Page 7 of Wishing Hearts

“Yes,” she says with a huff. “I’m ten. I’ve got a good memory, not like Grandpa.”

My lips twitch. “Right. Which means you remember me telling you about the animals that need my help.”

Winnie sighs in exasperation in only the way a child can. “Yeah,” she finally says.

“And we agreed my helping was a good thing,” I go on.

“Yeah,” she says again, a little more glumly.

“It’ll only be a few days,” I say gently, even as mythroat burns. “You can call me again at bedtime if you want a story.”

“If it’d make you feel better,” Winnie says sagely, and I crack a smile.

“Definitely would,” I agree. “So give me a call in a few hours. And until then, try the other crackers. Maybe you’ll like them.”

“They’re not even goldfish, Daddy. They’re penguins. Penguins.”

I snort a laugh. “Love you, Pumpkin.”

“Love you, too,” she mutters. “Grandma wants to say hi.”

“All right. Put her on.”

“Sorry, Harrison,” my mom says a moment later.

I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “It’s no problem. Is she having a rough time already?”

“Seems so,” she replies. I sigh, and my mom adds, “We knew this might happen.”

“Yeah.”

Winnie has never done well with my being gone. It makes me feel guilty for leaving her, even though, realistically, I know we have to work on her separation anxiety at some point.

“It’s only a few days,” my mom says.

“Yeah, well. Let her call for a story, okay?” I say, looking off toward another barn on the property, where a few folks are tending to some pigs. Off near the driveway, a couple horses are being loaded onto trailers, either for medical attention or to be relocated.

I can’t even imagine the amount of work involved in finding homes for all these animals.

“Of course we’ll let her call,” my mom answers. “Don’t fret too much, okay, dear? Your dad and I can handle things.”

“Thank you,” I say around the lump in my throat.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I reply before hanging up. As I’m slipping my phone back into my pocket, Sam steps out from the barn.

“Everythin’ all right?” he asks, squinting against the sun. His hat is off, leaving him in his worn-to-hell jeans, a dusty red shirt, and brown cowboy boots. Not to mention the honest-to-God bull-shaped belt buckle he’s sporting. I mean, Christ. The man looks like all the things I haven’t let myself want in a very long time. He has big, brown eyes. Stark cheekbones and a stubble-lined jaw. Brown hair buzzed short in a way that looks sexy as fuck, making him just as appealing without the cowboy hat. And I guarantee he’s hiding a six-pack—at the very least—under his shirt. The man’s a fox, and he knows it. I know he knows it.

And yet here he is, looking concerned over whatever he sees on my face after that phone call.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I mutter, grabbing my hat and kicking off from the fence. “Let’s get through as many of these sheep as we can before we have to call it quits.”

Sam nods, expression drawn for a moment before he grins. “And then that beer?”

I shake my head a little, doing my best not to crack a smile.

“One step at a time,” I shoot back, using his words from earlier.

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