Page 9 of Buried Roots

“They’ll be fine—they’re tough.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and turns me to glance at my backside. “One of them get you?”

“Just the baby. He bit my pocket.” I groan. “I didn’t get them into the feeding cage.”

Her face twists. “Feeding cage?”

“The things with bars and a bowl.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “That ‘feeding cage’ is for milking.” She hitches a thumb backward. “The trough out here is for feeding.”

I look to see a long half-pipe thing that has a fence in front of it, probably for them to put their heads in to keep them away from one another. “Ohhh.”

Frankie chuckles. “It seems like they’ve given you a proper initiation.”

“You could say that again.”

“All right.” She steps away. “Good work tonight. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”

“Right.” I have to do this again?

We leave the pasture together, and my type-A, hyper-driven personality is nagging me to go to the horse stables after Frankie leaves, but I can’t do it. The new, wiser me realizes the damage my novice ass could cause, like a stampede. Let sleeping dogs lie—or in this case, sleeping horses stand.

I’m beyond thrilled to hop in my rental and follow the GPS to the place I’m staying—The Violet Moonlight Inn. Since I didn’t know I’d be inheriting this house, I’d already paid for the stay. I might as well use it, at least for tonight.

My room’s view is of downtown nestled into the mountains. The silver and lavender decor is cozy yet vogue, and I’m in love with the oversized king bed with the deep purple velvet-tufted headboard. I can’t wait to dive in.

After showering, I eat my standard traveling meal—a double chicken salad from McDonald’s drive-thru. Then I change into my silk pajamas before hanging my clothes in the closet, arranging them by day.

In the quietness, the cross, the tree, and the inheritance infiltrate my mind, and suddenly, curiosity trumps denial. I sit on the bed with my computer, Googling every variation of “Willow Eloise Dawson,” including, “obituary,” “death,” “car accident,” “Pineview Road accident,” and so on, finding nothing. Then I do it all again for “Willow Eloise Underwood,” and again for “Willow Eloise Sheffield.”

Nothing. Desperate, I log in to the records website I’m now a member of, finding no obituary or death record for any of those names. My phone buzzes, and it’s my best friend and manager, Natanya, telling me she’s ready to FaceTime. I hope all is well at RevitaHome today. And with Tesla, my pet turtle.

Popping onto the screen, Natanya stands by a pole, sweaty, in workout gear.

My brows dive. “Where are you?”

A proud smile takes over her glistening, umber-toned face. “Pole dancing lessons, girl. It’s an amazing workout, and I’m upping my game.” She does a worm-like wave against the pole.

“You don’t needmoregame. You can’t remember the names of the guys you’ve got.“ At that thought, I ask, “And what happened to Vatican hat guy?” Natanya’s latest fling is a chef, who, according to her, has a hat that looks like the Vatican’s.

“We sinned.” She lowers her voice when she says, “Nine times.” She laughs her signature laugh, which is melodic, full-bodied, and contagious—one of the many reasons men fall at her feet. “But it’s over. It was just raw, carnal desire.”

“I want raw, carnal desire.” I stick out my lower lip before I say, “Actually, I did meet a gorgeous guy on the side of the road.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes.” Then I fill her in on how I inherited the castle, the barley farm, and even Sir Fig A Lot.

Her big brown round eyes go rounder. “So. You met a hot man, and you own a castle. Did I get that right?”

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

She sticks the pole between her breasts and lolls her head back. Her screen flips to the ceiling, and she says, “Whoops, dropped the phone, sorry!” After some shuffling, she’s back. “Anyway, you need to knock those cobwebs off down there with a romp in the hay. It’s been forever since your asshole ex.”

“Ugh. Tell me about it.”

“Do it.” She performs another worm-like roll.

“Wow—you’re good. I mean your moves, not your camerawork. Maybe I should take those lessons.” I take a gulp of my complimentary crisp, buttery chardonnay—which the front desk attendant told me comes from Blue Vine, Georgia. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m probably never going to see him again.”

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