Rustic Hearts

Braxton

Jefferson was in a foul mood as he, Emmett, and I worked on repairing the tractor that had a broken timing chain while hauling bales of hay yesterday.

He barely said a word the whole afternoon, and when he did, it was to bark an order at one of us. I can only guess that the princess’s appearance is what has him so on edge. Of course, we start culling the cows for next season this week, and that could be weighing on him too.

I run up to my personal space above the barn to take a quick shower and wash the day’s dirt off before heading to the main house for supper.

As I cross the yard toward the back door of the house, I notice a figure under one of the large trees.

Sophie is lying on her stomach with her bare feet kicked in the air. Her hair is pulled up in a sloppy knot thing on top of her head. One of the sleeves of her top has slid down her shoulder, and as she absentmindedly reaches up to move it back in place, the pencil in her other hand moves furiously over the page of the book in front of her on the blanket.

She’s humming as she draws. It’s the most serene I’ve seen her since she arrived. Carefree even.

Her shirt rides up slightly, and I can see the beads of sweat pooling in the dip of her low back where it meets the hem of her pants. My gaze slides down further to her ass, and I notice how nice it looks in those ridiculous silk pants she’s had on all damn day.

I shake my thoughts from her ass. It doesn’t matter how perfect it looks. She is off-limits. And even if she weren’t Jefferson’s daughter, I would never touch a woman who looks at and treats my family and me like we’re second-class citizens.

She must hear my approach because she startles and gasps, rolls to her back, and protectively raises her hands and feet.

“It’s just me.”

She lets out a relieved breath. “Sorry. Habit. People sneaking up on you in the park in the city isn’t exactly a good thing. I get lost in my head sometimes, and I don’t always pay enough attention to my surroundings,” she offers in explanation. Then, she rolls back to her stomach and continues to draw.

She was almost polite.

I keep walking toward the house and stop to look back over my shoulder at her. “You spend a lot of time in the park by yourself?” I have no idea why I asked or why I care.

She looks up from her page and answers, “Yes. I can’t breathe in my apartment sometimes. Like the walls are closing in on me or something. I crave the outdoors, fresh air, and sunshine. Charlotte thinks I must be claustrophobic or something.” She shrugs.

“Charlotte?”

“My friend and assistant.”

I nod. “I know the feeling—the need for wide-open spaces,” I reply, and then I open the door and walk inside.

“Brax,” Elle squeals the second my feet hit the kitchen floor. “Look!”

She pulls a piece of paper from her bag and excitedly shoves it an inch from my face as she starts talking in rapid-fire sentences, “Professor Madar thinks my essay on the benefits of organic farming to the local environment and economy is insightful and offers a great perspective on why ranchers in the area should consider co-opting parcels of their land to organic farmers. She thinks it’s good enough to be published. She submitted it to the local paper and The Denver Post!”

I take the paper from her hands and get a closer look. “That’s amazing, sis.”

“I know!”

I look up, and she’s beaming as she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet.

“This could help when I apply for funding for school.”

It’s great to see her so excited about something.

Since graduating from high school, she has struggled to find her passion. It was easy for me. All I ever wanted to do was follow in Jefferson’s footsteps and become a rancher, but Elle is restless. She tried her hand at vet tech school and realized that her love of animals did not translate to the love of caring for them when they were sick or injured. Then, she tried beauty school and realized her love of makeup and hairstyling did not apply to mixing chemicals for perms and dealing with finicky clients. Now, she’s trying her hand at writing and taking classes at the local community college. If it holds her interest, she hopes to enroll in the journalism program at the University of Denver next fall.

“I’ll chill some sparkling wine to go with the cobbler I made for dessert,” Doreen offers as she wipes a tear from her cheek.

I love how these women support Elle in everything she attempts.

“Really?” Elle asks with pride in her voice.

“Of course. We have to celebrate. It’s not every day our niece gets published.”

“Not published yet. Just submitted for publishing.”

Doreen waves off the modesty. “Whatever. It’s a big deal, and we’re going to toast to you, my dear.”

Elle turns back to me. “Do you think Sophie will read it?”

I see the hope in her eyes, and I don’t want to crush her. She has developed a warped sort of hero worship for Jefferson’s long-lost daughter ever since Doreen explained over breakfast last week that Sophie would be coming in from New York. Elle has always been fascinated with Sophie and that city. We haven’t heard a word from the girl as long as we’ve lived here, but the aunts and Gram used to often tell stories of her as a child. Especially Gram. Elle was always enamored and had this fantasy in her head that Sophie would return and they would be fast friends and sisters.

“Maybe. If you ask her.” I don’t even sound convincing to myself.

“Of course she will,” Doreen pipes up.

“I’m sure she’d love to read your article. Sophie knows her way around the subject, you know.”

I can hear the pride in her voice as she talks about her niece.

“She does?” Elle asks.

“Oh, yes, she would help Gram plant and harvest the vegetable garden every year, and they grew their own herbs in flowerpots on the back porch. All organic. No pesticides. Sophie fed the chickens and the hogs every single day too. She’d gather eggs in the morning for breakfast, and Pop even taught her how to milk the dairy cows. She was quite the little farmer.”

“Wow, really? She seems too sophisticated,” Elle responds.

“Not at all. She’s a rancher’s child. It’s in her nature to know her way around the animals and the land. You two should chat later.”

“That would be awesome.”

I hate that they think the kid Sophie used to be is the same as the woman who looked at me like I was some type of disease when I picked her up from the airport. I don’t think any of that girl is left. I don’t say it though. They’ll eventually figure it out for themselves.