After seeing Grace in her—for lack of better words—night attire, I went outside to wait. I took a seat in a rocking chair on the porch and rocked back and forth slowly, replaying the image of her sipping co ee in my very own kitchen. She was a sight to be seen, dressed in silk and lace in a country kitchen—truly out of place. And I knew I saw the same look in her eyes that she had to have seen in mine—attraction, infatuation, lust, or maybe it was something else. I rubbed my hand over my cheeks and chin, trying to scrub the thoughts from my mind. She was here for nothing more than time to relax and get away from whatever it was she disliked about her current life. She wasn’t here to fall in love with a country boy, and I knew I couldn’t get involved without complicating things.
e screen door swung open, and Grace emerged. She was dressed in a tank top and them tight leggings that some girls think are pants. Her tennis shoes were a pristine white, like what the porch looks like after I give it a good pressure wash.
“Don’t you have anything you can get dirty?” I teased.
She looked down at her out t and then back at me. “No, I don’t really get dirty in New York City—except with my clients,” she said with a laugh.
I chuckled and stood from my chair. I wasn’t sure exactly what she did in banking or what she did with her clients, but I got the feeling she was ruthless, or at least she could be.
“Maybe I’ll have to take you into town to get you some proper Wyoming
wear.” I walked down the porch stairs while delivering a half smirk. “Maybe you will,” she said, following behind.
As we walked, I couldn’t help but glance back at Grace, so much so that I nearly tripped over a rock. When I reached the edge of my garden, I paused.
“This is my garden. I sell about ninety percent of what I grow to the local grocery store. The rest I keep for myself.”
Grace stood next to me, taking it all in. It was just a simple plot, filled with a variety of plants and vegetables neatly arranged behind a fence to keep the rabbits and other critters out. Nothing extraordinary, but it held a special place in my heart.
“What do you grow here?” she asked, genuinely curious.
A small smile tugged at my lips. I was pleased to see her interest—especially since I figured a city girl might find this all beneath her. But Grace was different.
“Spinach, cabbage, brussels sprouts, onions, tomatoes, cauliflower, carrots, peppers, lettuce, kale, peas—the list goes on.”
She swayed on her heels, excitement in her voice. “I have a great recipe for brussels sprouts!”
In the short time I’d known her, she had already surprised me in so many ways. It was rare for anyone to catch me off guard; life around here was predictably mundane. I’d become an afterthought in my own routine—wake up, tend to the animals, care for the garden, manage the house, and if I had any time left, I’d try to take care of myself. But with Grace, it felt different. She was always on my mind, and thinking of her made me feel more alive, like we were two halves of the same cracked walnut. Sure, the inside was sweet, but that only mattered because of the rough shell that held it together.
“I should be able to harvest them this week,” I said with the most amount
of fervor I think I had ever had in my voice, but I quickly tapered it down.
“And I’d love to try it,” I added in my typical deep, country tone. I left out the fact that I hated brussels sprouts. I only grew them because they didn’t take up much space in the garden, and they sold well at the grocery store.
“Great,” she said. “ ey’re my favorite vegetable.”
“Mine too,” I lied. It was just a little white lie. Grace was clearly excited about cooking them for me, so I didn’t want to ruin that.
We continued walking toward the pond where the ducks and chickens roamed practically free. I had always been a big believer in free range, and I really tried to follow that. But not everything was meant to be free. Some things had to be kept in cages.
As we edged toward the pond, a mallard with a dark green head and a bright yellow bill walked right across Grace’s shoe. She giggled, and the rays from the sun highlighted her perfect smile and her cute crinkled nose. My Pekin ducks followed closely behind us, about a dozen of them. ey acted more like dogs than ducks due to their friendly and docile nature. e chickens on the other hand kept to themselves and only approached when I had feed in hand. I always thought they were more like cats. ey purred when you pet them, but you had to earn their attention.
“ ey’re real friendly.” I bent down to pet a Pekin duck that took its place
beside me, letting out a couple of squeaky sounds. “You must treat them well.”
“I do my best.” I nodded. After a few minutes, we continued walking toward the stable where my horses were. I only had two horses. One was my father’s and the other my mother’s, and aside from riding them around the property, they were quite the money pit. I didn’t show or breed them, and I’d never sell them. But sometimes, I’d talk to them like they were my mom and pop, and that right there, I couldn’t put a price on.
I slid a hand down the side of Gretchen, a buckskin oroughbred with light tan coloring and a dark mane. She was calm and still, just like my momma. Grace ran her hand along the face of George, a black Quarter Horse.
