Chapter 1
Austin
The leather scratches under my swivel knife as I hand-tool the intricate design of vines and roses onto the dark saddle. Afternoon sunlight filters through the warehouse windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the air. The scent of worn leather and beeswax hangs thick.
I glance up at the low whir of the 3D printer in the corner. “Don’t choke on the code over there, Declan.”
Declan doesn’t look up from the laptop. His brows furrowed in concentration as his fingers fly over the keys. “Just making sure this baby prints the custom tree to perfection.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Unless you want to reimburse Mrs. Uppington for a saddle that doesn’t conform to Royal Dressage’s lofty standards.”
I snort, returning my attention to the tooling. “Her haughty emails make me want to ride her like a bucking bronco, not craft a six thousand dollar custom saddle.”
The printer drones on, carefully layering the heated polymer filament into the precise shape modeled from the back mapping of Mrs. Uppington’s champion gelding. Declan’s worktable is scattered in the neighboring stall with coding books, cables, and half-eaten energy bars—the organized chaos of our little saddle-crafting world.
A smirk tugs at my lips, recalling my raised eyebrows and skeptical glances when I pitched this audacious college venture. Who would’ve thought a business management project would saddle me with a thriving empire?
I glance at the printer, its nozzle meticulously laying down layer after layer, birthing the customer’s bespoke saddle tree. A marvel of technology, mapping the contours of a horse’s back with a precision that borders on the divine. And the mastermind behind this mechanical miracle?
I brush an errant strand of hair from my face, leaving behind a streak of saddle soap. This final saddle is the culmination of six months of attention to every inch of leather and hardware—a true masterpiece for the equestrian snob to shove her flawless ass into.
Warmth blooms in my chest. This is what I live for—taking a slab of rawhide and shaping it into something beautiful yet durable. It’s an art form that allows horse and rider to move together.
The shrill ring of the office landline cuts through the rhythmic thump of mallet on leather.
“I’ll get it!” Emberlynn’s smoky voice drifts from the front office. There’s a muffled crackle as she picks up. “Sitting Pretty Saddles, where pretty amazing things happen daily.”
I roll my eyes at her shameless flirting, even over the phone. Emberlynn is incapable of uttering a sentence without layering it in innuendo. It’s just part of her deliciously wicked charm.
I lay the mallet aside, inspecting my latest stamped pattern. Not bad, if I do say so myself. I stretch, working the kinks from my shoulders as Emberlynn’s end of the conversation floats back to me.
“No, I don’t have an updated ETA on that leather shipment...” There is a pause as she listens. “Phil, sweetie, you know I treasure our special relationship. But being coy about delays isn’t a good look for you.”
I snicker, easily imagining the arch of her perfectly sculpted eyebrow as she sweet-talks the poor supplier. Emberlynn can spin a web around anyone with that honeyed rasp.
“That’s more like it.” Her tone brightens. “We’ll be expecting our delivery by Friday then. Don’t forget my usual... ‘gratuity.’” A purr laces the last word, somehow making the innocuous term ooze debauchery.
I glance up as Emberlynn strolls back into the main workspace, hips swaying. Chin lifted, lips curved in a self-satisfied smirk. It’s a look I’ve seen her deploy countless times to disarm the unsuspecting—a lioness is cornering her prey.
Before I can toss out a teasing jab, the landline rings again. Emberlynn arches one sculpted brow as I huff out a resigned sigh; so much for my productive afternoon plans.
“Sitting Pretty Saddles,” I answered briskly, tamping my annoyance at the interruption.
The crisp, businesslike tone on the other end sets my instincts tingling. “Ms. Myers? This is Theodore Harding, attorney at law. I’m afraid I have some difficult news regarding your grandfather, Harlan Mowery.”
My chest clenches as dread washes over me. “Yes?”
