Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
“Well, hello there, Skip. My name is Sadie,” I tell my enthusiastic host with a laugh.
Barrett calls his dog’s name, and Skip drops down from me. He sends my boyfriend a reproachful glare as if to tell him we were just having fun.
“Let me give you the grand tour.”
While Skip follows me around, Barrett leads me to the kitchen that’s easily a chef’s dream with the double ovens and top-of-the-line cooktop. The island in the middle is located just under a skylight. I could imagine making dinner here every night with Barrett. I imagine stealing kisses in between chopping vegetables and laughing together at our kids’ latest antics.
The living room has a rolling bookcase underneath the stairs that opens to reveal a secret room.
“What’s it for?” I ask, glancing into the space. It’s well-lit, but the ceiling is slanted. I’d definitely have to kneel if I wanted to store anything inside of it.
“I was thinking kids. Might give junior a place to pretend he has a fort or a place for our little girl to host tea parties with her stuffed animals.”
“It’d also make a nice place to sneak away with a cowboy,” I tell him, giving him a wink.
He shows me the rest of the house, pausing to point out various features. It’s obvious he put thought into every element of building his house.
“Your home is perfect,” I tell him and watch as his chest puffs out underneath his t-shirt. I think he was nervous about showing it to me, which is crazy. His home lacks a woman’s touch, but it’s beautiful. The perfect oasis right in the middle of the family farm.
Outside, Barrett demonstrates what a day in his life looks like. I tag along and watch him do his farm chores, which is not something my ovaries were prepared for. There’s nothing like watching my big, strong man lift those heavy hay bales or repair broken fences. I especially love the way he talks gently to the chickens when he feeds them.
He can even name every cow in the pasture just based on the numbers they’ve been tagged with. “Do the tags in their ears hurt them?”
“It’s no different than getting your ears pierced. The tags help us identify each animal and keep records. See number four hundred and sixty-two? That’s Daisy. She had ulcers in her hind hooves. Since we know that, we can inspect her hooves more frequently. Little things like that let us keep an eye on the herd and make sure they’re happy and healthy.”
“But some of them are tagged in the right ear and some in the left. What does that mean?” I ask, fascinated by his world. He asked me a million questions when he was at my bakery yesterday to understand what I do. Now it’s my turn to understand what he does.
“We do that so we can identify the gender easily. Left ear is a female. Right ear is a male. The tags help us know which calf belongs to which mama. The tags also tell me how old each animal is.”
“What about horses? Do you have any of those?”
“Over in the south pasture, we have a dozen or so,” he answers. “My favorite girl is in the barn. Want to meet her?”
I nod, and he puts a hand on my back as we walk toward the barn. He pauses every so often, telling me where to be careful on the path.
“You must know every square inch of this farm,” I breathe. I can’t imagine living in a place so long that I know everything about it.
He grins. “The closest thing to heaven on earth you’ll ever find is a farm.”
“It’s amazing,” I agree with him. It’s obvious from the way he talks about the farm that he loves it the same way I love my little bakery.
“And here’s our girl, Cookie,” he introduces me when he gets to the barn. “She’s a Missouri Fox Trotter. See how she has patches of white and chestnut in her coat? We call that coloring pinto.”
The horse knickers quietly as I approach. I don’t reach out my hand or try to pet her. “She’s so pretty. How old is she?”
“She just turned twenty. She’s our senior citizen.”
As soon as Barrett says that, Cookie makes a noise as if contesting the fact that she’s a senior citizen. He chuckles and asks, “Want to feed her?”
When I nod, Barrett gives me a banana, explaining how to offer her small bites.
I feed it to her, delighted when she takes the bite of fruit from me. I can’t help giggling at how it tickles my hand. “I thought she would like carrots or apples.”
“She’s lost a few teeth. Bananas are easier on her now, isn’t that right, Cookie?”
I keep asking him about Cookie as I give her the treat. When I’m done, he turns to me. “Want to see my favorite spot on the farm?”