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Chapter One
Callie
When I turned onto the dirt road, my heart swelled at the sight of Grandma Cora’s homestead. The lopsided old mailbox readRobinwood Acresin faded, peeling blue paint, just the way I remembered. Morning glories and sweet peas tangled along the fence line, and a row of sunflowers followed the driveway up to the house, greeting me with big, bright yellow faces.
Ever since I was a little girl, this place had been a sanctuary for me. It was comforting to see that not much had changed over the years. The big red barn still towered over the small farmhouse. The garden sprawled bigger than before across the front lawn. Even though Grandma Cora had just celebrated her 90th birthday, it seemed she hadn’t scaled back in her old age.
As I pulled up to the farmhouse, I fully expected her to come bustling around the corner while a herd of ducks and chickens trailed in her wake, searching for the treats she always kept in her pocket. With a pang, I realized those days were over.
Grandma had checked herself into an assisted living facility last month. It pained her to do it, but she’d always been a practical, no-nonsense woman, and she knew she couldn’t manage the homestead anymore.
Taking a bracing breath, I climbed out of my Volkswagen and surveyed the farm with my hands on my hips.
“This is all mine,” I whispered. “I can’t believe it.”
I used to live in Ash Ridge, Colorado. Until I was fourteen and my world came crashing down when my mother landed a high-paying job in New York. Within a month, I wassurrounded by big city life—noise, traffic, air pollution, and crowds.
A piece of my heart had always remained at Robinwood Acres though, among the open fields, wildflowers, trees, and the line of mountains nestled against the horizon.
And now, I never had to leave. At last, I was truly home.
To my left, the large greenhouse was still standing, even though the glass had grown cloudy with age. The blurred shape of green growing things climbed up the walls, clustered in brown clay pots.
To my right were acres of pasture land. Half a dozen horses were grazing, along with three cows for milking, and a pig. I smiled to myself, remembering how often Grandma Cora had given me sugar cubes and nudged me toward the pasture.
Go spoil those horses. And don’t come back in this house until you’ve made friends with them.
I ducked back into my car and grabbed a bag of baby carrots. I’d been snacking on them during the drive here. Not nearly as tasty as sugar cubes, but they would have to do for now. As I approached the fence, I clucked my tongue. The horses lifted their heads, ears pricked forward with interest.
I recognized two of them from my childhood—Applejack and Roadrunner. They ambled over, considerably slower in their senior years. Their appetites were strong though as they lipped the carrots from my open palm with eagerness.
Then there was Tennyson, the jet-black retired barrel-racer. Grandma Cora had rescued him a few years ago, right before I started college. He was a mellow ride, reliable on trails, and preferred to nap in the sun instead of doing any racing these days.
According to Grandma Cora’s letter, the other three horses were new additions to the homestead and roughly five years old—give or take a few years.
Orion, the chestnut thoroughbred.
Blossom, the paint pony.
And Hera, the palomino princess who ruled the farm.
A prissy little diva,Grandma claimed.She has a crush on the local farrier. He’s a fine-looking young man though, so I can’t blame her. She has good taste.
Movement caught my attention and I glanced up. The pasture’s fence shared a property line with the neighboring farm. I glimpsed a figure—tall, lanky, blue jeans, and a pale cowboy hat—headed toward a pick-up truck.
I raised my hand in greeting, but my neighbor didn’t see me.
When I was a kid, that house had been empty. A big, hollow building with dark windows, a barren porch, and a barn filled with cobwebs. It was nice to see someone breathing life into the old place.
Maybe I could introduce myself later. Bring along some fresh-picked peaches from the orchard, too.
A little sugar makes a sweet first impression,Grandma Cora liked to say. Then she’d add with a wink,and I don’t give a damn if that’s considered bribery.
***
After unpacking my car and settling in, I couldn’t bring myself to use Grandma Cora’s bedroom. So, I slept in my old room, with the blue checkerboard curtains. A rambling wild rose framed the window with blushing pink petals, and a bird’s nest was tucked among the leaves and thorns. Grandma could have turned it into a guest bedroom, earning extra cash by taking in a boarder or two. But she insisted this room was mine as long as I wanted it.
When I slid under the dark blue quilt she’d made for me, it felt as cozy and welcoming as a warm hug. It still smelled likeher—citrusy lemonade, mint from her garden, and red licorice candy from the jar on top of the ancient tank of a refrigerator.