“I’m very sorry to inform you, but your grandfather passed away three days ago.” The lawyer’s voice is sad but composed, clearly practiced in delivering such gut-punches. “He suffered a massive stroke. The care home did everything they could, but the brain trauma was too extensive.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting back the sting of tears as a thousand memories ricochet through me. Grandpa Walt taught me to ride before I could even walk. His booming laugh as we chased the horses around the paddock. The way his eyes crinkled with pride whenever I mastered a new skill.
Swallowing hard, I force my voice to remain steady. “I...I had no idea he was even ill. We hadn’t spoken in years, not since...” My jaw clenches as I push past the lump in my throat. “What are the arrangements? I need to come pay my respects.”
“That’s just it, Ms. Myers. Your grandfather left explicit instructions. He’s already been cremated per his wishes, a simple wake held for the care home staff who’d grown quite fond of him.” The lawyer pauses as if bracing himself. “However, there is the matter of his estate to deal with. As his only living relative, you’ve inherited all his assets.”
My brow furrows. “Assets? What assets? I thought the ranch was sold years ago after Mom and I left Wyoming.”
“Not at all. The Double Rider Ranch is very much intact, including the herd of quarter horses your grandfather maintained. As well as the main residence, barn, and ranchlands.”
My knees threatened to buckle as the enormity washed over me. “I...Did I inherit the ranch? All of it?”
“Indeed. I’ll need you to come to Casper as soon as possible. We must review the holdings, retire any outstanding debts, and secure your ownership.” A pause. “Only then can you decide how best to proceed with your inheritance.”
I drag in a steadying breath, caught between shock and the sudden, suffocating weight of responsibility...“Yes, of course. I’ll make arrangements to fly out right away.”
After jotting down the lawyer’s details, I sink onto the battered arm of the sofa, still reeling. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Emberlynn and Declan watching me with matching looks of concern.
“That was...a lot to take in just now,” I admit with a shaky laugh, scrubbing one hand over my face. “My grandfather passed away, and I inherited the family ranch in Wyoming. The whole damn thing.”
Emberlynn’s perfectly arched brows shot upward. “Damn, Aus. Condolences on your gramps. That blows. But holy hell, you’re loaded now, huh? Livin’ the ranch life, swimmin’ in cattle money.”
I shoot her a withering look, but my lips twitch despite my grief. Trust Emberlynn to zero in on the potential dollar signs while tactfully glossing over the painful stuff.
Declan, ever the steadier presence, simply nods. “You gotta go take care of things then. Whatever time you need, we’ll hold down the fort.”
A pang of gratitude pierces my chest as I glance between my two friends. Emberlynn runs the office while I haul horses to barrel races...Declan stayed up for three days to overhaul the website after a virus corrupted everything...They’ve been my ride-or-die since we started this crazy saddle venture. I am still trying to figure out what I’d do without them.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, I give them a resolute nod. “Guess I’m Wyoming-bound. No way around it.”
I step away to call Mom, my stomach roiling with trepidation and sadness. Wyoming hasn’t been home for over a decade, not since Dad’s lengthy battle with cancer. After he passed, Mom and I fled those wide open spaces like they were lined with barbed wire, the memories too painful to bear.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I stare sightlessly at the half-tooled saddle on my workbench. The familiar scents of leather and beeswax usually calm me, but today, they only stir up ghosts. Plump rain droplets begin peppering the warehouse windows with a mournful tattoo.
Mom answers on the third ring, her voice tight with barely contained emotion. No doubt the lawyer already reached out with the news about Gramps. We exchange stilted condolences, the words hollow and insufficient against the vastness of our shared grief.
Then Mom cuts right to the heart of the matter, as is her way. “You need to go back to Wyoming, honey. At least to get the ranch affairs for a little while.”
“Define a little while,’” I hedge, mentally calculating how fast I could fence the whole place and put it on the market. The thought of being trapped there indefinitely sends a shiver down my spine.
