Begin Again (21 page)

Her heart full of joy, Maisie smiled and picked up her daughter. “Let's get you dressed. Your grandparents will be here any minute.”

Ryan smiled. “I already cleaned Rex's, Boots's, and Lucky's cages.”

She kissed his cheek. “You're the best husband a girl could ask for.”

He laughed. “That's what I strive for.”

Maisie lifted up the wiggly baby dressed in a ruffled pink dress with matching bloomers. “Well, Daddy, I think that means we're ready.” Blossom rested her head on Maisie's shoulder. The feel of her baby girl in her arms would never cease to amaze her. She put her nose close to Blossom's head and inhaled the sweetness. Her shattered heart had finally been repaired and was stronger than she'd thought possible. “She's beautiful, isn't she?”

Ryan touched the red peach fuzz on top of Blossom's head. “She sure is. Looks just like her momma, green eyes and all.” He kissed the top of his daughter's head and then kissed his wife with more passion than ever.

Maisie smiled down at Blossom. “No matter what storms come our way, we'll get through them, together.”

Christy Newton is a hopeless romantic that has a weakness for warm cookies and dark chocolate. She lives in Indiana with her supportive husband and two amazing daughters, where they all take turns chasing around their Boston Terrier puppy named Simon. Learn more about her at
www.christynewton.com
, on Facebook,
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Christy-Newton/359791990763912
, and on Twitter,
@CNewtonAuthor
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That damned rooster was crowing again.

Brandt Conner pulled the pillow over his head and tried, in vain, to catch another five minutes' worth of winks. When the rooster sang again, he cursed, slid the pillow aside, and glanced at the clock. Day was breaking outside, and his father would already be at the kitchen table poring over the newspaper and sipping his morning coffee. Brandt struggled from the warm blankets and, naked save for his underwear, plodded toward the closet. He pulled on the first pair of jeans he found — they were neatly folded so he figured they were clean — and quickly buttoned a flannel shirt across his chest. Socks and Western work boots completed the ensemble. In the bathroom, he did his business, finger-combed his hair, and yawned all the way down the stairs.

It was never quiet in the old ranch house. The stairs squeaked, the ancient nails shifting in and out of the risers with each footstep. The walls settled and groaned at all hours of the day. The place was well-insulated behind the lath and plaster — it'd been blown in just two years earlier — but nothing could stop the march of time, the floors sloping here and there as the stone foundation settled beneath antique floor joists. Brandt knew it'd take a gut job to fix all that was wrong with the place, but his father insisted the house had great bones and would outlast them all. A noncommittal “maybe” was the only answer Brandt could ever muster in most situations.

Mitchell Conner sat in his regular chair at the kitchen table, the one he'd repaired with nails and wood glue more than a few times. It squeaked and groaned like everything else in the house. He shared his son's brown hair, though it'd gone grey at the temples a long time ago, matching his weathered face. He sipped from his coffee cup — he drank it black, stout enough to walk on its own, never adding milk or sugar. Brandt had tried that once, and found out quickly that he'd rather drink tar or crude oil than to ever again try coffee without milk.

“Good afternoon,” Mitchell joked. Brandt considered a rancorous comeback for a moment before he reconsidered. It was just his father's way, he knew — he'd been trying for twenty-five years to turn his only child into an upright man, and maybe he'd succeeded. Brandt still lived at home and helped take care of the ranch, despite his college degree. The degree was superfluous, however, because Brandt had never wanted to be anything but a cattle rancher. Being a cowboy was as easy as breathing; being a dutiful son was more difficult. Brandt took a seat at the table, and kept his thoughts to himself. His mother, Laura, was a tad gentler, a more sympathetic counterpoint to her gruff husband.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, her back turned to him. She stood over the range, the newest appliance in the house, and plated breakfast for him. She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as she set eggs, toast, and bacon before him, joining it a moment later with a glass of milk.

