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Chapter One
Morgan Keesling sat on the porch overlooking the large pond below. Her eyes followed the reflected images, vividly pronounced by the shimmering water as they were captured in a raw mirror only nature provided.
Two sycamore trees with their wide branches and perfect jade leaves dominated what could’ve been an artist’s canvas depicting a gorgeous country scene. With the rolling hills stamped along the water’s edge, the center image projected a cottonwood, taller than the other greenery displayed, but not quite as beautiful as the colorful rose bushes scattered around the pond’s perimeter.
It wasn’t quite seven o’clock. Thanks in part to a woodpecker that refused to sleep, Morgan had been awake since five. She’d been reminiscing, revisiting the yesterdays she barely remembered leaving behind.
The fresh air filled with the sweet fragrance of mixed flowers in bloom combined with another cup of hazelnut coffee. Soothing ingredients threw her back to a time when she remembered how to find some peace of mind. Even the bird, still hammering away at the wood under its beak, didn’t rattle or agitate her.
She was slowly coming around.
Taking a deep breath, Morgan filled her lungs with the blessing of country air. It felt good to feel alive again, to notice the extraordinary beauty surrounding her. When she left East Tennessee four years prior, she’d sworn to never return. Now, she couldn’t think of a better place to relax, unwind, and hide.
The running was over. When she had nowhere else to go, she headed for the only safety net she’d ever known.
Morgan had finally returned home.
* * * *
Working like the dickens to get a few bales of hay in the barn before breakfast, Blake Ballantine and Grant Fowler tossed straw and cracked jokes. The banter between them a cross between bitching and passing the time with whatever came to mind.
“I don’t mind laboring like a misunderstood stepchild if Kit and Kemper could try to remember to leave us a case of beer for every day we’re here,” Blake announced, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
He really didn’t, considering the fact he and Grant had been house-sitting for the last few years. Whenever the Keesling brothers went on vacation or to The National Cattlemen’s Convention, Kit and Kemper relied upon them. In the cattle business, it was impossible to leave the stock unattended, and with the Keeslings’ sprawling three hundred and fifty acres, not everyone stood in line awaiting the opportunity to take care of their farm and animals.
“Case of beer, hell,” Grant grumbled. “I’m still upset that Mrs. Daniels took vacation during our stay this year. The only time I get a good meal is when she cooks for us.”
“Guess she finally believes we’re old enough to fend for ourselves.”
Grant worked his buckskin gloves away from his fingers and tossed the pair on the last bale of hay swung. “I reckon I can fry an egg and make do with some bitter coffee, but you’re right, a few nice cold beer bottles left in the fridge would’ve been a nice housewarming.”
“That’s the problem,” Blake said, jumping off the wagon. “Kit and Kemper didn’t
want us sitting inside with the air conditioner blasting on high power while tossing back a few brewskies. They know us well enough to figure out how this work thing would play out if they supplied the alcohol. We wouldn’t be able to do a blasted thing around here.”
“In this heat? I still may pack a cooler, especially since I hear you’re buying.”
“Did I say that?” Blake asked, arching a brow. “I could’ve sworn it’s your turn.”
“Mine?”
“Sure enough,” Blake replied. “I bought every ounce of beer consumed last summer. In two weeks’ time, I spent over three hundred dollars on beverages.”
“I think you can afford it.”
“Humph, my name ain’t Grant Fowler. I’m a broke cowboy, remember?”
“Me and you both, friend.”
“Look at the bright side, if the cattle market stays up, we’ll be asking Kit and Kemper to return the favor this time next year. We’ll take a vacation of a lifetime, a trip to make up for all those we’ve missed.”
Grant took off his worn hat and shook dust away from the brim. “If, hell. I’m selling everything I’ve got while these livestock prices are high.”
Detecting the seriousness in his voice, Blake turned to be sure Grant’s expression didn’t indicate he was pulling his leg. “Are you for real? You’re getting out? Why?”
“Waiting breaks a farmer. The market goes up and the farmer sits still, hoping it will keep rising. By the time he realizes prices are stabilized, it’s too late. He’s hooked on that magic number, the highest dollar amount cattle will bring. The market never pleases the one waiting the longest.” Grant shook his head. “Besides, the government has too many regulations now. It’s not like it used to be when our fathers were farming. Things are different now. The big guys make the money. Fellas like Eastern-Little Livestock, they control the market.”
“So you’re gonna bail on me?”
“I’m getting out of the cattle business. I’m not selling out on friendship.” A beat later, Grant added, “Unless of course I choke on your coffee this morning, and then I’ll send you a postcard from Florida.”
“Florida’s ass. You’d be miserable in that heat. You can’t handle East Tennessee weather. How in the hell do you think you can stand cooking on high heat?”
Grant shrugged. “I’ll manage. If the weather is hot and the girls are hotter, why complain? Besides, I’ve already looked into purchasing property down in St. Augustine. Real estate prices are way down, and last I checked, St. Augustine is still only about an hour from the greatest football team to ever play in the South.”
“Says you,” Blake said, frowning. Grant sounded serious about making this move. He’d have to get busy and work on changing his best friend’s mind. In the meantime, he was pretty hungry. They’d debate the issue of best professional football teams over a quick meal. “I could’ve sworn you said you had breakfast covered.”
“About like you’ve got the beer, friend.”
* * * *
Morgan peeled the dough away from the oblong can. Placing the precut biscuits on a baking sheet, she arranged the five pieces and placed the pan in the oven. After setting the timer, she pulled out a carton of eggs and started cracking them, watching as the yolk slowly drifted toward the bottom of the shallow glass bowl. She set them aside.
Retrieving a fork, she tapped the utensil on the counter, waiting for the stove to heat. Minutes later, she beat the yolks over an iron skillet. When the edges looked done, she flipped the egg, tossed in a handful of precooked sausage pieces, and sprinkled shredded cheddar cheese around the center. Hearing the timer buzz, she removed the biscuits, grabbed a spatula, and placed the large omelet on a platter.
“Something sure smells good in here,” a familiar voice from out of nowhere resounded.
Startled, Morgan practically jumped away from the breakfast bar. “Good Lord! I’ve been away from the country so long, I forgot that no one knocks out here!”
She immediately wheeled around and faced Grant. She was pleasantly surprised to find him accompanied by Blake Ballantine, another lover from her past.
Her gaze went on a deliberate hike, working over each of her guests like she’d never greeted more handsome visitors. Blake had aged better than fine Scotch whiskey, and Grant still owned the rights to that bad boy appeal, possessing a cocksure cowboy swagger guaranteed to make a woman dampen her thong or squirm in her panties.
