Page 25 of Summer Ever After

Chapter Eight

Aaron leaned back in the saddle as his horse plodded lazily along the fence line, the morning sun warming the crown of his ball cap. The gelding flicked an ear, tossing his head as if offended by the slow pace.

“Easy, Pickle,” Aaron muttered, patting the animal’s neck when the horse jolted in a burst of energy. “You’re not winning any races today.”

Pickle, whose name was a reminder of his mother’s sense of humor when she’d still been around, huffed and swished his tail like he had an opinion about everything. He was Aaron’s favorite, though he’d never admit it out loud so the other horses didn’t catch on.

The land, his land, stretched wide and green around him, a patchwork of pasture, orchard, and garden he’d stubbornly kept alive for the past seven years, along with the six horses grazing in the near field, two donkeys that could bray like rusty hinges, and an orchard of fruit trees that were already starting to get heavy with fruit. This ranch was his anchor. His family now.

He remembered chasing fireflies here as a boy as his mother laughed at him, his father holding her hand and occasionally glancing lovingly at them both. The memory curled in his chest. It was both warm and painful all at once.

That warmth shifted when his thoughts drifted further, to the night it all changed. His parents’ plane never made it to Denver. One phone call, and suddenly twenty-year-old Aaron wasn’t a college kid dreaming of courtrooms and case law. He was a man with two funerals to plan and a ranch to either sell or run. He chose the latter.

So he was a wannabe lawyer turned cop and now an ex-cop turned camp security. Every decision after that felt like his path to happiness.

He’d accepted his fate after his parents’ death. Accepted that marriage wasn’t in the cards for him after disastrous dating experiences early on. He just couldn’t risk his heart with the same kind of grief that he’d carried since that night.

But Beth…

Her name stirred through him, uninvited. The memory of her soft voice, the way her hands trembled when she sorted papers at the desk but steadied when she forced herself to meet his gaze. She was fragile in a way that made his chest ache, but strong in a way she didn’t even recognize yet.

Pickle snorted and tossed his head again, breaking his thoughts. Aaron gave a low chuckle and nudged him into a very slow trot. “Don’t start with me,” he murmured. “I’ve got enough trouble rattling around in my brain.”

Still, no matter how far he rode across the acres of his land, the image of Beth lingered, a quiet echo that felt more permanent than he was ready to admit.

The house came into view as he crested the last hill. Pickle’s ears flicked, as if the horse knew they were headed home. Aaron’s chest tightened a little every time he saw the place. The two-story house with weathered white siding, which he planned on painting again this fall, had a wide wraparound porch with thick, square columns that had stood through hurricanes and countless summers.

The long paved driveway was lined with bright-pink crepe myrtle trees, which his mother had planted the year they’d moved in, long before he’d been born. The tall trees were in full bloom, their blossoms scattering across the gravel like confetti. His mother had sworn they were the prettiest thing a Southern yard could have, and he’d vowed to keep them alive long after she was gone.

The bright red barn sat just beyond the house and housed all his animals. At first, he’d considered selling them all off, but then he’d spent time with them and, in a way, they’d helped him heal. He’d never felt alone with them around. They were as much his family as his parents had been. So he’d kept them. He had even added a few more—some chickens, a few geese to keep watch, and another donkey named Brownie.

He’d expanded the garden, which was tucked off to the left of the barn, as well. There were rows of tomatoes that would soon be staked tall, bell peppers, okra, collards, and even watermelon vines creeping out into the grass. Along the fence line, he’d added blueberry bushes and muscadine grapes, tough enough for the Southern heat. Out near the orchard, he had a lemon tree and a couple of pear and apple trees. They promised a good harvest if the birds didn’t get to them first.

By the time he unsaddled Pickle and turned him loose in the corral with the others, the sun was dipping just enough to make the shadows stretch across the porch. Aaron settled into the old rocking chair his dad had once claimed as his favorite with a glass of sweet iced tea sweating in his hand. The cicadas had already started up in the trees, a steady hum that always made the place feel alive.

A car door slammed down by the drive, and Aaron looked up to see Kim, his neighbor, waving as she made her way up the porch steps. Her blond hair was pulled into a messy knot, and one hand automatically rubbed over the curve of her growing belly.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, breathless as she dropped onto the porch swing with a relieved sigh next to him. They were comfortable together. They’d been friends their entire lives. “Billy said you were home. I told him I just needed to borrow a few minutes of peace.” She sighed and put her feet up on the porch railing as she closed her eyes.

Aaron chuckled. “Two kids under three and another on the way? You sure you don’t need a week of peace?” he joked.

She laughed, the sound familiar in a way that tugged at old memories of high school football games and summer nights. “Don’t tempt me.”

He poured her a glass of tea and they sipped tea and talked about the weather, about her parents, about her husband trying to wrangle a toddler who thought climbing on the kitchen table was the best idea ever. Aaron listened, watching the way her shoulders relaxed the longer she stayed. She wasn’t here for anything but a quiet porch and someone who understood.

Still, as he watched her talk, he couldn’t stop that old flicker of longing. Not for her—those days were long past—but for the kind of life she had now. A house full of noise. A partner who looked at her with pride. Kids who would one day climb the same oak trees they had once scrambled up.

It had been a long time since he’d let himself picture any of that for himself. He’d always told himself he was fine being alone. But lately, when the house was too quiet and the nights stretched long, his thoughts started drifting to Beth.

The next morning dawned sticky and loud.

Humidity clung to his shirt before he’d even made it from the truck to the first building. The cicadas were screaming from the tree line, as if trying to ward off the heat that was bound to come in the next few hours. Somewhere on the grounds, a peacock that wasn’t supposed to be there let out a strangled yelp like a toddler mid-tantrum. The bird had escaped one of the neighboring properties and had yet to be caught.

He was halfway through his second cup of burned camp coffee when Brett’s voice crackled through the radio at his hip.

“Aaron, copy?”

Aaron unclipped the radio. “Go ahead.”