Page 21 of Buried Roots

I’m grieving the loss of strangers.

I run my hand over Lily’s wedding ring, and it looks beautiful, which infuriates me.

“What’s the point?” I scream, slamming my laptop shut. Suddenly, I’m frantic.

I hurry to the basement, where I plan to look for any paperwork. But I’m not hopeful—during the tour Roy Livingston gave me, I’d seen the place, and it was completely empty. But I have to do something right now. Anything.

After flying down the stairs and clicking on the light, I wander around. It’s so odd—a vast space with a wine storeroom, a bar with a kitchenette, a living area, and another bedroom, all with nothing in it. There’s not a knickknack or piece of furniture anywhere to be found.

I check every nook, closet, and cabinet to see if that’s where Bo’s records are stored.

I find nothing.

Defeated and bone-dead exhausted, I stagger upstairs to the primary bathroom. It has its original cast iron clawfoot tub with a sky view above, which, right now, is filled with stars.

I want to take a soak, but I’m too tired. Or maybe too defeated. Instead, I hop in the shower before moving on to my facial scrub and moisturizing routine. After brushing my teeth for a full minute, I wipe the counter and arrange my toiletries neatly on the bathroom sink counter. I have to try to controlsomething.

I crawl into bed, and after clicking off the lamp, I stare at the ceiling, studying the slated pattern of moonlight through the shutters. I hoped this trip would bring me long-awaited answers about where I came from, and why I was placed for adoption. Maybe it would dull the permanent yearning, just beneath my lungs, to find out something,anything, about my biological parents.

When I was little, I’d imagine they were both undercover agents who gave me away to protect me from the bad guys, and that someday, they’d come find me when it was safe. When I grew old enough to realize that was absurd, I became infuriated at them. How could they let me go? Never wonder if I was okay? Weren’t they curious about me? Like how my eyes appear hazel or blue, depending on the clothes I wear. Or how I have this addiction to spicy food and loathe scratchy sheets, being late, and excuses.

The years wore on, and my fury at them faded to an ache, thrumming in the background of my life, sometimes loudly, sometimes faintly, but always there. Guilt hits like a wrecking ball—from my earliest memories, my adoptive parents gave me every morsel of love they had. Why wasn’t that enough? It should’ve been—it should’ve been everything.

I’m desperate for answers, but all I have is more questions. And, somehow, heartbreak to boot.

It’s the ass crack of dawn when I complete a new purchase order report for the Kleins and email it off before making my way into the pasture. One of the farmhands is already here and getting on the combine. “Morning, Levi.”

“Mornin’, Ms. Dawson.” He waves but doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth and one tucked behind his ear.

He scrambles away without another word. This kid is polite but acts like he’s hiding something. With that said, he seems to have a strong work ethic, staying late last night and now arriving first thing. Maybe he’s just shy.

I walk into the barn to make sure Sir Fig A Lot hasn’t found trouble.Yeah, right.But from now on, I’m here to get the place sold, period. No more digging for information on my past—I’ve done all my heart can handle.

I blink in surprise when I see a stunning woman, winter-wheat blond hair and porcelain skin, about my age, milking one of my goats.

“Hey, there,” I say, wringing my hands. “Can I help?”

Her head darts up. “Oh, hey there. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude.” She stands and brushes her hands on her jeans. “I’m Dakota, your milk buyer. Since Bo passed, I’ve been helping Frankie with the goats. We’ve been waiting for somebody to take over the farm, but I didn’t know you were here.”

“It’s okay. You were just doing your job.” I smile, walking over and extending my hand. “I’m Willow.”

Dakota smiles, showing off a perfect set of teeth and a dimple when she says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. This is all new to me, so I’m happy you’re here to help. I actually have no idea how to milk a goat.”

Her bright smile grows. “Come on, I’ll show you.” She waves me over to the goat, who’s on that prison platform gobbling food pellets from the tray in front of her. Dakota waves a palm, saying, “Willow, meet Darling, Darling, meet Willow.”

“Hi, Darling. It’s nice to learn your name.” I approach the goat and give her a pet. I’m pretty sure she’s Sir Fig A Lot’s mother, but there’s one other female goat, so I’m uncertain. “So, what do you do with the milk? I mean, after you buy it?”

“I make cheese. I own the shop, Cut the Cheese, in downtown.” She sits on the stand and positions her hands on the teats.

“I saw that place! And I wanted to stop there.” I stand beside her. “I figured whoever owned it had my kind of humor.”

“That’s me.” She raises her hand, but then returns her focus to the goat, telling me how to properly clean her underbelly and do a couple of pumps to the ground first to get a clean squirt. Then, she positions her hands on the udder. “Take your thumb and pointer finger and squeeze the teat. If you don’t pinch, the milk’ll just go straight back into the udder. Then you use the rest of your fingers to pump.” She does just that, and milk sprays into the tin can below. “Now you try.”

“Oh.” My eyes pop. “Sure.” I reach over and grab the teats, like she said, surprised by their softness. It takes a few times, but I finally get out a small spray. “You better take over, or we’ll be here all day.”

She does, and as she works, she says, “I’ve been busy expanding my business. The breweries in town carry my cheeses, and I’ve even got a line in MoonMart. I’m hoping to get into some stores in Atlanta, but that’s down the road.”

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