Bet The Farm - Staci Hart Page 0,3

Almost immediately, we were in the countryside, the sky cloudless and sun beating down on the truck, heating the cab like a greenhouse. Sweat prickled at my nape, across my forehead, down the valley of my spine. A fat droplet rolled between my breasts and into my bra, and I reached for the window crank in the same moment he reached for the air conditioning.

I beat him to it, rolling down the window with gusto, reveling in the feel of the cool coastal air against my overheated skin. The current whipped my hair into a copper tornado, curly and wild, and I gathered it up, searching my bag for a hair tie.

A lock of hair broke free, twisting toward the window, and the sight of the brilliant red against the cornflower-blue sky and the rolling grasses that stretched to meet it left me thinking of Pop. Of summer days in his truck with the windows down and Merle Haggard on the tinny old radio. Home became a presence, washing over me with the breeze. This place would forever be occupied by my grandfather. He was here, everywhere—whispering on the wind that soothed my sadness, living in the warmth of the sunshine.

The weight of my loneliness drifted out the window, the burden on my heart easing just a little, just enough. I sighed, leaning back in the seat with my eyes on the horizon, where blue met green.

It took me a moment to realize Jake was watching me, and when I turned to meet his gaze, I was struck.

It was only a second—a fleeting, fluttering second—but I saw the honesty of his own pain, of his loss, etched in the lines of his face, the depth of his eyes. Because it wasn’t just me who had lost the most important person in my life.

He had too.

And so I decided right then that it didn’t matter if he didn’t want to talk to me or that we were virtual strangers. It didn’t matter if he didn’t want to connect. Because he needed me just as badly as I needed him. We’d never survive the next few days without each other.

We were in this together whether he liked it or not.

“So,” I started, deciding dead-end small talk was better than the silence, “how’s Kit holding up?”

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes on the road and face tightening almost imperceptibly. “As good as you’d figure.”

I waited for him to elaborate. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t.

“How many trays of biscuits has she stress-baked?”

That earned me a smile, small though it was. “About fifty. You’d think she was feeding an army. But they’ve just piled up. None of us feel much like eating.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I wouldn’t think so.”

His eyes flicked to me, then back to the road. “I think she’s planning to take a basket down to the VA later, if you want to go with her.”

“I think I might.” I paused, considering what the next few days would bring. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Any of it. All of it.”

“None of us are. You won’t be alone in that.”

That thought was an ember of hope in my chest.

But before I could respond, he doused it. “You sure did bring a lot of suitcases for a weekend.”

“That’s because I’m staying for a few weeks.”

At that, he cut me another look. An accusatory, possessive look. “What for?”

“Because this is my home,” I answered with a frown. “Because I want to spend some time with my memories.” Because I’m about to inherit the farm, and I’m not quite sure what that will mean, I thought, keeping it to myself so as not to upset him.

Suddenly, I got the feeling that he wasn’t going to be too happy to work with me, and that was alarming. There was no way I could run the farm without Jake.

He simmered but didn’t press. Of course, he didn’t acknowledge what I’d said, either. “Kit’s got everything ready for you, and Pop’s lawyer is meeting us at the house. He’s anxious to talk to you about the will.”

I swallowed hard. “Now? So soon? Can’t it wait until … after?”

Jake’s jaw flexed until the muscle at the joint bulged like a marble. “Probably, but he insisted on seeing you the minute you got here.”

With a long exhale, I sat back, not realizing I’d straightened up. My gaze landed on the scratched-up lock on the glove box as the knowledge that I was about to deal with business I wasn’t ready