Page 64 of Dirty Cowboy

Grandpa nods approvingly. “That’s what drew me back after college. I could’ve gone anywhere, but something about this place…” He trails off, gazing into the distance. “It’s home. When I die, I want my ashes spread over these lands.”

A lump rises in my throat.

I squeeze his hand. “Well, let’s not talk about that just yet, okay? You’re still riding a bicycle like you’re training for the Tour de France, and Eric told me you’re still riding horses.”

He chuckles. “I’ll ride until the day I die.”

“Okay, enough with the dying talk,” I say, shaking my head. “What I’m trying to say is, youhave time.”

He leans in slightly, his expression serious. “Emma, what I have istoday. Hopefully, I’ll have tomorrow, and the day after that, but none of us know when our time is up.”

Chills skate up my spine, but I force a smile. “Then let’s make today a good one.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and we finish our meal, laughter filling the air. Grandpa Albert’s stories paint a picture of a life that was hard but deeply fulfilling, and I find myself enchanted by every word.

As we clear the table, he stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.

“Emma, you’re part of this family now,” he says. “And we take care of our own. If you ever need anything, you come to me. Joanne and Ethan will love you like a daughter.”

His words are like honey, thick and warm, seeping into the cracks I didn’t realize existed in me.

Back home, I’ve always been an afterthought—theSilver girl, the younger sister, the one who had toproveher worth. But here?

Here, Ibelong.

Here, Imatter.

And maybe, just maybe, this engagement with Eric doesn’t have to be fake.

Maybe it could bereal.

“Excuse me, but if I stay any longer, I’ll be late to my meeting with Eric,” Grandpa glances at his watch.

I finish my last bite of Grandpa Albert’s homemade biscuits and gravy, thank him and Joanne for breakfast, and step outside.

Fresh country air fills my lungs, crisp and laced with the earthy scent of damp soil. In the distance, cows bellow lazily, their deep calls blending with the morning chorus of birds hidden among the trees. The farm stretches before me like a living canvas—rolling green fields dotted with bursts of wildflowers, golden sunflowers standing tall along the garden’s edge. Grandma Estonia’s pink carpet roses still spill over their trellis, stubbornly clinging to the last days of bloom.

Everything here breathes steadiness, a quiet rhythm of life so different from the chaos of New York.

But when I step inside the house, the warmth of that peace vanishes, because Eric isn't home.

My stomach twists, disappointment settling deep. His absence hums louder than anything outside.

My chest tightens as I scan the quiet space. The kitchen feels too still, too empty. On the back table, a bowl of freshly picked apples catches my eye. I grab one, turning toward the open shelf where cookbooks are stacked in uneven piles. My fingers trail over the spines, brushing against an old leather journal nestled between them.

Curious, I pull it free, but as I do, a stack of papers tumbles loose, scattering across the floor.

"Gotcha! Shit!"

A book box crashes down, scattering notes—and three wads of cash—onto the wooden planks.

My pulse kicks up.

I quickly gather the papers, neatly stacking them back on the shelf, but my hands hesitate over the notebook. The cover, markedFamily Recipes, is worn and stained from years of use. Flipping through, I land on Grandma Estonia’s famous apple crumble recipe.

I smile.

"I'm gonna put my own spin on this."

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