Page 5 of Fix Me Up, Cowboy
I don’t bother to park in front of Charlotte’s house. Instead, I drive along the dirt road to the rear gate that has long since been forgotten. This is the best way to get there; the ground is too rutted for a car, but my truck handles it just fine.
When I was a kid, she and I would hang out at the natural pond at the back of her property. It’s the spot where she would bring me cookies and her favorite book: a compilation of fairy tales.
I park near the gate and climb over it. It’s easier to do that than to try to open the gate when the hinges have long since rusted.
I head toward the old barn where Charlotte kept the Thunderbird. Unlike the house, the wooded area I have to pass through hasn’t changed much. It’s where we used to have our adventures together—back when I still believed in pirates and fairies and dragons.
In no particular rush to meet the new homeowner, I pause at the pasture where Lady and Scoundrel are eating grass near the fence. The gray mare spots me and ambles over like she does every time I visit. I remove the apple slices from the Ziploc bag and feed her one. Not wanting to be left out, Scoundrel—the black gelding—joins us a minute later.
“So have you met your new owner yet?” I ask them.
Lady nickers. Scoundrel snorts.
Once they’ve finished eating the snack I brought them, I head to the barn where the rusty Thunderbird is still parked. I can almost imagine Charlotte driving around in the convertible, with the top down, a scarf covering her hair. She has a photo on her mantel of her sitting in the car, looking like Marilyn Monroe, her idol.
The 1955 Ford Thunderbird might be rusty, but you can still see bits of its original Neptune-green color here and there. I offered several times last year to buy it from Charlotte. She refused each time, saying the car meant a lot to her. Even though she knew what I was capable of, she wasn’t ready to part with it.
She did bequeath it to me, though.
From the looks of things, the restoration won’t be quick. Nor will it be cheap.
I lie down to inspect the undercarriage.
3
Kate
I windmill my arms,fighting to regain my balance, then grab hold of the porch railing, saving myself from an embarrassing tumble.
“Are you okay, dear?” Meg asks, taking a step forward to help me.
“Yes, thank you.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, Meg is back to excitedly telling me about the mysterious Noah. All I can do is gape at her, still digesting the part about the horses.
So far I’ve caught, while in my daze, Noah’s age: twenty-eight.
His astronomy sign: Scorpio.
He has two older brothers.
The rest is a blur.
“So let me see if I’ve got this right,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I’m now the owner of two horses, and there is no stable hand?”
“That’s right.”
Oh, darn it.I was really hoping I had misunderstood her.
“Do I want to know why Charlotte named her horses Lady and Scoundrel?”
“Your great-aunt had a thing for historical romances.”
Tilly laughs. “That’s a bit of an understatement.”
Okay, that makes sense—even if it doesn’t solve my current dilemma. “Do you know anyone who’s looking to buy a horse or two? Preferably sooner rather than later. I’m only here to pack up the house before putting it on the market, and I don’t expect that will take too long.”
Not that I’ve had much experience packing up belongings. When I moved into a guesthouse on my parents’ property, the house staff did the actual packing.