“Austin Rae.” The full name - uh oh, I’m in trouble. “That ranch is your legacy, our family’s legacy. You can’t sell it off like it’s some...some acreage investment.”
I snort indelicately. “Last I checked, we rejected the ‘legacy’ about twelve years ago when we ran screaming from the place.”
The words fall between us, an undeniable truth neither wants to confront. Wyoming represents too much pain, too many crippling memories of Dad’s decline. As much as this news about the ranch rocks me, some deeply buried part of me resonates with Mom’s point. This land is my roots, my heritage, which I’ve spent over a decade systematically severing.
Mom’s tone is gentle as if she senses my inner turmoil. “Baby, go home for a little bit. After seeing it, we’ll discuss selling options if you hate it and want no part of the ranch. But please, give it a fair chance first. For me?”
I’m a sucker for Mom’s pleading tone and always have been. Gritting my teeth, I relent. “Okay, fine. I’ll sort through Gramp’s affairs and his house. But that’s it, you hear me? No guarantees beyond that.”
The lie tastes like sawdust, both of us knowing I could never turn my back on something this huge, tangled up in who I am. My chest hollows out with a soul-deep weariness. It looks like I’m headed back to the one place I swore I’d never return to.
Hanging up, I rake a hand through my hair and turn to find Emberlynn and Declan watching me with matching looks of concern...
Emberlynn’s perfectly groomed eyebrows arch upward.
Declan shoots her a quelling look before turning his penetrating programmer’s gaze on me. “You’ve got to go deal with it. Give it a shot.”
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I blow out a harsh sigh. “Yeah, looks that way. Mom’s already laying on the guilt about it being a ‘family legacy’ and all that crap.” I make air quotes with my fingers, unable to keep the bitter edge from my tone.
Leave it to Emberlynn to cut right to the heart of the matter. “But you were twelve the last time you lived there, right? How awful can it be?”
My barked laugh holds zero humor. “You’ve never been to small-town Wyoming, Em. It’s a postage stamp-sized hellscape populated by rodeo rejects and buck-toothed beauty queens.” Gripping the edge of my workbench, I grit out, “I haven’t set foot in that one-stoplight town since we had to uproot after Dad...”
The words stalled in my throat, grief and anger closing around my heart like a vice. Declan’s hand settles on my shoulder, squeezing in wordless empathy. He knows how ugly things got at the end with Dad’s cancer battle.
Emberlynn, blessed with all the tact of a sledgehammer, just arches one perfect eyebrow. “So...you’re going to cowgirl up and deal with this ranch shit? Or are you just going to tuck tail and run?”
I glare at her, but there’s no heat behind it. She’s got a point, as usual. Running from my past has been my M.O. for over a decade now. Maybe it’s time to go back, to face my demons head-on in that desolate wasteland I’ve avoided for far too long.
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin in a semblance of faux bravado. “You’re right, you harpy. I need to go home and sort through this mess. Maybe I’ll even enter a race or two while I’m there, just for kicks.”
“Now that’s my girl!” Emberlynn crows, slinging an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into an impromptu side hug. “And if cowboys need riding, you know who to call.”
I can’t fight my snort of laughter as I shove her away. “Shut up, skank. Not all of us aspire to you...standards.”
Declan shakes his head, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a rare grin. “Go on then, Wild West Barbie. Git while the getting’s good before we stage an intervention to cure your yeehaw-itis.”
Flipping them both with a hugely insincere smile, I start making a mental list of everything I’ll need for an extended trip back to the ass-end of nowhere...
Oakleigh’s caller ID flashes on my phone screen, an irreverent smirk already curving my lips in anticipation of her particular brand of...counseling.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the peddler of penile pleasures herself,” I answer in a saccharine tone. “To what do I owe the X-rated interruption this fine day?”
“Can it, prude,” comes her trademark snarl, somehow managing to sound both annoyed and amused. “I could hear your frigid aura through the phone before you even answered. What’s got your gigantic granny panties in a knot this time?”
