Page 48 of Westin

We’re both quiet for a few minutes.

“Where are you from, anyway?” she asks finally. “Did you always live at Sovereign Mountain?”

I don’t like talking about my childhood, but today, with the sun shining through the window and her sitting there in a dress that looks like summertime, I feel like I could say a few words.

“The ranch is pretty new,” I say. “My family farm sat there before.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Build a ranch? One foot in front of the other,” I say. “Tell me about your life.”

A crease appears between her brows. She stares straight ahead.

“There isn’t much to say,” she says. “My parents have always been gone. My Nana raised David and I as best she could. I feel like she did a decent job with me, but David’s kind of a dick.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Sorry,” she says quickly.

“No, I like your honesty, Diane,” I say. “What kind of woman was your Nana? She from around here?”

She nods, her eyes lighting up like the clouds have parted. I do a double take. It hits me how much her grandmother meant to her. It must have hurt deeply when she passed.

Of course it did. She doesn’t have anybody else.

“Carter Farms has been in our family for a long time,” she says, shifting to face me. She puts my hat on the seat between us and leans her temple on the headrest. “My Nana was sweet, but she was tough. I wish I could be like her.”

I don’t tell her that she is; I know she won’t believe me.

“What happened to her husband?” I ask.

She shrugged. “Not much. He was a little older than her, so he passed first. I remember him a tiny bit, but it’s just flashes from when I was a toddler. They really loved each other.”

“That what she said?”

She nods. “And it’s inTheCanterbury Tales.”

“What now?”

“You know how some families have a family Bible where they record important dates?” she asks. “Well, all my family had was a copy ofCanterbury Tales. So we used that. There’s a list of all the marriages on the front page. My grandpa left a little note in there, saying he loves her forever. She signed her initials under it, like she was co-signing on it or something.”

“That’s sweet,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft. “It is.”

“Who’s the last couple in there?”

“My parents.”

I’ve got a mind to make sure my name gets written in that family book next to hers someday, but it’s too soon to voice that out loud.

“I can’t imagine it,” she says, “loving somebody that much and having to keep going without them.”

My mind goes back to my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if she loved my father at all. Maybe she stayed with him out of resignation, or because she had a son with him.

“What happened to your parents?” she asks.

Her face is innocent, waiting on my answer. The wind tugs at the stray curls around her throat.

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