I kissed Bradley.
I kissed Bradley.
Oh my God, I kissed Bradley.
This is the phrase that’s been pulsing through my brain for days. It’s a deafening throb by the time I fasten the last button on my blouse and step out of my closet to face my sister. I’m half afraid the words will spew from me like a kettle boiling over.
“Does this look right?” I smooth my hands down my slacks and command myself to act normal.
Bree looks up from where she sits cross-legged on my bed. Her back is propped against the wall, and she’s sipping a glass of red wine with an expression bordering on reverence.
“God, this is good Pinot. Totally worth having to pump and dump.” She studies me over the rim of her wineglass. “You look gorgeous,” she says slowly. “But, um…don’t you think it’s a little dressy for visiting a farm?”
“I have no idea.” I look down at the shiny black slacks I’ve paired with a crisp white top. It seemed appropriately casual at the time, but I’ve clearly misjudged. “My only farm visit was that time we stopped by Jade and Amber’s on our way home from that doctor’s appointment, and obviously that was with you and not—”
“A hot guy, I see your point.” She smiles and stands up to set her wine on my desk. “You look beautiful, but I think you’ll be more comfortable dressed down. Do you have any flannel? Or maybe some regular jeans that aren’t so fancy?”
I hold back a fierce wave of disappointment. I’ve been in America nearly a year and ought to have figured this out by now. “I don’t have any flannel.” I should probably remedy that. “I have blue jeans, but they’re old and faded and—”
“Perfect.” Bree turns me around and nudges me back into the closet. “Go put those on with a plain T-shirt if you have one. I’ve got the flannel in my purse.”
I gape at her. “You brought me a flannel shirt?”
She smiles as she rummages through her bag. “As a mom, you learn pretty quickly to carry the solution to a thousand potential problems in your handbag. Besides, I had a hunch you’d need it for your farm date.”
Cheeks flaming, I turn and march back into my closet with as much pride as I can muster. “I don’t think it’s really a date,” I offer weakly. “Just a chance to see some animals.”
“Uh-huh.” Bree’s voice sounds as convincing as I feel, which is to say not at all.
I unbutton my shirt and place it back on the hanger, frowning down at my plain white bra. Should I wear something nicer?
Stop it. He’s introducing you to farm animals, not his penis.
The giggle bubbles out of me before I can stop it.
“You okay in there?” Bree calls.
“Fine. Perfect.” I hurry to find the jeans, wondering where I put them. “Just getting dressed.”
“You know, I really love having you here.” A clink from the other room tells me Bree has reclaimed her wineglass. “And I love how much happier you seem. Like you’ve always been here.” A pause, likely as she sips her wine. “Like you’ll always be here, which I will selfishly admit is what I’m hoping.”
I shiver and pull the jeans down off a high shelf.
If she only knew.
“That sounds nice.” I hurry to tug on the well-worn denim, feeling naked and exposed. I pull up the zipper and turn to study myself in the mirror. My mother would kill me for wearing faded blue jeans.
The thought fires a secret thrill through me.
Mark’s wife, Chelsea, gave me the jeans when I helped plant flower bulbs in their garden. I tried to give them back afterward, but she insisted I keep them.
“I like knowing I gave you your first pair of regular jeans,” Chelsea said, lightly touching her belly. “Besides, I won’t be able to fit into them pretty soon.” She smiled then and raised a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell.”
It took me a moment to get it. “You’re—”
“Expecting, yes.” Her smile flashed bright enough to blind me. “We’re telling everyone at dinner tonight.”
I couldn’t believe it. The inclusion, the confidence, the sweet simplicity of that secret.
What would she say if she knew I’m the last person in the world she should trust? As I adjust the jeans on my hips, I kick myself for pretending. For trying to fit in when I know deep down that can never happen.
With a sigh, I turn and survey my shelves. I don’t have any plain T-shirts, but there’s a pretty blue one with the Ponderosa Resort logo on the chest. I pull that on and emerge from the closet to see Bree holding out a flannel shirt striped with hues of blue and pink and white.
