Page 24 of Old-Fashioned Rancher

“Did you ever think about get married, Bowen?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“No, sir. Came close once. Before I worked at High Plains. We were too young though. Barely out of high school. Her parents wanted more for her than what a ranch hand could offer. So we parted ways.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Birdie started her truck. A cloud of dust billowed behind her as she drove away, growing smaller and smaller on the horizon. My chest tightened as I watched her leave.

Bowen shrugged and turned his horse toward the north pasture.

“Sometimes, things don’t turn out like you hoped they would. I guess that’s just the way life goes.”

I thought Birdie and I would be together. I could see a place for her here, settled in and comfortable, with a garden, and a vase of fresh flowers at dinner every night. I would always wear forget-me-nots pinned to the lapel of my shirt or coat, so I could carry a piece of her with me while I was working.

What if life was stripping Birdie out of my grasp right now? What if we weren’t meant to be together after all?

Bowen pulled his horse to a stop and cleared his throat.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

I wrenched my gaze away from the horizon. Birdie was gone. I couldn’t even see the little cloud of dust that marked her truck’s retreat.

“You always have that, Bowen. Speak your mind.”

He gestured toward the pasture.

“You keep hired hands for a reason, sir.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Your head isn’t in the saddle,” Bowen added. “And if you’ll excuse me for being so bold to say it, but it seems to me like your heart isn’t in the saddle either. Not right now at least. It’s driving down that road somewhere.”

My horse shifted beneath me, restless to get moving. I closed my eyes and inhaled a steadying breath. Bowen was right.

I dismounted and tossed the reins to him. He caught them easily.

“Take care of those cattle for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I broke into a jog toward the house, barging inside. I found Avery standing in front of the bathroom mirror, rubbing a clay mask into her cheeks and forehead.

“Wow, Dad,” she said with a laugh. “Were you raised in a barn? You usually knock first—”

I braced my hands on the door frame and leaned in, fighting to catch my breath.

“I need your help.”

Chapter 8

Birdie

Armed with a watering can, I closed Lavender Lane for an hour at lunch and set to work tending my flowers. I bought the crumbling old cottage when I was twenty-one years old, with a head full of floral dreams. The glassed-in porch attached to the house had been in shambles and in desperate need of some TLC to turn it into the greenhouse I’d been fantasizing about for years.

I replaced the grimy and broken windows. Scrubbed away the mildew gathered in the corners. Ripped out the rotten floorboards from years of water damage. Now the porch served as my sanctuary, an escape from the shop with a chair and a table tucked in one corner. Every shelf was full of plants—trailing nasturtiums in lush reds and golds; lacy sprays of baby’s breath; perky pink miniature roses; and elegant arches of orchids in an array of colors.

A door led outside to my garden, where foxgloves towered nearly as tall as I was. Creeping thyme and moss sprawled between stones of the path, creating a thick, green carpet. Stocks and carnations were still in bloom despite the increasingly colder weather, filling the air with their heady perfume. Deeper into the garden, my roses were faded, petals wilting. Rose hips dotted the bushes now, turning plump and vibrant orange at the end of the growing season.

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