Chapter One
FAITH
Casseroles and death. I’d like to know who came up with that unsavory combination. Somewhere smack-dab in the middle of the last thirty days, the taste of casseroles started mixing with the taste of my dad’s soul-grinding loss, and I can no longer untangle the two. It’s a shame because Tuna Bake once topped my list of go-to comfort foods. Now, I push it around on the paper plate in front of me with a scowl.
Church folks have shuffled in and out of my parents’ ranch house for the last month, offering hollow words and thin smiles.We’re sorry for your loss. Your dad’s in a better place. This must be so hard on you.Most of them talked a blue streak behind my dad’s back while he lived, casting judging glances at him every chance they got. A former bronc rider and rodeo coach, he led too rough a life for them in his youth. And settling down with my mom, whose family were good standing members of the House of the Seven Prophets, didn’t make them like him anymore.
But if I’ve learned anything growing up with my parents in this church, it’s how to lead a duplicitous existence. In manyways, the House of the Seven Prophets runs this town, and I’m in no position to point out their hypocrisy, let alone oppose them. So, I accept their words and casseroles with my own thin smile, despising every false word and sentiment they deliver. Broccoli and cheese, Italian pasta bake, sausage and egg, Amish breakfast.
My sister Birdie’s deployed overseas with the Navy. She’s a hospital corpsman, and she calls whenever she can. But her voice over the line can’t replace the in-person hugs I crave. And my mom’s never been affectionate. Instead, she locks herself in her bedroom since Dad’s passing. It’s hit her harder than I thought it would.
That last statement sounds cold, but it’s true. She and Dad had a notoriously tempestuous marriage. And I’m not talking the good kind of tempestuous. Heck, I don’t know if Birdie or I will ever marry after seeing how those two tortured each other. Although most of the overt abuse came from Mom, Dad played his role in passively, silently despising her.
I hear the bell tinkle on the feed store door, and I throw the paper plate with the offending slice of casserole in the trash can by the register.Better not forget to take out the trash later or this whole place will stink to high heaven.I look up, assessing my next customer.
Every now and again, I get a decent looking cowboy or rancher in the store. But most of the farmers and homesteaders who visit have gray hair and potbellies, long in the face and longer in the tooth. That’s why I do a double-take, drinking in the thirst trap that is Travis Cartwright.
How do I describe him? Drop-dead, one hundred percent, pulse-pounding gorgeous—from his corded muscular arms and legs to his expressive mahogany eyes. And that’s saying nothing of his toned, large shoulders, broad, angular chest, tapered waist, and drool-worthy Adonis belt. My parents own the neighboring ranch to his foster dad’s, which hasafforded me plenty of opportunities to stare at him working outside shirtless. I guess you could call him my guy crush, although I’m careful to keep a safe distance.
Travis has a mile-high reputation when it comes to the fairer sex. And I want nothing to do with that. Between the mess my parents made of their relationship and the prying eyes of my church, that bad boy’s the last thing I need. But need and want are two very different things.
Pulling my eyes away from all of that tall, dark, and handsome masculine perfection proves tougher than it should. Swallowing hard, my cheeks burn as I desperately try to steady my voice. “How can I help you?” Uttering five words has never exhausted me more as I struggle to keep my voice from cracking and my breath from coming out in short pants.
Fortunately, he doesn’t notice. I suppose he’s used to girls acting this way around him. “Hey there, Faith, long time no see. I heard about your dad, and I’m awfully sorry,” he says in low, grumbly tones that make my heart race. He takes off his cowboy hat, holding it over his chest. Gorgeous and polite are a dangerous combination.
“Thank you,” I say, biting my lip. Something about the warm look in his eyes and the kindness of his tone undoes me.Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry.It’s been a month. I should keep it together better than this, but Dad was my lifeline, the only parent who showed me attention and affection. The thought of never seeing him again, never talking to him again. It’s too much.
The floor boards of the historic feed store creak as Travis shifts his weight, and I feel his eyes on me. Thankfully, he’s as perceptive as he is handsome, sensing I need a moment. Instead, of making a big deal out of my current state, like so many others have, he heads towards the dog treats and pretends to shop. I couldn’t be more grateful.
One of the biggest shocks after my dad’s death wasrealizing the terrible financial state he and mom left the ranch and feed store in. They’ve nearly driven both properties into the ground, and my only hope is that when Birdie’s Naval tour ends, she’ll move back home to help me sort things out. In the meantime, possible foreclosure weighs heavy on my shoulders.Time to sell more feed.
I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders and silently thanking Travis for giving me that moment.
I ask for the second time, “How can I help you?”
Apart from his body, Travis has a classically handsome, clean-shaven face with a straight, well-proportioned nose, angular jaw, and thick neck. He’s a wildland firefighter and always stays in tip-top shape, making him look more like a bodybuilder than the farmers I usually get in this place.
He’s also got the most soulful dark brown eyes. Or maybe you’d call them wistful, kind of like he’s a perpetual romantic. If the rumors about him are true—and I have no reason to doubt them—I see why women make fools of themselves over him. There’s no danger of that here, though, because I follow my brain, not my heart.
“I need five bags of chicken feed, ten bags of horse feed, five bales of hay, and a bale or two of meadow grass, if you’ve got some. Oh, and cracked corn and dried mealworms.”
“How much of the corn and mealworms?”
His face grimaces. “Do you have a record of Dad’s last order? I don’t know, honestly.”
I look out the storefront window and see his foster dad, Wyatt’s truck outside. When I catch Travis driving around town, he’s usually speeding by in his sleek, black 1970 Chevelle. Besides being cute and a good-time guy, he seems flashy, although a stranger wouldn’t guess it from the white tank top and dusty Wranglers he has on now.
“Yep, I’ll give you what he got last time. Is Wyatt okay, by the way?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Then, why are you schlepping for him today?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I can’t remember the last time I saw Travis Cartwright in this feed store.
He shrugs. “I had a little free time and thought I’d help out. I don’t get to do much of that during fire season.”
I ring up his order, trying to keep the conversation friendly and more upbeat than it started. “I heard your brother Zane’s retiring from the PBR.”
“Yes, ma’am, he’s thinking about it, depending on how this season ends. He may take over as ranch foreman.”
