Juniper Hill (The Edens #2)(35)

But I stood at the glass in my bedroom and stared at my loft.

No, not mine. It was hers. That loft would always belong to Memphis, even after she left.

There were things to say. Memphis and I had a long conversation in our future, mostly about how she thought she was a charity case. I’d be clearing up that bullshit soon. We needed to talk about the kiss. What she wanted. What I wanted.

What the hell did I want?

Her. But it wasn’t quite that simple. Not with Drake.

With the guest count low at the hotel, it would be a quiet day at Knuckles. On Wednesdays, Lyla brought over pastries from the coffee shop for the guest breakfast. Skip was there this morning to make a spread of scrambled eggs, ham and bacon. Prep work was inevitable, but when I finally tore myself away from the window and headed to my truck, it wasn’t to drive into town.

I aimed my wheels for the ranch.

Maybe this was Griffin’s place now. It would always be Mom and Dad’s. But the ranch was mine too. It belonged to our hearts.

There was a line of hay in a snowy meadow and it was surrounded by grazing cattle. The Eden brand on their ribs, an E with a curve in the shape of a rocking chair’s runner beneath, gave me a sense of pride at my family’s accomplishments. Driving through the gated archway always made my shoulders relax.

Mom and Dad’s house was the epicenter of the ranch.

Their log house was surrounded by a shop and the stables. The barn had a loft too, an inspiration for my own, and Uncle Briggs had just moved in.

Mateo had offered the space so Briggs could be closer to our parents in the hopes they could monitor his dementia.

Meanwhile Matty had taken Briggs’s cabin in the mountains.

That was how we were raised. We watched out for each other.

Two of the hired men walked out of the barn as I pulled up, both wearing Carhartt coats and Stetsons. They climbed into a truck with the Eden brand emblazoned on the door’s side. I waved as they rolled out of the gravel lot and headed down the gravel road that wove through the meadows and trees to Griffin’s place.

The snow on Mom’s Cadillac was already melting under the bright morning sun. By midafternoon, it would all be gone.

This storm had just been a teaser for what was to come.

I parked beside Dad’s truck and headed up the steps to the wraparound porch. Before I could knock, the door opened.

“Morning, son.” Dad smiled. His glasses were perched on his nose and he held a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Hey, Dad. You leaving?”

“Nope.” He handed me the mug. “Saw you coming down the road.”

“Thanks.” I took the coffee in my left hand to shake his with my right.

“Come on in. Your mother is in the kitchen with, and I quote, ‘more goddamn apples from the freezer.’”

I chuckled and followed him inside, where the scent of cinnamon and sugar infused their home. “Sounds like I’d better check on her.”

“I’m hiding out in the office. Find me before you leave. I’d like to talk about the hotel. See if you’ve thought about taking it over.”

“I haven’t.”

His smile faded. “I’d really like to know what you’re thinking.”

“I know.” I rubbed my jaw. “Give me another few weeks.

Get past Thanksgiving.”

“Sure.” He sighed. “I don’t mean to pressure you. I just want to make a plan.”

“Understandable.”

He gave me a small smile, then retreated to his office.

The Eloise was part of this family, like the ranch. Letting it go would be like cutting a limb on our family tree.

If not for the lawsuit, if not for Briggs, Dad wouldn’t be in such a hurry for an answer. But every time I saw him, he brought it up.

The hotel ran mostly on autopilot for my parents. They’d had decades of experience, especially Mom. Yes, they had to pitch in here and there. But their accounting firm handled most of the financials. And Eloise took her role as manager seriously, coordinating employees and schedules and guests and supplies.

Could I handle it? Yeah. Did I want to? That was an entirely different question.

I walked into the kitchen, finding my mother at the counter, her hands in a bowl of dough. “I hear you’re into the apples.”

Mom glanced up and gave me a devilish smirk. “I’m cutting down that apple tree.”

“Grandma’s apple tree?”

“Do you know how many five-gallon buckets I filled this year? Six. I’ve spent forty years picking apples and coring apples and freezing apples. I’m so sick of these damn apples, I can’t see straight. You know what kind of pie I want to make?

Peach. Or cherry. Or chocolate.”

“So you’re saying that this apple pie is up for grabs?” I went to the counter and threw an arm around her shoulders, kissing her hair.

“No. You can’t have it.” Mom took her hands out of the bowl, taking the floury dough out and laying it on the counter.

Then she reached for a wooden rolling pin, handing it over.

“Roll that out for me.”

“Pastries are Lyla’s forte, not mine,” I said, setting the pin aside so I could wash my hands in the sink. Then I went about rolling out the pie crust, doing my best to barely touch the dough so it would be as flaky as possible.