Page 11 of Honey Bee Hearts

In my mind, I count. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. “I know,” I answer as I slowly ease off the brake and finally move into the small intersection.

Gunnar glances at me. “You’re a very cautious driver, Fable.”

“You should tell him,” Jinx says from the back seat. “Explain it.”

“Can’t ever be too cautious,” I say instead, throwing a nervous smile over toward him. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

He smiles back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Sure. Just don’t drive with Colt in the car. I swear that man thinks everything is a NASCAR race. He’ll be yelling at you to go when his anxiety says you’re moving too slow.”

“Good to know,” I murmur. “Avoid driving Colt anywhere.”

He leans forward in his seat and points out the windshield. “If you keep following this road, it’ll take you right to Steele, our charming little town famous for at least one country singer, a bull rider, and a barrel racer, but not much else according to any reporters who come looking. However, I’d argue, we havethe best little coffee shop and country bar in the world.” He grins at me. “We won’t be driving through it to get to Circle Bee, though. I’ll have to take you into town another time and show you around.” He pulls out his phone and the screen lights up. “Unfortunately, I’m being summoned for one of the horses. Ole Houdini apparently figured out how to get out of his paddock again. I swear the horse was an escape artist in another life.”

I smile at him as I follow his directions to turn off the highway onto a much smaller road. “I bet he’s the prettiest escape artist.”

“Oh, he’s a beautiful Grullo, but he’s an asshole. Do you know how many locks I’ve tried with the bastard? At least a dozen. And we’ve only had him for about a year. He always finds a way out,” he grumbles.

I can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out. When he shoots me a look, I smile in apology. “I’m not laughingatyou, I swear. Just at the fact that there’s a horse named Houdini that gets out of whatever lock you put him in.”

“Oh, man. If you enjoy that, just wait until you meet the other animals,” he grins. “We have a whole host of characters. Normally, I’d have a little frizzle rooster on my shoulder, but Mr. Frizzle isn’t able to hold his poo for such a long ride.”

“Mr. Frizzle,” I snicker. “You’re right. I can’t wait to meet everyone.”

Above the road in front of me, an archway welcomes me to Circle Bee Ranch. It’s a pretty iron display, large metal honeybees welded around the ranch brand I’d seen on the email. Whoever made it is definitely skilled with metal. As we pass beneath it slowly, I get a look at the giant oak trees lining the driveway, stretching over to touch canopies, making it feel as if we’re in a tunnel rather than on a road.

“Whoa,” I say, looking up at them. Oak trees are slow growers, so to see so many large ones, it makes for a beautiful sight.

“Yep,” Gunnar answers. “These oak trees were planted by the Thomas Family over fifty years ago. That’ll be Rhett’s grandparents. They’re somethin’, aren’t they?” he asks, smiling over at my awe.

“They’re beautiful,” I breathe. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any so healthy and large. Back home, we have some, but they’re usually covered with moss. Hurricanes take them out pretty regularly. These trees look like nothing could push them over.”

“Wait until you see the house. I swear they knew how to do the mountains justice in the background. Plus, you picked a great time to visit. The fall is always real pretty round here and the local farmer’s market is top tier.”

We climb the driveway along a small incline for a few minutes. When we reach the top, I get my first look at the house Gunnar was talking about.

“Wow,” I breathe, taking it all in. It’s a large house, more a mansion than a house by my definition. The style can only be described as Victorian, as if whoever built it appreciated the architecture of that time period. A large, wrap-around porch circles the entire house, the great points of the roof drawing your eye to the trim work. It’s painted a pretty off-white with black trim, and it somehow doesn’t take away from the sight of the mountains in the background. It’s the kind of house that drags you in and is also probably haunted.

“Definitely haunted,” Jinx announces.

“Yep. She was built in the 1920s by Rhett’s grandaddy,” Gunnar nods. “Apparently, his grandma really loved the style, so he spent five years building it with his bare hands. Their names are still scratched into the kitchen doorframe, along with every other child’s height mark that grew up here.”

My chest squeezes. “That’s amazing,” I answer. “I wish I lived somewhere with that sort of history.”

“You don’t have a childhood home?” he asks, and it’s an innocent question. One of those questions you just ask in conversation, not expecting a sad answer.

“I didn’t,” I answer honestly. “My mom wasn’t great at keeping any place for long. By the time I graduated high school, I’d lived in ten different apartments and been to at least eight different school districts.”

“That sounds hard,” he murmurs as we pull up to the house and I throw the truck into park. “Military?”

I shake my head and refuse to meet his eyes. “Drugs,” I correct.

“Shit,” he rasps under his breath. “I’m sorry to bring up bad memories. I know something about. . . well, I understand.” He drops his hand on my shoulder. “She still around? Your mom?”

“Somewhere,” I shrug. “I haven’t spoken to her in a few years.”

He nods. “Sometimes that’s for the best.”

“I like him,” Jinx says in my ear. “He’s sweet.”

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