Page 41 of Peaches & Pistols

But that’s not what’s got my attention. Beside the pot roast is a small container staring at me. I pop the plate into the microwave and stand at the counter with her crinkled note, fingers itching to open the surprise container.

There’s no way…it’s November. How did she pull this off?

Filled to the brim is peach cobbler.

Peach season ended two months ago, and I’ve been mourning the loss of her creations. I’ve always loved peach cobbler, but her love of peaches is next level.

She’s spoiled us with peach pie, turnovers, upside-down cake, smoothies, and parfaits.

The girls have delighted in the peach ice cream, popsicles, and jam.

Despite being a Colorado native, I’ve never been inclined to try peach salsa, but dear god. I could eat my weight in chips and Mia’s peach salsa. Hell, she made a peach barbeque sauce we slathered on grilled chicken I’d fight someone over.

She joked that by the end of peach season, we’d be sick and tired of the stone fruit, but I’m looking forward to next August when the Palisade peaches come back around to see what she comes up with.

Mia canned several mason jars of peach jam and salsa, but cobbler? Clever thing must’ve canned halved peaches too.

As soon as the microwave beeps with the pot roast, I pop the cobbler in for thirty seconds, painstakingly waiting as the timer counts down second by second.

My fork digs into the cobbler because I’m a grown man; if I want dessert first, I’m gonna eat dessert first.

Nirvana. No exaggeration.

Her husband’s a damn fool for treating her like anything less than the angel she is. Does he have any idea the kind of woman he fumbled?

No matter. He’ll get what’s coming to him in due time. I’ll make sure of it.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Mia hesitates at the bottom of the porch stairs at the main house at Lucky Spurs Ranch.

“Am I sure what’s okay?”

“Us being here for the family Thanksgiving…”

This, again. She’s been fretting all week, letting someone else do the shopping, prep, cooking, serving, and cleaning for turkey day.

She said if they celebrated growing up, it was something pre-made from the deli. The piece of shit she married wanted a full spread, and from the sound of it, nothing she ever did was good enough.

I don’t like admitting we talked behind her back, but the whole crew agreed she deserves a break and should celebrate as part of the family.

Cecelia extended the invitation in person, hoping to assure Mia the gesture was genuine, and not a pity invite. We all want her and Everly with us. Some of us more than others.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I try to keep my tone soft, because grumbling like I normally do will negate what I’m trying to express.

“Mama, can we pleeeeease go in?” Everly tugs on Mia’s hand, jerking one side of her body up the porch steps.

We follow Everly in without knocking like she owns the place. Suppose she does as much as Harper does. Cecelia and Walter don’t have any biological grandchildren and have adopted the girls as their own.

For as long as Mia stays, Everly will never want for anything.

The house is bustling with activity. I like my peace and quiet, but there’s nothing as comforting as being at the ranch. I spent as much time here as possible growing up, even more so after Dad died.

Meredith lost herself in her grief, which I wouldn’t blame her for, had she not neglected me. She may have lost her husband, but I lost my dad and had to start raising myself.

It’s like one day she woke up from her mourning-fog and became a different woman. Meredith wanted a second chance at life and happiness, it just happened to exclude her fucking son. She remarried within a year of Dad’s passing.

Jack Dalton isn’t a bad man, it’s not his fault Meredith wanted nothing to do with her “first” life anymore, or anything associated with my dad. She was relentlessly vocal about her disapproval of the family “information business.”

She couldn’t give up on the hardware store faster. Thankfully, it’s been held in an irrevocable trust for generations, so a distant relative kept the store running until I turned fourteen when I could legally work. I took over far more than a young teen should’ve, but it was my dad’s legacy and was my responsibility to keep it alive.