“Thanks, Mom,” Brandt said before he picked up his fork and dug in. This was usually the calmest, most serene part of his day: dishes clinking together, the rustling of the newsprint as his father flipped through it. His father read the paper deliberately, quietly, and Brandt could never remember him voicing an opinion over its contents. He and Laura made small talk as she ate her own breakfast, and that was that.

“Brandt.” Mitchell folded the paper closed and father and son locked eyes.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Don't forget I need you to head into town this morning and pick up that new roll of fence at the farm store.”

Brandt chewed for half a minute before he answered. “You don't need me to check the herd this morning?”

Mitchell shook his head quickly. “I'll get Rawlings to help me with that. Besides, you need a better rapport with people. Most everyone finds you a little … ” Brandt's mouth dropped in a frown at one corner. “Broody.”

Brandt lifted an eyebrow. “Okay. As soon as I'm done eating, I'll head into Layton.” He cleared his throat. “Is it on your tab or … ”

Mitchell pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and passed it across the table — five twenty-dollar bills. “That oughta cover it.” He shoved his chair back, its legs scraping the pine boards, and stood. “Drive safe, son.” He pulled his hat from a hook near the back door and left without another word.

“He's not trying to be harsh,” Laura insisted, and Brandt knew it was to his benefit to listen. “He's just from a different generation. Warmth is not his strong suit.”

Brandt nodded and finished his breakfast. “I know,” he replied, shoving the bills in his jeans. He stood, grabbed his cowboy hat, and nearly had it slung atop his head before he remembered to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. “Later, Mom. Don't work too hard today.”

She smiled up at him warmly, both hands locked around her own cup of coffee. “I'll try not to, sweetie.”

The Conner ranch covered not quite forty-five acres on the outskirts of Layton, a town where everyone was a farmer, a future farmer, or a farmer's daughter. This was the section of Kentucky that featured gently rolling meadows, a safe respite from the rocky foothills and limestone canyons that dotted points north and east, the verdant pastures and meadows providing ample land for cattle grazing. Other farms featured a passel of hogs, goats, even sheep, but the Conners never cottoned to anything but beef cattle and poultry. And that was just fine with Brandt — cattle were enough work, and he'd been dragging pails of milk and baskets of eggs in the house since he was big enough to walk. It was a lifestyle that both his parents were born into, and complaining about it wouldn't have done much good — he had an advantage on both of them, having been indoctrinated in the importance of a college education by his parents from an early age. He'd read Shakespeare, researched in that big library until his eyes had gone crossed, learned all about the difference between the philosophies of Aristotle and Plato, and earned that four-year degree. There were times, when he was alone with his thoughts, that he couldn't understand why all of it was so important — it wasn't like he'd ever had to recite a sonnet down at the farm store. You asked for feed, or fence wire, or iodine. You paid the clerk or had it put on your father's tab. Not exactly rocket science.

There was some advantage to being an only child, and primary beneficiary of his parents' affections. If Mitchell was somewhat gruff and distant, Brandt had never wanted for anything. His closet was full of flannels and jeans, and he had plenty of nice boots and warm coats. Good gloves that kept his hands from getting raw and chapped in the winter. A few nice Stetson hats. A black truck that was in his name and still under warranty. His dad paid only the insurance, and upkeep otherwise fell on his shoulders. As hard as ranch life could be from time to time, Brandt figured he was luckier than most — how many kids got to live out a childhood dream every day of their adult lives?

