted.
But strangely, I don’t feel nauseous. Maybe it’s the fresh air or the space. Maybe it’s the distraction and being around Mason and Brookes, who seem to take away so many of my fears by being kind and competent.
Mason takes Mabel’s reins from me before I can protest, his hand brushing mine briefly. “Go on inside,” he says. “We’ll take care of the horses.”
I hesitate, glancing between them. “I can help—”
Brookes shakes his head, already loosening Storm’s tack. “You’ve done enough today.”
For once, I don’t push it. A shower would be amazing,and maybe I’ll get to see the sunset Brookes was talking about.
“Okay.”
I head toward the house alone, the screen door creaking as I pull it open. The unfamiliar but welcoming scent of the Fletcher's ranch house envelops me as I drop my boots by the door, flexing my toes against the cool floorboards, then pause in the middle of the kitchen.
It’s quiet but so homely with Buck snoring softly in the corner.
I head upstairs and take a shower in the old but clean bathroom, leaving my face bare of makeup and my hair tied up in a knot. I chew over everything that happened today. Watching the new heifer find her feet, I realize that this isn’t just about the brothers. It’s about the work. I’ve built a career out of being useful to those who can't speak for themselves, and seeing the impact of my own hands here, outside the clinical walls of the office, reminds me that I'm more than my parents' daughter or a woman in an ‘unexpected baby’ predicament. If I stay, it won’t be because I’m running from my mother’s expectations or because I’m 'drugged' by Mason’s and Brookes’s presence. It will be because I’ve found a place where my skills and my heart can actually take root on my own terms.
Downstairs, my gaze drifts to the counter, to the worn wooden table, and the lived-in mess that somehow doesn’t feel messy at all anymore.
There are bananas in a bowl on the counter that look soft and overripe. My hands reach for them automatically, muscle memory kicking in before my brain catches up. A loaf pan sits in the cupboard. Flour and sugar in the pantry. Eggs in the fridge. Everything I need to make a sweet anddelicious treat. I’ve always cooked when I have things on my mind. I get lost in the detailed instructions, and right now, I need that.
By the time the oven is preheating, I’m feeling more centered. The rhythm of mashing, measuring, and mixing grounds me in this unfamiliar home.
The back door opens as I’m pouring the batter into the pan.
Mason steps in first, sleeves pushed up, a smudge of dirt across his jaw. He’s messy and dirty, but still so sexy he warms my lady parts. Brookes follows, dropping his hat on the console by the door, his eyes searching for me in the large room. The intensity of his gaze when it lands on me is overwhelming.
They both stop when they notice me bent over by the oven.
“What’s this?” Mason asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Banana bread,” I say, a little self-conscious now that they’re watching. “Your bananas were about to give up on life.”
Mason huffs a quiet laugh. “That so?”
Brookes moves closer, leaning one hip against the counter as he looks at the bowl, the ingredients, the way I’ve taken over their kitchen without asking. “They usually give up on life and go in the trash.”
“That’s sacrilege," I say. “Tossing out perfectly delicious fruit because it looks a little sad.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mason says. “You should be sitting down. On the porch. With a cup of herbal tea.”
“I know,” I reply, sliding the pan into the oven. “But I wanted to.”
Mason moves to the sink, washing his hands afterBrookes, who grabs a couple of beers from the fridge.
“What are you drinking, Janey? We have juice. Or soda.”
The normality of it catches me off guard.
“I’ll take a soda. You got anything fruity?”
He passes me a can of lemon soda and a glass.
“What do you feel like for dinner?” Mason asks, drying his hands.
