The screen door swung open, and Grace emerged. She was dressed in a tank top and them tight leggings that some girls think are pants. Her tennis shoes were a pristine white, like what the porch looks like after I give it a good pressure wash.
“Don’t you have anything you can get dirty?” I teased.
She looked down at her outfit and then back at me. “No, I don’t really get dirty in New York City—except with my clients,” she said with a laugh.
I chuckled and stood from my chair. I wasn’t sure exactly what she did in banking or what she did with her clients, but I got the feeling she was ruthless, or at least she could be.
“Maybe I’ll have to take you into town to get you some proper Wyoming wear.” I walked down the porch stairs while delivering a half smirk.
“Maybe you will,” she said, following behind.
As we walked, I kept turning back to look at Grace. I couldn’t help myself and nearly tripped over a rock while staring at her. When I got to the edge of my garden, I stopped.
“This here is my garden. I sell ninety percent of it to the local grocery store. The rest I eat.”
Grace stood beside me, taking it all in. It was just a large plot of land with an array of plants and vegetables lined up in neat rows with fencing all around it to stop the rabbits and other animals from getting in. Nothing too special, but it was special to me.
“What do you grow or plant or whatever the right terminology is?”
A small smile crept up on my face before I spoke. I was happy to hear she was actually interested in this—in what country folks did. I had assumed a city girl would think this stuff was beneath her. But Grace was different.
“Spinach, cabbage, brussels sprouts, onions, tomatoes, cauliflower, carrots, peppers, lettuce, kales, peas, and the list goes on and on.”
She rocked back and forth on her heels. “I have a great recipe for brussels sprouts.” There was enthusiasm in her voice.
Grace was definitely different, and in only the fourteen hours I had known her, she was surprising me in more ways than one. Around here not many people surprised me, not anything really surprised me. Every day was the same mundane thing. Wake up, take care of the animals, take care of the garden, take care of the house, and if there was still time in there, take care of myself. I had become an afterthought in my own life. But in the little bit of time I had known Grace, I thought of her before me but thinking about her made me feel like I was thinking about me—like we were one and the same, a cracked walnut. Sure, the inside is nice but that’s just because the two ugly halves made it.
“I should be able to harvest them this week,” I said with the most amount of fervor I think I had ever had in my voice, but I quickly tapered it down. “And I’d love to try it,” I added in my typical deep, country tone. I left out the fact that I hated brussels sprouts. I only grew them because they didn’t take up much space in the garden, and they sold well at the grocery store.
“Great,” she said. “They’re my favorite vegetable.”
“Mine too,” I lied. It was just a little white lie. Grace was clearly excited about cooking them for me, so I didn’t want to ruin that.
We continued walking toward the pond where the ducks and chickens roamed practically free. I had always been a big believer in free range, and I really tried to follow that. But not everything was meant to be free. Some things had to be kept in cages.
As we edged toward the pond, a mallard with a dark green head and a bright yellow bill walked right across Grace’s shoe. She giggled, and the rays from the sun highlighted her perfect smile and her cute crinkled nose. My Pekin ducks followed closely behind us, about a dozen of them. They acted more like dogs than ducks due to their friendly and docile nature. The chickens on the other hand kept to themselves and only approached when I had feed in hand. I always thought they were more like cats. They purred when you pet them, but you had to earn their attention.
“They’re real friendly.” I bent down to pet a Pekin duck that took its place beside me, letting out a couple of squeaky sounds.
“You must treat them well.”
“I do my best.” I nodded. After a few minutes, we continued walking toward the stable where my horses were. I only had two horses. One was my father’s and the other my mother’s, and aside from riding them around the property, they were quite the money pit. I didn’t show or breed them, and I’d never sell them. But sometimes, I’d talk to them like they were my mom and pop, and that right there, I couldn’t put a price on.
I slid a hand down the side of Gretchen, a buckskin Thoroughbred with light tan coloring and a dark mane. She was calm and still, just like my momma. Grace ran her hand along the face of George, a black Quarter Horse. He was stoic and moody, just like my pops.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, stroking George’s head.
“They are.” I glanced over at Grace. “And highly intelligent. They say horses can read human emotions. They know what we’re feeling before we even know.”
“Fascinating.” She ran her hand up and down George’s muzzle.
“Have you ever ridden one before?” I raised an eyebrow.
Grace shook her head.
“Well, a horseback ride is included in your stay if you’re up for the challenge.”
She took a step back and put her hands on her hips. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I smiled. “Shall we?”
I headed in the direction of the field, and we walked side by side through the pasture. I pointed out the couple dozen cows and sheep that took care of most of the lawn mowing. I told her how I milked the cows most mornings and shaved the sheep in the spring, selling the wool to a local yarn shop. She listened attentively, and I liked that about her. It was like she really heard me. I hadn’t felt understood or heard in a long time.
“Does anyone help you with the ranch? It sounds like a lot of work for one person.”
“A bit. My brother does when he can, and I have a girlfriend that helps with harvesting the vegetables and collecting the duck and chicken eggs.”
“A girlfriend?” Grace asked, raising an eyebrow.
She seemed a little jealous, but I think I liked that.
I let out a laugh. “A girl that’s a friend, I mean.”
She smiled, and I couldn’t help staring at the curve of her lips.
“What’s that over there?” Grace pointed at several rows of covered boxes just in front of the woods.
“That’s my honeybee farm.”
Her face lit up. “You farm them?”
“Actually, no. A family friend of mine does. Betty—she’s almost like a second mom. They’re hers, but she keeps them on my property and takes care of them. I get a small cut of the sales and about half a dozen bottles of honey every year.”
Grace’s eyes were wide. “Can I see them?”
“Probably not too safe without wearing a beekeeping suit.” I craned my neck toward her. “You like bees or something?”
“Yeah. They’re fascinating.” She looked up at me, our eyes meeting. “When a honeybee stings, their stinger gets lodged in skin, so they have to self-amputate their digestive tract, muscles, and nerves. They literally die protecting themselves.”