It was early spring, the world outside the truck windows greening back to life. The redbuds were still colored with their bright blooms, the green leaves a few days away from bursting forth. Brandt cracked his window long enough to get a taste of the chilled air, then powered it back up and into place. It was a few miles into Layton, and this was the biggest stretch of quiet he ever got to experience. There was no silence to be found on the ranch, whether in or out of the house. There was always something more to do, something else to worry over, someone yelling for you to get your muddy damned boots off the back porch …

Here in the truck, though, he heard nothing but the hum of the engine and his subtle breathing. He rolled on toward town, past the high school with its brand-new bleachers and running track paved in broken asphalt. In his years there, he'd consistently baffled the track coach, who couldn't figure out why someone with a sprinter's legs didn't try out for the team. Brandt had always shrugged it off; he'd outrun a few bulls in his time, mainly because he didn't listen to his father's carefully-worded warnings not to piss them off. No matter — he'd never been injured on the ranch, aside from Mitchell reaming him up one side and down the other. Laura always defused conflict before it reached critical mass, a better peacemaker than anyone at the Ambassador's table.

Brandt had always been closer to his mother, from the time he was born. Mitchell had taught him everything there was to know about ranching, how to brand a cow or inoculate a calf, even how to turn a bull into a steer, but so much of that was technical, distant, as though the elder Conner was keeping his son at arm's length. “Do this, not that. Stand up straight, don't pout.” And so it went. Maybe that was the real reason he'd been marched off to college, he considered, pulling his truck into a diagonal space at the front of the farm store.

To keep him and his father from coming to blows.

• • •

Different day, same routine.

In the week since Marissa Sloan had started her job at Layton Farm and Supply Company, she'd done the same tasks each day: swept the floor every morning before they opened for business, but not before she'd inventoried and straightened all the shelves, wiped down the checkout counter, and started the coffee in the employee lounge that was little more than a cubbyhole between the restroom and storeroom. The manager, Mona Larkin, was a longtime friend of her mother who'd secured this job for her. The only stipulation was that she had to move from her hometown, not quite fifty miles away, which was no hardship — she had nothing holding her there, and thus far her college degree had proven useless. She was now renting the apartment above the farm store, the one that always smelled like seasoned lumber and feed corn. As she put away the broom, she gave the store a once-over — the interior was covered in aged wood, and looked like it would turn into a tinderbox if she breathed on it too warmly. Mona had given her a customary greeting as she unlocked the front door before heading back into the sanctuary of her office. Mona would never have made manager without a strong degree of nepotism — she didn't display a whole lot of friendliness outside of superficial greetings: “Hi, how are you?” or “How is your (insert family member's name here)?” was about as deep as she ever went. Still, Marissa was exceedingly grateful for this job, and the opportunity to earn a paycheck. She'd been without both for too long.

She was settling in for another standard day, her butt planted firmly on a stool beside the cash register, when her world was knocked sideways. He ambled into the store, coughing as dust motes filled the air, a hitch barely noticeable in his gait. The white Stetson was pushed low, shielding his eyes from view. As he stepped close to the counter, she looked up into his gaze.

Her eyes swept over a wiry, rangy frame, his jeans and shirt well broken-in. He pushed up the brim of his hat and she caught her first glimpse of those green eyes — darker than an oak leaf, closer in hue to a blade of grass. His face was lightly tanned, nearly blending in with his brown hair. He had a sharp jawline but little else to distinguish an otherwise handsome face. When their gazes met, the back of her neck went hot, and she was suddenly relieved she'd worn her hair down that day. He cleared his throat and gave her a small smile.

“Good morning,” he said in a roughened timbre.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“I'm here to pick up an order,” he murmured.

“Okay,” she said, a little taken aback by his abruptness. She rifled in her pocket until she found the key that opened the storage locker under the counter, the usual place where special orders were housed.

“Haven't seen you around here before,” he continued, and she noted he'd shoved his hands in his pockets. Don't look at his pockets, she chided herself. Don't look anywhere but his eyes — beautiful, green, mysterious.

“I just started this week … ” she said, trailing off as Mona entered the corner of her vision. She'd undoubtedly heard the whoosh of air when their first customer arrived for the day and come to supervise. Marissa reminded herself once more that she needed this job and would slowly have to earn Mona's respect.

“Brandt,” Mona said, somewhat tersely.

“Mrs. Larkin,” he replied.

“I noticed your mama wasn't in church Sunday. I hope she's feeling okay.”