“Perfect.” She waves the shirt like a flannel flag. “Slip this on and roll up the cuffs. You’ve got boots?”
I shake my head, wishing I’d taken time to go shopping. “Not cowboy boots. Would hiking boots work?”
“You have hiking boots?”
I nod, feeling a little silly. “I bought them hoping to learn to hike.” It seemed like such an American thing to do, but I’ve never taken them out of the box.
“There’s not much to learn,” she assures me. “Hiking’s just walking, but outside.”
“Sounds simple enough.” I find the boots and sit down to put them on while Bree hustles behind me and pulls my hair into a simple plait. She even has an elastic around her wrist, which she uses to fasten the end of it before tugging free a few soft tendrils to frame my face.
“There.” She steps back to study me. “You look like a sexy farm girl. We should take a picture for your mom.”
The blood freezes in my veins. I swear my face doesn’t change, but Bree must see something in my eyes. “Did I say something wrong?”
“I’m fine. Wonderful.” I stand up fast and fiddle with the tails on the flannel, wondering if I should knot them.
Or if I should address what Bree suggested. I’ve been here a year. Don’t I owe her that much?
When I meet her eyes, I know I do. “My mother’s not fond of me assimilating into American culture. Or, um…anything that suggests I’m not actively on an airplane making my way back to Dovlano.”
“Say no more.” Bree flashes a sympathetic smile. “You’re talking to another daughter of an overbearing mother. It’s super-intense when you’re her only child; I get it.”
She doesn’t, though. Not really. As she touches my cheek to swipe on a hint of blush, I’m overwhelmed by a deeper urge to share. “I had a brother once,” I whisper. “He died as a baby.”
“Oh, Izzy.” Bree stands back, blinking hard. “I’m so sorry. That must have been hard for your whole family.”
I glance away, not sure I can take the sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sure that’s part of why my mother’s so protective.”
That’s far from the only impact of that tragedy, but I’ve already gone and ruined this perfect sister moment. “I’m sorry I said anything.” I pick up a lip gloss and see my hands are shaking. “What a terrible thing to share with a young mother—”
“Izzy, it’s okay.” She rests a hand on my arm and offers a small smile. “I’m glad you shared, okay? It means a lot to me.”
I nod because I can’t think of anything else to say. “Can you not—um, mention it to the others?”
“Of course.”
I swallow hard and look down at the lip gloss. “Can we pretend I didn’t just ruin the pre-date vibe and maybe talk about something else?”
Her smile feels like a warm hug. “I thought it wasn’t a date.”
“It might be a date.”
“I know it is.” She studies my face. “You like him, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “He’s a very nice man,” I tell her. “Very clean hands.”
She laughs and bends to knot the tails of the flannel. “Whatever turns you on, sister.”
Sister.
My whole life, I wished for a sister. And then I felt guilty because I had a brother and how selfish is it to want more? But I did want more, and I pictured scenes just like this. Sharing clothes, doing each other’s makeup, talking about boys. How absurd that I’m weeks from my thirtieth birthday and only just experiencing it?
The magnitude of that birthday hits me hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I release a pathetic little gasp as the lip gloss falls from my fingers.
“Got it!” Bree bends down and grabs it, then hands it back. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Positive.” I force a smile. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Let me know anytime you want to talk.”
“I will.”
I won’t, though. How could I? The clock is ticking, and it’s only a matter of time until the charade is up. I glance at my watch. “He should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, my doorbell rings. My stomach unleashes a flurry of butterflies, and my hands start to shake.
“You’ve got this.” Bree smiles, and somehow, I believe her.
“Thanks for your help.” I start toward the front of the cabin and Bree falls into step beside me.
“Don’t mention it. By the way, I’m trying to put together a girls’ lunch the day we all do our final fitting for Jon and Blanka’s wedding. You in?”
