Down This Road

By Kelli Dawn

They say you can never go home, and for high-powered Chicago attorney Charlie McIntire, that is perfectly fine. She left home the day she turned eighteen and never planned to return. But at twenty-nine, she finds herself running back to the ranch, the only place she can think of that will help her face an unexpected turn of events. Charlie tries to settle back into the quiet pace of country living, unsure of everything except the fact that she still hates shoveling manure. Life on the ranch is uneventful, and without the distractions of the city, Charlie forced to deal with things shed rather avoid: what shes going to do with the rest of her life; the unfinished business between her and an ex-boyfriend; and most of all, the event that will change her life forever.

Down This Road chronicles Charlies journey of self-discovery. It explores how the past shapes the present, how difficult it can be to change patterns of behavior, and how sometimes, learning your lesson might come just a little too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504902137

Kelli Dawn

Kelli Dawn is a writer, educator, mentor, and coach. With a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s degree in education, Kelli has dedicated the majority of her career to teaching math and empowering youth through enrichment programs. She is passionate about writing and is most inspired during the wee hours of the morning. While Kelli lives by the beach in beautiful San Diego, she stays connected with her roots when she is home in Utah running cows and driving tractors. In her spare time, Kelli enjoys mountain biking, jogging, rooting for the San Diego Chargers, and bonding with her beloved dog, Hank. Find out more about Kelli at http://www.kellidawn.com.

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Down This Road

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2015 Kelli Dawn . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 3/19/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0008-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0213-7 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Among The Dimes

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to

anyone who has ever had a dream

and dared to believe it could come true.

Acknowledgements

There is a huge team behind this book. You know what they say, it takes a village to…write a book? First, I need to acknowledge my husband, Scott, who was very understanding of my need to hole up—in his mancave, no less—and write. Second, I need to thank my dear friend Kathryn Cloward for mentoring me, grounding me, and always believing in me (and along those lines, thank you, Julie Seal, for introducing us). I want to also thank my wonderful and brilliant editors, Jennifer Harris, Tracy Steinhandler, and Adrienne Moch. Your words were sometimes hard to take, and I may or may not have thought about kicking you in the shin a time or two, but in the end, you took my baby where it needed to go. Thanks to: Denise Sassoon, Tracy Wait, Laura Sopko, Connie Whitcraft, and Christine Miller for reading this thing in its (700 page!) infancy and offering up suggestions.

I want to thank my family for all the support, love, and eye-rolling when I told them I was going to write a book. To my mom, thank you for always loving, supporting, and encouraging me. To my farmer dad, thank you for making me tough at a young age and teaching me the value of hard work. To my sister Bobbi, thank you for being such a crazy go-getter (an inspiration for Charlie) and standing by me. To my sister Jamie, thank you for giving feedback in early days and thinking I have talent. To my brother, Girl, thank you for spending hours and hours with me talking about and letting me have first-hand experience with ranching. Also, thank you for asking to read my book when we all know you’re a cowboy and cowboys don’t read. To my brother Bryan, thank you for taking me to work with you for the contracting experience and for helping me get closure on the book. To my brother Justin, thank you for offering inspiration for the character of Robby in this book. To my extended family: Scott’s parents and brother, my aunts, uncles, and cousins, and, of course, my friends, thank you for being so excited about all this. Your support means more than you know.

There are a lot of friends who believed in me, who told me they couldn’t wait to read this book, who told me they thought I was a good writer. Some of those words kept me pushing on when I wasn’t sure I could take any more, and I sincerely thank you (Sandy, Josh, Rubyat, Michelle especially) from the bottom of my heart.

Lastly, thank you to my muses who woke me up as early as 2:30 in the morning in fits of inspiration, without which this book—and more than six hours of sleep on any given night—would not be possible.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Chapter 1

Time was irrelevant here.

Green fields of alfalfa hay surrounded both sides of the highway, the vast acreage interrupted by lines of sprinklers or fences made of tree limbs bound together by barbed wire. The crystal blue sky stretched on for miles, not a cloud in sight. The blue would have dominated the entire sky except for the attention-demanding mountains to the west and north.

As I made the final turn onto a dirt road, an 1,100-mile trek and a lifetime later, a sense of familiarity and comfort washed over me. I rolled down the window and breathed in the scents: hay, fresh air, and cattle.

