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She was spent in more ways than one. Her chin burned where Tripp’s clean-shaven jaw had scraped her skin. Her thighs were a perfect kind of sore from his hips slamming into hers.
She replayed the final moments of last night. After the sex-crazed fog had cleared, they’d both adjusted their clothes in silence. Then he’d walked her to her rental car and kissed her. She’d said good-bye, and now, in the light of day, it felt like it was over. Just like they wanted.
Casual.
Time to get to the reason why she was really here: to help her Grammy, starting with getting her set up at home.
“You could have gone to the house,” her grandmother offered. “You didn’t need to stay here last night. It’s just ankle surgery.” Grammy tried to get herself out of the wheelchair on her massive cast and wrapped left ankle.
Charlotte jumped up and hugged an arm around her grandmother’s waist to help her balance on her good foot. “I didn’t want to go to the farmhouse without you. And should you be getting up like this?”
Her grandmother smelled like warm sugar and sunshine and every Sunday morning Charlotte had ever spent with her making strawberry pie.
“I’m fine. This silly thing will just slow me down.” She glared at the wheelchair like it had sprouted a mouth and insulted her. Looks like we’re going with the walker instead of the chair. “And I can’t get my boots around this cast, either. I get a walking cast in a couple weeks, but even then, getting around the farm will be too much on my own.”
“I know, Gram, which is why you have me,” Charlotte said, helping Grammy to the nearby walker. It had a small, low seat for her to rest her bent knee on while she scooted around with the other. “I don’t want you to push too hard. The doctor said your biggest risk is infection, so resting and keeping this clean is super important. No going near farm stuff outside.”
Her grandmother huffed in annoyance. She was a strong, stubborn woman, but the doctor had given Charlotte the rundown last night. The pins in Grammy’s ankle were holding the bone together. Eventually her aching joints would have much-needed relief thanks to this surgery, but she had to allow herself to heal first. Which meant Grammy had to be still and rest. Not her strong suit.
“I’m sorry it’s taken this to get me here,” Charlotte said. “I’ve been meaning to come visit, I just…”
“You hush with that,” he grandmother said, her blue eyes soft and kind, her short white hair sticking up from a night against the pillow. “You’ve been building a life, a career. I’m proud of the strong woman you are.”
Charlotte smiled. She’d missed Grammy and her unwavering support and kindness.
“Yeah, well, I’m here now and I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ll take care of everything you need done.” And she was happy to do so. Even though it was only for a few weeks, it would be nice to spend time with Grammy.
“I’m just happy to see you. We have so much to catch up on,” Grammy said, then turned her attention to the contraption she was trying to maneuver.
Charlotte turned the walker around and released the hand brake. “There you go.”
“Thank you, dear. So tell me, do you have a man?” she asked.
Charlotte blinked. Apparently “catch up” time was starting now.
Her mind immediately went to Tripp, but no. That was just a one-nighter. It was highly unlikely she’d see the man again since, according to Google Earth, her grandma’s house was in the middle of nowhere. The nearest grocery store looked to be several miles away, so it wasn’t like she’d be running into people regularly.
“Nope, no man.” She helped guide her grandma out of the room and toward the exit. “Let’s get you home.”
After a quick checkout process and the doctor reiterating that Grammy was to rest, they made a follow-up appointment a few weeks from then and got in the rental car.
It was a fifteen-minute drive out of Cheyenne on a single-lane highway with plains on either side. Only a few houses lay scattered across endless acres of farmland. She took a right turn onto a gravel road with a worn sign reading Studebaker Rd, and after another mile, they arrived at a two-story farmhouse that looked both old and loved. The light yellow exterior shone like melted butter in the afternoon sun.
Nothing but golden prairie and rolling hills surrounded it.
“You’re not exactly living on top of one another out here,” Charlotte said, pulling up in front of the house.
“Closest neighbor is about seven miles that way,” Grammy said, and pointed toward the horizon. Charlotte saw no signs of neighbors. Just a small red barn about a hundred yards away from Grammy’s house, and a bunch of random fencing sectioning off different parts of the property. No way could she see all fifty-plus acres that Grammy owned standing where she was. She’d have to go exploring.
“Around back is the garden,” Grammy said happily. “I’ve been working my tail off all winter to keep those roots alive, and they’re finally in picking season.”
Charlotte made a mental note: Don’t let garden die.
“And the flowers are all planted a week apart so we should have fresh blooms all summer!”
Pick fresh flowers for Grammy every week.
Charlotte gathered her overnight bag, tossed her computer bag on her free shoulder, and helped Grammy into the house. Even though the heat wasn’t on, it had a warmth in the way a lived-in, loved home did. There was a small sunroom where a single rocking chair sat next to a basket of yarn and knitting needles. She could picture Grammy out there, watching the wind swirl through the prairie grass while knitting.