“Absolutely.” I can’t wait. What would it be like to be permanently part of a world like this? A world filled with farm dates and girls’ nights and handsome, single doctors.
Maybe there’s some way…
My hopeful heart sinks its claws into that idea, even as my brain folds its arms and scolds me for being ridiculous.
We’re almost to the door, and something about knowing Bradley’s on the other side sends a spurt of joy through me. I turn and look at Bree as my heart starts to gallop.
“I kissed him.” I whisper the words like I’m confessing I’ve robbed a bank.
Bree looks at me and nods. “Good for you.” She smiles and pats me on the back. “Now go get some more.”
If only it were that simple.
I pull open the door to see Bradley Parker standing on the porch wearing jeans and boots and looking like an American sex god. He’s got a flannel shirt of his own, which makes me doubly glad Bree urged me to change.
“Ladies.” He smiles at me. “You look great. I’ve never seen you so casual.”
I smooth my hands down the shirt, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not too informal? I wasn’t sure if your mother would be there or if there’s any special protocol for meeting her.”
He laughs, but it’s a sweet, musical sound and not a mockery of my ignorance. “As long as you curtsy and address her only as ‘Your Highness,’ you should be fine.” He must see my stricken look because his expression softens. “A joke, I swear. Wait. Is that what it’s like for a guy to meet your mother?”
If he only knew. “Perhaps.” I swallow back the lump in my throat as I turn to hug Bree goodbye. “Thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it.” She pulls the door closed behind us both and fixes Bradley with a mock-stern look. “Have her home before curfew. No funny business. Feet on the floor at all times.”
“Absolutely.” He grins at me. “Do you have an expression like that in Dovlano?”
I’ve only just realized what circumstances might prompt a parent to suggest such a thing, and I’m blushing too hard to think of anything smart to say. “Not one I’ve heard, but it’s possible.”
Bradley pivots toward the parking area and crooks an elbow at me. “Your coach awaits, Your Ladyship.”
I feel myself flinch. He must feel it, too, even as I’m threading my arm through his. “Sorry,” he says as he leads me down the pathway toward a shiny silver pickup truck. “Dumb joke.”
“It’s okay.” My siblings know I’m not fond of formal titles, but there’s no way Bradley could know. Besides, he’s only kidding. “I’m just conscious sometimes of how different I am.”
“I understand.” His brow furrows as he opens the truck door. “That was a poor choice of words. I don’t understand in that I can’t personally relate, but it makes sense you’d want to step away from anything that leaves you feeling like an outsider. I’ll try to avoid doing that, okay?”
I nod as he offers me a hand up into the cab. “Thank you.”
He moves to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel but doesn’t start the engine. “Seriously, that was a dick thing to say,” he says. “I wasn’t even thinking about your title. Just playing at chivalry.”
“Really, it’s fine.” The fact that he cares so much warms my heart. “Am I your first brush with royalty?”
He laughs and starts the truck. “Real royalty, yeah. I’ve seen plenty of imposters in my medical practice.”
I study the side of his face, fighting not to feel the effects of that chiseled jaw dusted with faint stubble. “You mean mentally ill people who think they’re kings and queens?”
“No, though I did treat a private with a head injury who thought he was a five-star general.” He shakes his head as he steers us down the long, winding driveway. “Oh, and there was one guy convinced he was the U.S. president. Frankly, he’d have done a better job than half the folks who’ve held the office.”
I laugh, relieved I actually get the joke. Where I’m from, most leaders ascend to their roles instead of being elected. “So what did you mean about royalty?”
He’s driving with one hand, oozing with the easy energy that’s customary among American men behind the wheel. There’s no reason I should find it sexy. I do, though. So much that I nearly miss the next words out of his mouth.
“We implemented this new electronic intake form at the clinic last year,” he explains. “There’s some setup on the back end that allows folks to pick their preferred title. Regular stuff like ‘Mr.’ or ‘Ms.’ or ‘Mx.’”
“Mx.?” That’s a new one to me.
