And somewhere deep,deepin the back of my worries is Wesley’s sister. My last and only interaction with her was less than .?.?. well, mature. So excuse me if I’m less than confident that she could be of any use to me here.
I shake my head. Focus.
DidIcheckeverything?
The fences seem to be holding up well. That’s good.
It’s not like me to be forgetful. My head’s been somewhereelse these last few rounds. And with the heavier workload, I can’t afford things slipping through the cracks.
One brother’s head wrapped in a fog is enough for this ranch.
My muscles ache, and my brain hurts from the amount of unreliable suppliers I never realized we work with. The pressure is mounting.
But nothing hurts like the knot of worry in my chest for Dallas.
He’s no closer to healing than the day he had to say goodbye.
Reaching the house, I take a deep breath, bracing myself for another afternoon of trying to get Dallas out of bed and outside.
To my surprise, I hear him in the kitchen. The scent of citrus and something herbal hits my nose as I make my way inside.
His back is to me, facing the kettle. “Morning,” he calls out.
“It’s after four, Dal.”
Dallas turns with a shrug. “Oh well.” Older by three years and taller by an inch, my brother is a constant reminder of how different we are. He navigates the world with a natural serenity. His composed demeanor is frustrating for someone like me whose mind runs a mile a minute, constantly buzzing with worry, judging everything I lay my eyes on, and overbearing myself with burden.
I’m not proud that Rose comes to mind when I think of these burdens I’m taking on for the sake of others, but it’s just how I see things right now.
I judge everything poorly until I’m proven otherwise.
It’s not lost on me that I’ve found flaws in every supplier I’ve come to know since taking over inventory for the last two months.
Setting down my hat, I eye the dark stains on my marble counter, slices of lemon on a wooden cutting board, and stalks of washed basil in a bowl. “What you up to?”
He barely glances up. “Lemonade.”
“That’s a lot of lemons. Expectin’ company?”
“I didn’t make it right .?.?.” he mutters, his focus deep.
I point to the dark drops of liquid on the counter. “Tea?”
“Millie liked black tea lemonade.” He tries a sip of the mixture. “Too sweet.”
I nod slowly. “So .?.?. an Arnold Palmer.”
“No. Millie couldn’t pronounce it.” He grins a little before it’s gone. “Said it was a tongue-twister.”
I exhale a small laugh. “Hardly.”
He looks up. “How are things?”
I blink in surprise, since he hasn’t asked about the ranch in a while. “Great. I mean .?.?. we’re managing. How are you?”
He nods. “I dreamt of her last night. Woke up thinking it was her birthday or somethin’.” He shakes it off and turns, dumping the mixture and muttering something about trying again.
“Well, go easy on those lemons. We don’t grow those here.” I chuckle, finding no humor in any of this nonsense.