Huffing out a breath, I flop onto the couch, which has seen me through more ups and downs than I care to recall. “Grandpa kicked it, so I’ve got to head back to that crapshoot of a town to deal with his estate and...well, everything else.”
There’s a pregnant pause before she replies, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Shit, Aus. I’m sorry, babe. That’s...that’s a hell of a thing.”
I shrug one shoulder, more nonchalant than I feel. “It is what it is. Just means I’ll be trading in city life for a hit of fresh manure for a little while.”
“Well, aren’t you a ray of goddamn sunshine?” she shoots back, the sarcasm returning full force. “Do yourself a favor and ride something more stimulating than a horse while you’re out playing cowgirl, mmkay?”
I can’t contain the snort of laughter that bubbles up because only Oakleigh would respond to tragedy with crass innuendo. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
“Says the uptight bitch who desperately needs to get railed by something without a saddle,” she fires back without missing a beat.
Shaking my head, I let the silence stretch to irk her further. “Don’t you have some overcompensated divorcee’s credit card to drain?”
“Oh please, like I’d sully my talents on some pathetic suburbanite’s meager bank account. I only accept high net-worth individuals and corporate whales these days.”
“My mistake, you’re far too elite for the riffraff,” I deadpan. “Well, this riffraff has bigger fish to fry at the moment. Namely packing up my entire life into her truck and hauling ass back to the literal middle of nowhere.”
“Just don’t go full Brokeback out there, capiche?” she warns, the slightest hint of genuine concern bleeding into her voice. “I need my bosom buddy bitch intact and orgasming regularly, even if it is via her hand.”
“I promise to ride em’ hard and put em’ away wet,” I reply with an audacious wink she can’t see but surely senses.
“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in gear and show those yokels how we city slickers do it.”
Ending the call with a final bark of laughter, I push off the couch and look around at the life I’ve so carefully constructed – a life that’s about to be packed away for an indeterminate future in the harsh, unforgiving terrain haunting my past.
No horse puns or half-assed metaphors can camouflage the melancholy weighing on my chest as I square my shoulders and get to work. This is the longest ride of my life.
I stalk around my modest two-bedroom apartment, ruthlessly sorting through belongings and tossing the detritus into designated piles - keep, donate, or trash. Each item is an archaeological artifact excavated from the strata of my life, forcing memories to the surface that I’ve long since calcified.
The well-worn running shoes inlaid with Ohio dust and sweat instantly whisk me back to sunrise gallops and afternoon hacks, savoring the solitude of the trails and the wind whipping through Vanna’s mane. A pang of longing clutches my chest as I realize how much I’ll miss this place despite the imminent ranch inheritance.
Shoving the sneakers unceremoniously into a battered cardboard box, I pivot and hurl a decrepit hair straightener directly into the trash - a cathartic release from the ghosts that stalk my rearview. Never again will I primp and preen to impress some random Tinder tryst or half-assed hookup. Those vapid, cum-and-go days are officially in the rearview.
My gaze lands on the chipped porcelain unicorn figurine - a relic from my troubled childhood that somehow survived the harried move from Wyoming all those years ago. Tender fingers trace the contours as I’m bombarded with sun-bleached recollections of lazy summer afternoons and the perpetual dust of the ranch clinging to my skin like a second dermal layer.
“You’re one lucky sumbitch, heading back to the sweet nothingness of Wyoming,” I murmur to the mythical creature. “No deadlines, no dudes, no drama - just you, me, and a couple tons of equine entitlement.”
Exhaling a deep, steadying breath, I gingerly wrap the unicorn in a threadbare towel and tuck it into my duffel for safekeeping. If this journey is fated to be a trip down Memory Lane, at least I’ll have my trusty steed along for the ride.
With the big-ticket household items packed away, I pivot to the actual jackpot - my saddle collection. A vortex of stories is woven into those buttery leather panels and hand-hammered silver accents. As my fingers delicately graze the custom floral tooling, memories of misspent nights and idle days come rushing back in full audiovisual Technicolor.