“It’s a gender-neutral title for people who don’t identify with male or female or who prefer not to specify for any reason.” He shifts easily, thigh flexing as he moves the pedals. “It’s becoming more common.”
“I see.” I make a mental note to remember that one, just in case. “Were there more titles than those ones?”
He laughs. “That’s the problem. The company that created the intake form uploaded hundreds of titles for countries all over the world. Most medical offices narrow it to a dozen or so, but we missed that step when setting it up.”
The low, alluring rumble of his voice has me mesmerized, and I forget for a moment this is a conversation and not a monologue. I’d cheerfully listen to him read the owner’s manual for this truck.
“What happened?” I manage to ask when I find my voice. “I presume some of the titles aren’t commonly used?”
“Some I might have left in there anyway,” he says. “Stuff like ‘reverend’ or ‘doctor.’”
“A doctor treating a doctor,” I muse. “That must be interesting.”
“Could be a college professor or even a veterinarian,” he points out. “But I’ve had a few patients who were medical doctors.”
“So what other titles were there?” I stretch my legs out in front of me, curling my toes in my hiking boots.
“Let’s see, there was ‘chancellor.’ I guess that works for any patient who’s a chancellor at a university. There was also QC or KC which I had to look up.”
“What are those?”
He steers the truck around a big hunk of ice in the road. “Stands for ‘Queen’s Counsel’ or ‘King’s Counsel.’ I guess it’s for a judge or barrister in some parts of Europe.”
I laugh, unfamiliar with either title. “Something to aspire to, I suppose.”
“Then there were the really odd ones,” he says. “My personal favorite was ‘His Beatitude.’”
“His what?”
“Beatitude.” The dimple in his cheek is driving me crazy. Who gets turned on by face divots?
Me, apparently.
“‘His Beatitude’ or ‘His Eminence’ are used in some catholic communities,” he explains. “Which I guess would be handy if the archbishop of the Syriac Orthodox Church shows up needing a tonsillectomy.”
I laugh and brush a strand of hair off my face. “It’s good to be prepared.”
“We had one guy click the box for ‘Your Excellency,’” he says. “That guy was a kick. Spent the whole exam keeping a straight face while I asked things like, ‘have you experienced any shortness of breath, Your Excellency?’ or ‘When was your last bowel movement, Your Excellency?”
I hoot with laughter, hardly caring that my mother would find it most unladylike.
“Isabella,” she hissed once, grabbing me by the arm at a royal gala. “It’s gauche to laugh with your mouth open.”
But here in the cozy cab of Bradley’s truck, I keep right on laughing. I’m grateful my mother can’t see me. Can’t read my mind, either, to know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the man driving me around in his big American pickup truck. “I love it,” I tell him. “I presume you’re no longer offering the full array of titles?”
“Nah, we had to pare down.” He grimaces. “Finally figured it out when a woman came storming up to the counter demanding to know what we were implying about her husband. She took it personally that ‘Mistress’ was an option.”
“Oh, dear.” I cover my mouth with my hand as he hits his turn signal and waits for a tractor to pass going the other way.
There’s an arched metal and wood sign over a long, asphalt driveway. Metallic silver letters spell out “Parker Ranch.” While not quite as grand as the signage at Ponderosa Resort, it’s much fancier than most farms we’ve driven past. I wonder how big this ranch is, but decide it’s improper to ask.
As Bradley steers us toward the barn, butterflies dance in my stomach. “Your mother’s expecting us, right?”
“Right. She might be back at the house, though. My sister’s daycare has early release on Wednesdays, so sometimes my mom looks after Jordan.”
“That’s your niece?”
“Yeah.” A warm smile spreads over his face. “Pretty much the cutest kid ever.”
I give him the haughtiest look I can muster. “Aside from Bree’s baby, you mean? My nephew is the pinnacle of cuteness.”
“I’ll give you that. Brian’s adorable. I dig how they mashed up ‘Breeann’ and ‘Austin’ to make his name.”
