Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I clean the room from top to bottom, finding fresh linen in a closet in the hall. I even wash the inside of the windows to let the light stream in.
The bathroom is my next room of focus, and I just about get that finished and the washer loaded before the bread has finished baking.
I have thirty minutes to fix lunch, and as it nears the time of the Bradford brothers’ return, my heart picks up a little speed. Thoughts of how much they appreciated the dinner last night fill my mind. Thoughts of how good they smelled after they cleaned up too. And maybe some thoughts about how sexy they looked before that, tired and filthy after a long hard day of work.
Shaking my head, I turn my focus to slicing ham. But even as I’m doing it, I imagine the hard planes of muscles that sculpt their backs and chests. Even under thick plaid shirts, it’s possible to see how strong they are. Working men like them need that strength.
It’s warm out today. I wonder if they ever strip off their shirts to work in the heat?
The kitchen suddenly feels stifling, and I throw open the doors to benefit from the through-breeze.
They’re still open when the Bradfords return, stomping in like a herd of elephants before Cash grunts at them to remove their boots. At least someone remembers to be housetrained. They take turns washing their hands too. It’s ridiculous, but I feel like a proud momma.
“Wow, Mel. This looks amazing.” It’s the first time any of them have shortened my name and it feels strange but nice too. My momma always called me Mel. Sawyer is the first to slump into a chair and survey the spread of food. He’s quick to reach for the fresh sandwiches. I’ve cut up some vegetables too and put the last of the fruit in a bowl on the table. “You made cake?”
“Yep.”
He shakes his head as though my baking skills are something to be in awe of. I guess to someone who’s never been taught how, they are. For me, baking is a skill akin to walking. I don’t even need recipes anymore unless I’m trying out something new.
“We’re gonna need supplies,” I say, “if you want me to keep feeding you.”
“Write a list, and one of us will head into town.” Cash is quieter about his appreciation, but I catch the way his eyes close a little over his first bite of my soft bread.
“I thought I could drive one of the trucks outside.”
“You can drive?” Scott says.
Of course, he’d be the one to question my competence. “Yes. I’m legal for that too!” I snark.
Colt sniggers, in a way I’m coming to expect.
“I’ll leave you the key for the Ford,” Cash says. He roots around in his pocket, pulling out a bundle of notes—it looks like Cash has the cash! Tossing what appears to be a small fortune onto the table, he nods. “Use this. Get whatever you think.”
I sit in what now seems to have officially become my spot and help myself to the food.
“So, when are we gonna take those fences down?” Scott asks. His eyes find mine and then flick over to Cash in a way that makes me take note.
“Next week,” Cash says, talking sparingly as usual.
“And the house?” Scott asks.
Cash’s steel-gray eyes flick to mine and then drop to his plate. He lowers his sandwich as though Scott’s questioning is exhausting him. “Let’s keep the business talk out of the kitchen,” he growls.
It’s then it hits me that they’re talking about my house. Well, the house that used to be mine but now belongs to the Bradfords. They’re tearing down the fences next week and then the house. Of course, that would make sense. They don’t need more property. They need land to dig up with plows. The image of those plows in my mind rips at my heart. Even when I’ve swallowed my mouthful, my throat still feels full. My heart aches for all the memories that rest within those four walls. Four walls that Scott seems to be relishing the prospect of destroying.
I don’t plan to shove my chair back so violently that it scrapes the tiled floor piercingly. I don’t plan to toss my napkin onto my plate or storm upstairs like a moody teenager. I can’t hold back the tears that stream down my cheeks or swallow down the burn in my throat. Resting back against the door, I bring my hands to my face and hold my breath.
Of course, it was going to happen. What did I think? That they would preserve my old home like a museum to my family? Even the most sentimental of people would see no sense in that. But with all the rational thinking in the world, my heart still feels as shattered as it did on auction day, and the day I found the mortgage papers in Pa’s desk, and the day Pa died.