Each saddle is a masterwork of craftsmanship and artistry - a seamless blend of form and function. But they represent so much more than custom orders and balance sheets. These saddles are extensions of my heart and soul, crafted with the same reverence as a mother swaddling her newborn in infinite tenderness.
Carefully blanketing each one for transport, I can’t resist brushing my lips against the supple leather with an unspoken promise. “Don’t fret, my darlings. This move is just a temporary hiatus - a palate cleanse before we level up the saddle game and blow this pissant town’s minds.”
I’m jolted from my reverie by the tinny blare of my ringtone, hastily grabbing the phone to silence the unholy racket. “What’s shaking, bacon?”
“It’s going time, babe! The truck’s gassed up, trailer’s hitch and the ponies are snug as bugs in disgusting rugs.” Declan’s gruff timbre crackles through the earpiece with punctuated gusto.
Pivoting towards the window, I can make out the top of the truck’s boxy silhouette in the back alley below. “I’m throwing the last of my shit in some boxes and then hauling ass. Meet you down there in ten?”
“You know it. Don’t keep us humble servants waiting too long, your royal ranchness.” The call clicks off abruptly. No doubt Declan is off harassing the next hapless victim in his sights.
As I descend the stairs to the alley, the unmistakable scent of fresh leather and machine oil envelops me - an intoxicating blend that feels more like home than this decrepit warehouse ever could.
“Well, if it isn’t the dominatrix of the dressage set,” Emberlynn drawls, quirking one immaculately shaped brow. “Finally ready to ditch this sprawl and return to your roots, Cinderella?”
Rolling my eyes, I give her the obligatory finger waggle before hauling the first box into the truck’s cargo hold. “As scintillating as rows of rusted machinery and drifts of pigeon shit are, I’m afraid the novelty has worn thin. A girl can only hang so many dream catchers before her soul craves wide open spaces again.”
“Amen to that,” Declan chimes in, not looking up from where he’s fiddling with the truck’s undercarriage. Of course, he’d be giving the thing a full diagnostic before embarking - the man is nothing if not meticulous to a fault. “The sooner we get you back to growing animosity and chapping your ass on a saddle, the better.”
“You’re jealous I’ll have acres of prime real estate to let the old’uns flap in the breeze,” I shoot back with a wink, grabbing another box.
Wiping his hands on a greasy rag, Declan straightens with a lascivious grin. “As if you’d have the self-control. We both know your calloused cheeks would be draped over the first willing steed within a hundred-mile radius.”
Before I can volley another quip, Emberlynn thankfully intervenes, tsking in mock disapproval. “Must you two always take things to the depths of the gutter? Sometimes a lady simply desires a smooth ride without the incessant jackassery.”
“Then it’s a good thing I excel at providing both,” Declan counters without missing a beat.
Holding my hands in surrender, I can’t bite back a laugh at their escalating ridiculousness. “Okay, you deviants have successfully horrified me into leaving. I’m hitting the road before I get roped into your further depravity.”
After a round of hugs and well-wishes, I’m soon eastbound and ample-cheeked on the open highway, the endless ribbon of asphalt cutting a determined path toward my future - and past.
The rhythmic thump of my horse’s hooves echoed through the trailer as it bounced along the road. I couldn’t help but feel grateful for Declan and Emberlynn, who had helped me load my beloved horses into the trailer. The smell of hay and leather filled the air, reminding me of all the adventures we had shared. As we barreled down the highway, I could sense my horse’s anticipation and excitement for our destination.
The miles bleed away, and I can’t hold back the memories crashing over me like a rogue wave...
The windshield wipers drummed in time with my pulse as my childhood’s rangy mesas and ruddy bluffs steadily took shape through the spattering rain.