“Isn’t that clever? Perhaps Mark and Chelsea will do something similar.”
Bradley laughs. “I’m drawing a blank on that one. I guess they could go with Chark?”
“Or Melsea,” I suggest, fighting the urge to giggle. “That could work for either gender, though they already know it’s a girl.”
“Libby’s gonna be a great big sister,” Bradley muses. “Chelsea’s due in the spring, right?”
“March.” I wonder if I’ll still be here then. I glance at the barn and feel another flutter in my belly. “You’re sure this isn’t an imposition?”
“Trust me, it’s not.” He pushes open the truck door with a grin. “My mother lives to show off her broken animals.”
“Broken animals?” He doesn’t hear me, since he’s walking around to open my door. I assume I’ll find out soon enough.
Taking his hand, I slip from the cab of the truck feeling ungainly and strange in my hiking boots. Part of me likes it. In my life back home, I knew what it was to feel glamorous. Regal. Revered.
I never knew what it felt like to be tough.
Squaring my shoulders, I take three long strides toward the barn. Something gray and hulking darts in front of me and I scream.
“Bobcat!” I shriek again, remembering a talk I attended at a local museum. Bobcats are fierce predators that can leap twelve feet and take down big game. Panicking, I leap into Bradley’s arms. “Bobcat!”
I scrunch my eyes closed and wait for fangs to close around my throat. A rumbling against my shoulder makes me squinch one eye open.
He’s laughing. Bradley’s laughing, and I’m pretty sure I’m the cause.
“Easy mistake.” He juts his chin the direction I saw the creature run. “That’s Griff. He’s a Maine Coon.”
“A raccoon?” I learned about those, too, but I’m positive they didn’t look like what I just saw. I open the other eye and look back at the edge of the barn. The biggest house cat I’ve ever seen sits grooming himself in a patch of sun.
“A Maine Coon,” Bradley repeats. “It’s a type of domesticated cat. He’s harmless, I promise. His name’s Gryffindor and my mom’s had him for years.”
It slowly dawns on me I’ve made an utter ass of myself. Also, that Bradley’s holding me in his arms like a baby.
No, not like a baby.
Like a bride being carried over a threshold. It’s a custom in Dovlano, and I pray to God it’s not one here because this is mortifying enough.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He grins. “Hey. This is the same conversation we had when I kissed you before.”
“But—I kissed you.”
“You’re right, you did.” Slowly, he lowers his mouth to mine, lips brushing softly. “So I owe you one.”
I’m too dizzy to follow the logic, or to question whether we ought to be doing this in a barnyard on his mother’s property. It’s disrespectful. It’s ill-mannered. It’s—
“So good,” I breathe as he deepens the kiss. As his tongue grazes mine, my eyes flutter shut. I imagine for an instant I’m a normal woman, kissing this wonderful man who could possibly be my boyfriend. Husband, even. With the way Bradley kisses—soft and gentle and achingly slow—I can picture myself doing this for the next fifty years. Longer, even.
“You’re here!”
My eyes fly open at the sound of a woman’s voice. I suck in a breath as Bradley smiles and slowly lowers me to the ground.
“Hey, Mom.” He turns toward a woman with ash blonde hair and the most perfect posture I’ve seen outside a royal palace. Her blue eyes are warm, and she looks completely unsurprised to see a wanton woman on her property holding hands with her only son.
I glance down and confirm it. Yes, he’s holding my hand. I should definitely draw back.
Before I get the chance, Bradley lets go and pulls his mother in for a hug. “Great to see you,” he says. “Mom, this is Isabella Blankenship.”
“Izzy, please.” I extend my hand and do my best to summon some dignity. Maybe she didn’t see me making out with her son.
“It’s a pleasure, Izzy.” Her eyes flash with amusement as she pumps my hand with a quick glance at her son. “When you said you were bringing a friend, I didn’t realize she was that kind of friend.”
