Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Passing the stables that used to be full, I see they’ve gone into disrepair. I don’t blame them. With the larger barn still intact and in use, I don’t see the sense in keeping the stables up if they’re never going to be used again. I start down the hill, spotting the tack shed. My dad will be tucked in a lawn chair on the other side in the shadows of the sun.
It’s been too long since I walked around without the sound of car horns or someone shouting on the streets next to me. The hustle and bustle I’ve grown used to and annoyed by was left behind. I have the next five days to loosen the tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders.
The quiet surrounds me—birds in the distance, the faintest water lapping the edge of the river, leaves on the nearby oaks blowing in the wind, and the crunch of weeds under my shoes. It’s not quite the same sound that I remember from my childhood. Instead, it’s lighter as if the weight of my boots made the crunch just a little more noticeable.
Boots . . . I grin, thinking about Pris. She looked so damn good in that dress, and equally just how I remembered, though so many years have passed us by. Windblown hair and boots so scuffed that I can still hear her getting a talking-to on Sunday mornings on the church steps. And those bluer-than-the-Texas-sky eyes were always a giveaway to what she was up to—no good or the pristine little angel that earned her the nickname. But so much has changed. I never looked at her twice when I lived here because the one time I did, Baylor knocked me down on my ass for it.
The memory has me chuckling like a fool to myself. It was one of the worst fights we ever got in. We weren’t known to disagree much, except when it came to who had the better truck, scored more points at the rodeo and with the ladies in town for the big show, and his sister.
Back then, she was an annoying little squirt who bugged us while we were trying to come into our own. That dress with the little flowers flowing down the shape of her curves, with the dip at the front where the top button had slipped the hole, gave me another peek into how she’s grown. I liked the swell of her hips when I held her, but it was her face that had me staring too long. She’s fucking gorgeous and has come into her own alright. Damn.
Baylor hasn’t shared photos in a long time. Who shows off photos of their sister anyway? But I could have used a warning. Instead, I was stuck there with a growing . . . I clear my throat, though I’m not sure what suddenly clogged it.
Nothing like having your kid wreck your game, as if I still have any. I laugh again as I approach the tack shed. I’m not looking to give my dad a heart attack, so as I come around the corner, I call out, “Hey, Dad?”
Busted. He’s not fishing.
Asleep in a hammock under the trees, he’s snoring loudly. I consider waking him but decide to give him a few more minutes to rest, figuring fishing was his cover so he could sneak in a nap before returning to his duties.
I always thought it would be hard to forget this place. Although it’s embedded in my being, this river runs through my veins, and the air is the oxygen that I need to breathe. Nothing beats being here in person again.
I sit in the lawn chair at the river’s edge, my shoulders easing and my body slumping into the worn fabric. This is the life.
“Catch anything?”
Whipping my gaze over my shoulder, I see my dad grumbling as he slips out of the hammock. “I thought I’d leave it to the professionals.”
He grins as his eyes travel over the rocky bank and meet mine. “What brings you home, son?”
“A long flight and then just over an hour’s drive.” I stand and meet him halfway.
Turning a handshake into a hug, Dad pats me on the back. “Glad you made the trek. It’s been too long.”
“It has. Felt like a good time to make my way back.”
We step apart, and both cross our arms over our chests as if we’re a mirror with a time difference between his age and mine. “Where’s my little man Beckett?” He’s been trying to get my son here for years.
We only made the trip to Texas once when our son was barely one. Anna hated it here. She claimed it was too dusty, too in the middle of nowhere, too deserted, and the worst for her, was that not one shop served her overly complicated coffee drink. No barista ever got it right anyway, even in the city. We had one night in The Pass before she demanded we leave the next day.