Wyoming had a way of making you feel small - a fleeting speck dwarfed by the sheer immensity of the landscape. But those vast, rugged vistas held the power to crack open your soul and strip you bare...if you dared to let them in.
As a girl, I’d loved to race my chestnut mare Jezebel across those endless plains, her mane unfurling like a banner of freedom against the kaleidoscope of big sky. It was just me, the thunder of pounding hooves and a million unspoken dreams carried aloft on the breath of the wind.
That kind of openness, of being swallowed up by something bigger than yourself, changes a person. It makes you realize there’s a whole world out there waiting to be explored and conquered. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stay after Dad was gone—the ranch had become a hollow echo chamber, each empty room an aching reminder of everything I’d lost.
A sharp pang lances my chest as I spot the turn-off for the Carter property. I can’t decide if I’m more excited or terrified at the prospect of seeing Cadee again after all these years. My chest constricts as I recall how insanely jealous I’d been of her growing up.
While I was an only child utterly alone, she had this boisterous gang of brothers I’d envied with every fiber of my being. Their raucous laughter and harmless roughhousing were like a siren song to my lonely soul. I’d have given anything to be part of her chaotic cadre instead of being trapped in my solitary, suffocating silence.
The memories tighten my grip on the wheel as I steel myself for the approaching turn. Will Cadee still be around? And if so, will over a decade of separation have fundamentally altered her...or me? A shaky breath escapes my lips as I merge onto the gravel road, cutting through the heart of my family’s land.
There is only one way to find out.
The first glimpse of the ranch’s faded red barn and squat, sturdy farmhouse instantly transports me back to riding lessons with Dad, where he’d patiently guide me through the foundations before letting me take the reins. The ache returns full force as I drink in the majesty of the Teton Range’s craggy peaks looming in the distance, an eternal sentry keeping watch.
Wait...what the hell?
I nearly slam the brakes as the corner of an enormous timber-framed building sways into view, the unmistakable tan and hunter-green of a top-line indoor riding arena. My jaw goes slackly ajar as I take in the sheer scale of the structure, realizing with a jolt that the spacious addition dwarfs our quaint farmhouse.
It’s definitely a new development.
Pulling up to the main Ranch house, I can’t resist a low whistle of surprise. Gone is the cozy, lived-in charm of the place I remember. In its place stands a slick, ultra-modern masterpiece of rustic-chic architecture with soaring ceilings and walls of sun-drenched windows. The final product would look like if Chip and Joanna Gaines did a cowboy-themed reno.
“Well, I’ll be...Gramps has been one busy buckaroo.”
Before I can fully process the scope of the changes, a chorus of whinnies and eager stomping hooves shatters my reverie. My lips curve upwards as I climb and eagerly reach the horse trailer to see my oldest, dearest friends.
“Easy there, y’all,” I laugh as the horses jostle impatiently, craning their majestic necks to catch a glimpse of me. “It’s like I told you - we’re here.”
Murmuring a litany of soothing tones, I quickly unload each one, taking a moment to appreciate the new digs.
I lead Vanna, my headstrong dunn mare, out first. She shakes her proud head vigorously when her hooves hit the dirt, relishing the chance to stretch her powerful legs after the long haul from Ohio.
Next comes Ritchie, my gentle chestnut gelding. Sweet-natured as always, he nuzzles against my shoulder affectionately before ambling off to graze on a patch of lush grass. My rangy paint horse, Kodi, follows close behind, tossing her mane like an unruly teenager shrugging off his parents’ rules.
Last but not least, I unload my pride and joy - Tinman, my once-in-a-lifetime champion bay stallion. From the moment that gorgeous hunk of horse sauntered into the world, I knew we were destined for greatness on the barrel racing circuit. He seems to sense we’ve arrived somewhere significant, too, prancing about in a flurry of powerful strides and head tosses as if putting on a celebratory show.
“That’s right, Tinman,” I murmur proudly, giving his muscular neck an affectionate pat. “I’m back where it all started.”