Oh, dear. “Mrs. Parker, I’m so sorr—”
“Oh, honey, don’t apologize.” She laughs and gives my hand a squeeze before letting go. “Call me Kathryn. And believe me, this is the most excitement I’ve had in months.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I settle for falling into step with Bradley as he starts toward the barn. He’s explaining the mix-up with the cat, sweetly describing it as an honest mistake, though I’m certain I’ve made an utter fool of myself.
“Watch your step,” Kathryn says, catching my elbow. I glance down to see a huge, round puddle of—
“Oh.” I take a step back. “That’s what they mean by ‘cow patty’?”
“Bingo.” Kathryn laughs. “We’re a little short-staffed. I gave one of the ranch hands the week off to be with his new daughter.”
“Duncan’s wife finally had the baby?” Bradley asks.
“Can you believe it? More than two weeks past her due date. They were getting ready to induce when her water broke.”
I’m amazed by the casual ease of their conversation. I was there when Bree went into labor, so I’m not completely ignorant of the openness with which Americans discuss childbirth. Still, it’s foreign to me.
“My sister went into labor in the middle of a wedding.” I hope it’s okay to share this. “She stayed through the reception because she didn’t want to miss anything.”
Kathryn laughs. “Bree, right? I heard about that. It was at James and Lily’s ceremony.”
Bradley rolls his eyes at that. “Nothing’s a secret in a small town.”
I force myself to keep smiling, to put one boot in front of the other as we approach the barn door. “It was such a beautiful wedding.”
“It’s a terrific venue.” Kathryn pulls open the barn door and waves us through. “We looked into having Julia’s ceremony there, but the resort hadn’t opened yet.”
I’m on the brink of asking about Julia’s wedding when I recall what Bradley told me. His sister, Julia, she’s the one with the ex-husband Bradley threatened to castrate.
I clamp my mouth shut and resolve not to pry.
“Here we are.” Kathryn dusts her hands on her jeans and smiles. “We’ve got five hundred head of cattle on this ranch, but this barn here is only for fosters.”
“Fosters?” I’m wondering if this is another animal I’ve never heard of, like a Maine Coon.
“Mom works with the Sheriff’s Department in seizure situations,” Bradley explains. “When someone with animals goes to jail, or in cases of abuse or neglect, they need a safe place for those animals to stay.”
“It started as a hobby, but it’s truly the thing that’s kept me sane after Jordy died.”
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess Jordy must be Bradley’s dad. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, dear.” Kathryn smooths her hair back. “Ready to see some animals?”
“Yes, please.” I’m practically bouncing on my heels as I survey the brightly-lit barn. There’s an open door on one end, letting in bright slabs of dusty sunshine. In the corner, there’s a pen filled with clucking chickens. Just outside, I spot a pond shimmering silver and green with a trio of white ducks paddling over breeze-stirred ripples.
“These guys just came in last week.” Kathryn leads us to a pen on the opposite side of the barn. It’s filled with four of the tiniest goats I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen many goats.
I step forward, delighted by their oddly-slitted pupils. “Are they babies?”
“Nope, fully grown Nigerian dwarf goats.” She stoops down to pet a brown and white one, who makes quick work of trying to eat her sleeve. “They were awfully skinny when they got here, but we’ll have them fat and healthy in no time.”
Cautiously, I stretch out a hand to scratch behind the nubby horns of a white and brown goat. The animal leans into my touch, lips curling up as it tries to get a taste of my finger. I laugh and draw my hand back. “They’re so cute.”
“We had pygmy goats growing up.” Bradley leans down and scratches a tan one, his long, agile fingers making me envy a goat for the first time in my life. “They eat everything.”
“Remember those Nubian goats that used to fight all the time?” Kathryn looks at me and smiles. “We had to put pool noodles on their horns so they couldn’t hurt each other.”
I laugh and swivel my gaze to a pen of sheep nearby. At least, I think they’re sheep. “Why are they wearing jackets?”
Kathryn glances to where I’m pointing. “They came from a yarn farm that’s under investigation for—well, I’m actually not at liberty to share that. But that helps keep the wool clean for when it’s time to process the fiber.”
