Page 2 of Whiskey Proposal

A cry pushes its way up, and I smother it with a squeak.

“What’s that?” Brooks asks.

“Nothing. A sneeze.” The other end is quiet. He doesn’t buy it. “Drive safe. See you in a bit.”

“You too.”

“Bye, Auntie Em.”

“Bye, Bunny.”

Brooks disconnects.

I purse my lips and exhale. Soon, the burn at the back of my eyes goes away.

“I am a professional. I have my shit together. This is just another business meeting. Then I’ll get on with my life.” Another inhale. “I am a professional . . .”

The highway to the ranch where I grew up assaults me with green pastures, golden fields, and a nicely mown ditch with round bales. A pristine barbed-wire fence lines a pasture where red and black Angus graze. This area used to be ours, but Hutch sold it off to two of the three Foster brothers. The third and oldest lives a couple of hours away.

I’ve only met one of them.

Soon, I approach the turn that’ll take me down into the valley, farther away from the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains. One of the tributaries of the Stillwater River runs deeper into the land, but the road stops at the house I was raised in. The place that Brooks rescued me from when I was fourteen.

“What the hell?” The sprawling log house set into a grouping of trees was not there when I left.

A drive turns off the road I’m on, leading to the house and to a massive shop with horses grazing by it. I crane my head as I pass, rubbernecking on the empty road. The yard is neatly kept with the cutest cut log fence around the house. A brown-and-white dog stands at the edge of the driveway, its tail wagging.

The corner of my mouth lifts, but I set my gaze back on the road. Is that where he lives? A cloud drifts over the sun as I continue.

Icy fingers dance up my spine. The charred remnants of an old barn that should’ve been torn down decades ago lie in front of me, like its last breath was a puff of smoke. I was warned away from that barn my entire time living here. Why was Dad—Hutch—still using it? The lawyer told me that supposedly Hutch was trying for a controlled burn before we reached the heat of summer. He managed to put out the worst of it and give himself a heart attack in the process.

Mom always said Hutch would let the land swallow him whole rather than move away and find something better. She’s the one who moved and left her seven- and eleven-year-old kids behind. For another seven years, I watched Hutch prove Mom right.

I follow the curve around, and there it is. The house. All two stories of peeling white paint and green shutters. The black shingles have seen better days.

Was this what it always looked like to my mom? Once upon a time, I thought it was a palace.

Memories bombard me, and they’re not the bad ones that play on repeat when I least expect them. Playing catch with Brooks. Chasing our dog, Sausage. Catching chickens. With that thought, little shadows grow visible, pecking at the new spring growth around the trees.

“Oh my god, there are still chickens.” Delight streams through me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to the birds I used to love raising.

White hens dart across the yard. The shed that should’ve leaned all the way to the ground stands proud, its door open. Not everything has met its end here.

A red SUV is parked by a newer and more expensive blue pickup.

Who else is here? Is that Hutch’s new ride? Did he buy it with the land sale funds?

I park and get out. I’m assaulted by the smell of musty earth fresh from the thaw, manure, and crisp spring air. Inhaling deep, I let my eyes fall shut.

I missed this.

No. I didn’t miss any of it. Flipping my eyelids up, I stride over the gravel. My heels crunch and I bypass a bigger rock that might twist an ankle. I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. It took months for me to save up for them. My black skirt joins the shoes in another poor choice, but I was determined to arrive in town much different from how I had left it.

I smooth my sweaty palms over my skirt before pushing up the baggy sleeves of my loose-knit fuchsia sweater. A swan in a muddy duck pond. Or a Silkie chicken among the Leghorns. I chose this outfit, chiding myself the whole time. I’m too damn old to worry about getting teased for what I’m wearing!

The front door opens, and an older man emerges. He’s wearing gray pinstripe slacks and a matching vest over a white dress shirt. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“Miss Langley,” he says in a warm tone that dissolves a portion of the tension I’ve been carrying since my brain connected the dots of my dad’s passing with having to return home.