With the horses happily settled in, I grab my duffel bag and suitcase from the truck bed, steeling myself for the next phase - checking out the mysterious new digs waiting inside. I hoist the bags over my shoulder and head for the front door, my boots crunching across the immaculate gravel driveway.
The moment I step through the threshold, I’m utterly gobsmacked. This place is from an interior design magazine spread on modern ranch homes. What was once a cozy, if outdated, living space has been transformed into a sprawling, open-concept great room with rustic beams, sleek hardwood floors, and a magnificent double-sided stone fireplace as the centerpiece.
“Hot damn, Gramps...you’ve seriously been holding out on me.”
My gaze drifts towards the adjacent kitchen, and I have to gasp. The sunny, spacious culinary oasis is every foodie’s dream, decked out with gleaming stone countertops, high-end stainless appliances, and a massive center island that could easily accommodate a NFL offensive line. Whipping up a humble bowl of oatmeal in this setting would be a crime against cooking.
“Wouldn’t family dinners have been something else in this kickass kitchen?” I muse aloud wistfully.
In my mind’s eye, I can vividly picture my late dad whipping up his famous Dutch oven peach cobbler while Mom sets the table and Gramps holds court with one of his rambling, yarn-spinning tales...
The pang of nostalgia is swiftly interrupted by a ferocious growl from my midsection, snapping me back to the present moment. I guess all that driving has worked up one hell of an appetite. I swing my bags onto the breakfast nook bench and start rummaging through the cabinetry, mentally tallying what essentials I’ll need to keep myself fed until I can adequately stock up at the local market.
With my arms laden with mismatched mugs, chipped plates,, and a couple of trusty cast iron skillets I had unearthed, I set about wiping down surfaces and clearing out dust bunnies to transform this slick kitchen into something homey and functional.
...The countertops gleam under a fresh coat of lemon-scented granite cleaner, and the rich aroma of strong black coffee fills the air. I switch on the vintage radio Gramps always had blaring in here, letting the crackling sounds of some old country station wash over me. It feels like home again as I sip my brew and munch on a granola bar scrounged from my travel stash.
With the kitchen in order, I move into the living room, flopping down onto the overstuffed leather couch with a tired groan. This place may have gotten some fancy updates, but the ferociously uncomfortable furniture is just as I remembered it. My eyelids feel heavy as I glance around the vaulted space, trying to take it all in.
The walls are now an inviting rustic tan instead of drab olive, and the once-dingy windows have been replaced with gleaming new panes, allowing the last rays of evening sunlight to pour in. Massive exposed wood beams stretch overhead, giving the room a warm, lodge-like ambiance. A stunning stone fireplace sits proudly in the corner, surrounded by a fresh pile of split logs just waiting to be lit.
“Not too shabby, Gramps,” I murmur in grudging approval as I finally peel myself off the couch.
I wander down the hall, peeking into each bedroom as I go. Mom’s old room has been completely redone with flowery bedding and frilly window treatments - more her style than the bland aesthetic adorning these walls back in the day. The guest room looks simple but comfortable, decked in soothing earth tones.
When I reach the master suite, I can’t stifle a low whistle. The place is an oasis, with a plush king-sized bed underneath a beautiful timbered vaulted ceiling. The attached en-suite bathroom is a personal spa retreat with a luxurious clawfoot soaking tub and a walk-in shower big enough to host its disco party.
As I flop backward onto the sumptuous down comforter, feeling it envelops me in a warm embrace, I know there’s no way I’ll be able to keep my eyes open much longer. My lead-heavy eyelids slide shut as my head hits the pillows, and I’m out like a light before I can even set an alarm.
Tomorrow’s another day to take stock of this place and determine what comes next. For now, I’d rather be nowhere than right here in this cozy little slice of heaven...drifting off to the distant howls of coyotes serenading the night outside and dreaming of long-lost days on the ranch.