“Sheep are the world’s messiest eaters.” Bradley scratches the neck of a plump white goat. “Learned that one the hard way when I raised a pair for 4H.”
“You were in 4H?” I don’t know why I’m so surprised.
Bradley looks just as surprised. “You know what 4H is?”
“Mark and Chelsea’s girl, Libby—she has a rabbit she’s raising for 4H.”
“This is in addition to Long Long Peter?” He laughs and looks at his mom. “I’ve never seen a guy take to fatherhood faster than Mark Bracelyn.”
“It’s that protective instinct.” Kathryn pats her son’s arm. “Takes one to know one.”
I’m not sure what she means by that, and Bradley looks uncomfortable, so I decide not to ask. “Is that a llama or an alpaca over there?”
Bradley peers out the barn door to an adjacent pasture. “Llamas,” he says. “Those aren’t rescues. Mom and Dad bought them years ago for backpacking.”
“They’re just pets now.” Kathryn looks wistful, and I feel bad for bringing up memories of her dead husband. “The brown one is Spitball and the white one’s Dolly.”
I watch Dolly stretch her neck past the fence to snatch a weed on the other side. “Dolly, as in—Dalai Lama?”
“Exactly.” Bradley grins. “And if you get too close to Spitball, you’ll find out how he got his name.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I do recall reading something about llamas’ propensity for spitting.
I survey the pasture, then swing my gaze back through the barn. There’s a neat row of tools hanging on one wall and big bins of something I assume must be animal food. A couple pairs of dirty men’s work boots sit near a bench, and I wonder if they belong to a ranch hand or someone else.
I’m so caught up in wondering that I don’t see it approaching. Just a blow to the back of my knees that sends me stumbling into Bradley.
“Kevin! Stop that.” Kathryn bends down and catches the webbing of a harness attached to a round, pink pig.
I take a step back, conscious of Bradley’s hands on me again. I’m sure he’s just trying to steady me, but his touch has me flustered.
Or maybe that’s the pig licking the toe of my boot. He’s grunting and snorting and carrying on like I covered my footwear in peanut butter. Or jelly or whatever on earth pigs eat.
“You must’ve spilled something on your shoe?” Kathryn asks.
“No, they’re brand new.” Slowly, I stoop down to pet Kevin.
“Kevin…” I look at Bradley. “As in, Kevin Bacon?”
He laughs and points at his mother. “I said the same thing. She swears that’s not why she chose the name.”
“He didn’t come to you with a name?”
“He did, but I changed it,” she says. “Sometimes it’s best when they’re coming from an abusive situation. A fresh start and all that.”
I nod and wonder what that would be like. A new name, a fresh start. I’m partway there already, answering to “Iz” or “Izzy” despite my mother’s fervent aversion to nicknames.
“He’s cute.” I study the pig, who’s blinking at me with surprisingly long lashes. He opens his mouth and offers a cheerful oink.
“He likes you,” Kathryn says. “He’s been pretty skittish since he came in last week.”
“That’s because he’s terrified of Charlie.”
“Charlie?” I bend down and pet Kevin again.
“Mom’s dog. Gentle as a newborn, but Kevin’s not a fan.”
“Probably had a bad experience with a dog in his other house,” Kathryn says. “I’m hoping to find a short-term, secondary foster. Someplace he can be inside would be ideal.”
“Inside, like—in a house?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.
“He’s been raised in a home all his life.” Kathryn frowns. “Folks wanted a miniature pig, something around thirty or forty pounds.”
While I don’t intend to test my theory by lifting him, Kevin appears to be much larger. Sixty, maybe seventy pounds? He isn’t huge, but definitely bigger than a mid-sized dog. “I didn’t know pigs could be that small.”
“They’re not supposed to be.” Bradley’s brow furrows. “It happens a lot. People buy potbellied pigs and try to keep them small by underfeeding them.”