He was stoic and moody, just like my pops.
“ ey’re beautiful,” she said, stroking George’s head.
“ ey are.” I glanced over at Grace. “And highly intelligent. ey say horses can read human emotions. ey know what we’re feeling before we even know.”
“Fascinating.” She ran her hand up and down George’s muzzle. “Have you ever ridden one before?” I raised an eyebrow.
Grace shook her head.
“Well, a horseback ride is included in your stay if you’re up for the challenge.”
She took a step back and put her hands on her hips. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“ at’s what I like to hear.” I smiled. “Shall we?”
I headed in the direction of the eld, and we walked side by side through the pasture. I pointed out the couple dozen cows and sheep that took care of most of the lawn mowing. I told her how I milked the cows most mornings and shaved the sheep in the spring, selling the wool to a local yarn shop. She listened attentively, and I liked that about her. It was like she really heard me. I hadn’t felt understood or heard in a long time.
“Does anyone help you with the ranch? It sounds like a lot of work for one
person.”
“A bit. My brother does when he can, and I have a girlfriend that helps with harvesting the vegetables and collecting the duck and chicken eggs.”
“A girlfriend?” Grace asked, raising an eyebrow. She seemed a little jealous, but I think I liked that. I let out a laugh. “A girl that’s a friend, I mean.”
She smiled, and I couldn’t help staring at the curve of her lips.
“What’s that over there?” Grace pointed at several rows of covered boxes just in front of the woods.
“ at’s my honeybee farm.”
Her face lit up. “You farm them?”
“Actually, no. A family friend of mine does. Betty—she’s almost like a
second mom. ey’re hers, but she keeps them on my property and takes care of them. I get a small cut of the sales and about half a dozen bottles of honey every year.”
Grace’s eyes were wide. “Can I see them?”
“Probably not too safe without wearing a beekeeping suit.” I craned my neck toward her. “You like bees or something?”
“Yeah. ey’re fascinating.” She looked up at me, our eyes meeting. “When a honeybee stings, their stinger gets lodged in skin, so they have to self- amputate their digestive tract, muscles, and nerves. ey literally die protecting themselves.”
“Sounds like a gruesome death.”
“It is. Sorry, I watch a lot of Discovery channel,” Grace said with a laugh. “Nothing wrong with knowing interesting facts. Did you know honey never
goes bad?”
Her plump lips curved into a grin. I could have kissed them right then and there, but I broke eye contact, looking at my feet instead. Grace made me nervous, real nervous. I think she probably had that e ect on a lot of people. I had forgotten what nerves felt like—them little tingles on the skin and that whoosh of butter ies in my belly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had that feeling. Well, actually, I could and it didn’t end well.
Grace walked in step beside me. “I think I read that somewhere. But my brussels sprouts recipe calls for honey, so I can use up a little bit of your collection.”
“Kismet.”
“Indeed,” she said with a nod.
I pointed up ahead at Wind River. “I get some good shing out of there and some good swimming too.”
We stood at the edge of the water. It babbled in some parts where it brushed over large rocks. In other parts it sounded like a whoosh, like water coming too quick out of a faucet. Beyond it was the woods—thick, twisting,
and dark. My father always used to say: Anything goes in the woods. It’s like
Vegas for wildlife. Has its own boundaries, its own cover, and the plants and animals do whatever it takes to survive in there.
Past that were the mountains. ey served as a reminder of how small and
insigni cant we all were. I liked looking at them when I felt frustrated with my own life. e tops were white from snow that wouldn’t touch the ground we stood on for another few months.
“What do you catch?” Grace looked at me and then back at the water.
I slid my hands into my pockets. “Most everything. Walleye, perch, largemouth bass, but my favorite is golden trout.”
We stood in silence for a few moments, taking it all in.
“I’m going to assume you ain’t ever shed.” I glanced over at her. She cocked her head. “You know what they say about assuming.” “So, you have?”
“No, I haven’t.” Grace laughed.
“Now you’re just yanking my chain, Grace Evans, aren’t you?” I smirked, tipping my head toward her.
She playfully bumped her shoulder into me. “I could have shed. I just don’t know how to.”
e sun re ected o of her eyes. I could get real used to looking at them
blue, blue eyes.
“I can teach ya if ya want.” I smiled.
She nodded. “I’d love that, Calvin Wells.”
ere she went again, using my full name, making my stomach get all turned upside down. I missed that feeling, but I wasn’t ready for a girl like her. She was going to make resisting her the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But deep down, I already knew I’d fail at that.
