Page 11 of Buried Roots

So, they don’t want me here. Boo-hoo. Did they actually think this would scare me? When I lived out of my car, every parking attendant within a twenty-mile radius told me they didn’t want me there.

Whatever. I don’t think I’ve ever been more exhausted in my life, no exaggeration, and I’m maxing out on my ability to handle the life-altering things coming at me all at once. I don’t have time to shut down, so I compartmentalize it while I work on all the emails for Aston Klein. I have a few hours left to finish before lights-out at eleven. I need to be rested when I wake at five, and as far back as I can remember, I’ve never needed more than six hours of sleep.

But when eleven p.m. hits and I’m lying in the dark, something whispers from deep within my conscience—an inkling I’ve spent twenty-one years tuning out. That nagging feeling about the unpleasant inconsistencies in my past—like why I have no memory of my life before five years old, when I was adopted. I was in a foster home upstate, but I don’t have a single recollection of those days, despite my excellent memory. Pops says I got a head injury from a nasty fall off the monkey bars when I was four and a half, but something about that explanation has never felt quite right. Or why I could never get my original birth certificate, even though in New York, I should’ve been able to when I turned eighteen.

I have to find clues at Bo’s house. There’s a logical explanation for everything, and I’m going to figure out what it is, whether an anonymous a-hole wants me here or not. Mercifully, my brain drifts into a nonsensical realm before entering a deep, dreamless sleep.

I’m startled awake by my phone buzzing on the nightstand.

I sit straight up, wondering where I am and why everything is unfamiliar. It takes a beat to remember.

It’s an unknown number flashing on my phone screen, but it says it’s from Violet Moon, so I answer it with a croaky, “Hello.”

“We’ve got a problem.” Frankie’s voice is terse.

“What’s happening?” I glance at the nightstand clock, which says 1:03 a.m.

“The mare’s in labor, and she’s struggling. Heard her because I’m sleeping with my window open, thank god. I think the foal is breech.”

If breech means the same thing for an animal that it does for a human, this isn’t good. My breath freezes in my chest. “What do you need me to do?”

“Both animals could die. Get your skinny butt here. Now.” She disconnects.

I fumble around, barely awake, as I fight to tug on my blouse, jeans, and high heeled boots that werenotdesigned for farm work or delivering a baby horse. Preparing for this trip, I thought I was inheriting a small piece of land I could list for sale, so I packed for business meetings and hitting the town. I’m beyond grateful for how things turned out, but I definitely need a new wardrobe.

Out of habit, I grab my laptop bag and leave my room. When I make it to the Inn’s lobby, I’m disappointed to see there’s no coffee out yet. Then I remember—it’s a quarter after one in the morning.

But man, I need joe like air.

Hopping into my rental car, I race through downtown with no other vehicles on the road. Then, I haul up the winding hill before tearing into the driveway of the castle. I lock the car doors with the key fob as I’m sprinting to the stables.

When I rush inside, I pass three stalls until I get to the most stunning horse I’ve ever seen, who’s panting, pacing, and letting out neighs of anguish. Her mane is white, but her body is black, which shines under the barn’s floodlight above.

She’s so majestic, she’s almost otherworldly. I love her immediately.

Shaking, I step over and hesitantly stroke her nose—I’ve never been this close to a horse’s face before. Pain fills her huge soulful eyes, and it’s utterly heartbreaking. No animal should suffer. I know birth is normal, but there are clear complications, and that makes this almost unbearable.

And where the hell did Frankie go?

“It’s okay, girl,” I say, but my voice trembles, and I’ve never felt so helpless. There’s literally nothing I can do except Google tips.

As I’m petting the horse with one hand and tapping my screen feverishly with the other, Frankie bursts in with a man, built and beautiful… and very familiar.

“Windowless van guy,” I squeak out. He’s even hotter without the oil streaks on his cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” His face drops in shock as he jangles the bar and chains in his hands.

“Turns out I own the place.” The words feel strange coming out of my mouth.

He swallows so hard his Adam’s apple bobs. “You’re the one who inherited this farm?”

“Owen’s a vet. Willow got the farm,” Frankie snaps. “Now cut the small talk—two horses’ lives are on the line.”

Owen rushes toward the mare. “I know, Ma.”

Ma? Frankie is Owen’s mother?

“Shhh… It’s all right, Eclipse,” Owen says with a deeper Southern accent than when I met him on the road.

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