Kathryn shakes her head. “Which is kind of like deciding you want your kid to stay the size of a six-year-old forever, so you starve him.”
“How horrible.” I shift to a two-handed scratch, one behind each ear. Kevin deserves it after that. He oinks with what I can only assume must be pleasure, his twisty little tail twitching rapidly. “May I feed him something?”
Kathryn smiles and points to a red bin beside the door. “There’s some cut-up acorn squash over there. The grocery store donates all their iffy produce to animal rescues.”
I hurry over and grab two thick slices, Kevin on my heels. He snorts and wags and tilts his snoot skyward, anticipating the treat. “Kevin, sit.”
Kevin sits obediently, grunting for good measure. Kathryn laughs. “Well I’ll be darned. I had no idea he could do that.”
“Izzy has the magic touch,” Bradley muses.
Heat tickles my cheeks as I fight to keep myself from thinking impure thoughts about touching. Bradley touching me or me touching Bradley or—
“Are you okay, dear?” Kathryn gives me a look of motherly concern. “You got a little bit flushed all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I wonder if Bradley told her about my kidney transplant. I know health information’s protected in this country, but privacy falls by the wayside when you pass out at your sister’s wedding.
I hold out another piece of squash for Kevin, laughing when he stretches up to take it. He’s so dainty about it, gently plucking the treat from my fingers as his funny little pig tail twitches.
What if?
The thought bubbles up through my subconscious so suddenly that I’m not even sure what it means.
What if I stayed in America?
What if I got a pet pig?
What if Bradley Parker were my boyfriend?
None of those things could happen, not really. But that truth doesn’t stop me from wanting them. All of them, but especially the last one.
I glance at Bradley and see he’s watching me, blue eyes sweeping me from head to toe as though he likes what he sees. A rush of warmth floods my system, and I look away so Kathryn doesn’t ask me again if I’m feeling ill.
“What’s required to be a secondary foster?” I bite my lip. “You said short-term, right?”
I can’t believe I just uttered those words.
Crazier still, I can’t believe Kathryn doesn’t bat an eyelash. “You’d have to fill out an application,” she says. “There’s a background check and a home visit to make sure you have the right space. Do you own or rent your home?”
I glance at Bradley, which is silly. It’s not like he’s equipped to answer. “It’s complicated,” I admit. “I’m a partner at Ponderosa Resort, but the cabin where I’m staying belonged to my sister.”
I decide not to mention Bree offering at least a dozen times to sign it over to me. “It doesn’t make sense for me to hang on to it since Austin and I got married and moved out to his place,” she told me just last week. “You won’t let us give you the funds you’re legally entitled to as an heir. At least take the cabin you love so much.”
I do love it. I love the resort, I love my family, I love America.
I might even love Kevin the pig.
I could definitely love Bradley, which is a thought that creeps unbidden through my brain before I can stop it.
I swallow back all those wants because there’s no sense even going there. Not when I’m not the one deciding what I can and can’t have for the future.
My mother’s voice chimes in my brain, an echo of a phone call last week. “When are you coming home, Isabella? It’s time for you to stop fooling around and return to do your duty.”
I swallow hard and look at Kathryn. “Could I have an application, please?”
She smiles at me like I’ve answered a question right on a game show. “Absolutely.”
Bradley steps closer and touches my arm. It’s barely a graze, but my body lights up like he strung Christmas lights through my chest cavity. “Quite a big step,” he murmurs low enough I’m not sure his mother can hear. “If you’re not careful, people will start thinking you plan to stick around.”
The lights blink out one by one, fizzling into blackness. He’s right. I have no business deluding anyone into thinking I could stay here. Not Kathryn. Not Kevin. Definitely not Bradley.
Or maybe it’s me I’m kidding most of all. I’m letting hope cloud my judgment, and I should know better than that.
I swallow hard, hearing the soft thunder of Bradley’s words.
“If you’re not careful…”
I remind myself to be careful. To stop fooling myself with a future I can never have.