Everything was exactly the same.

I spotted my brother’s now 10-year-old mare, Bolt, grazing alongside what looked to be (although I knew better) the same cattle that had been here for ages. Closer to the house, I caught a glimpse of the faded red Case tractor that also had been around for as long as I could remember—parked in the exact same spot. The tall weeds growing around it told me the tractor probably didn’t run anymore, and so it would stay, parked there forever, because—around here—you just didn’t throw things away.

Nothing, not the dull red barn that needed fresh paint, the raggedy porch swing, or the chickens running around the yard, looked any different than it had two, five, or 30 years ago. Roots here were deep.

They say you can never go home, but they—whoever they are—have obviously never been to the ranch. It had been a year since I’d set foot on the property, and 11 since I’d set out to make a name for myself, but despite all the changes that had happened in the world outside Northern Colorado, it was as though time here had stood still.

Formally named McIntire Ranch (taking our surname and putting it in front of the word ranch was as imaginative and elaborate as our family could be), it sprawled across roughly 30,000 private acres (219,000 acres including the land we lease from the Bureau of Land Management). The ranch had been in my family since my great-great grandfather homesteaded it in the late 1800s; it now belongs to my brother, Robby. Technically, as per my grandpa’s will, I own part of it as well, but I don’t feel as though I have any claim to it. It’s been Robby who’s been working it for years, while I’ve been off in the city doing things that have nothing to do with manure, cattle, or the going rate for a ton of hay.

I parked my car, a sleek, silver Mercedes slk350 convertible. Beautiful. Elegant. Expensive. Out of place here, parked at the end of a mile-long gravel road, next to my brother’s beat-up Chevy truck. The two vehicles, one gleaming and new and the other having seen better days, reflected my two very different sides.

I stepped out and looked up at the big, white farmhouse. My great-grandfather had designed it almost 100 years ago to look like a plantation house, complete with white columns and a wraparound porch. I spent the first 18 years of my life in this house, dreaming of leaving, of moving on to bigger and better things.

And now here I was, back again.

I took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in my throat, and reminded myself I was strong enough to do this. I tucked a piece of my hair—dark, like my mood—behind my ears. I’d thrown it in a ponytail sometime during my long drive and hadn’t bothered with it since. I hoped I looked better than I felt, but I had no make-up on and my clothes were far from fresh. Both my jeans and the tank top were a little snug. I supposed I should get used to that.

Before I had a chance to grab my bags from the car, my sister-in-law, Karalynn, burst out the front door.

Charlie! Hi! She ran down the stairs, her ponytail bouncing. She’d probably never fully outgrow the high school cheerleader in her. You look great.

Right.

I’d been in the car for 18 hours, mostly crying, and the last time I’d bothered to look in the mirror I’d hardly recognized myself. I looked awful. My eyes were red and swollen, my skin was pale, and my face exuded a sadness that was impossible to ignore.

The place looks exactly the same, I said, giving her the best smile I could muster.

She smiled. Country life. You know better than to expect a change around here. You sure you’re ready for this?

I have to be, don’t I? I shrugged, although inside there was a small voice wondering the same thing, wondering if I’d go crazy being back here. I was doing my best to ignore that voice.

I grabbed my suitcase and a couple more bags from the trunk and trudged up the stairs to the front door. I paused just before opening it. This was it. This was my life now. As soon as I walked through this door, it would be real. I’d be back home, my worst fears now my reality.

At least I had a nice car.

I stood there, trying to decide whether to laugh or cry. My lip started to tremble. I took a deep breath and forced myself to suck it up. Ranch life didn’t allow for crying and self-pity. I kicked the door open and stubbed my toe, since I was wearing flip-flops. I wished I’d taken the time to throw on some boots.

I stepped inside and shut the door, listening to its closure echoing off the walls. Karalynn took my bags and walked upstairs, but I stood there for a few seconds, looking around the house I’d grown up in, taking in everything. The outdated family picture hung slightly askew above the fireplace in the formal living room to my left, just as it had the last time I was here. The formal dining room was on my right, the large table dusty and cluttered with unfinished craft projects. I walked straight ahead to the stairs, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. Even my bones ached. I made my way up the stairs and down the hall to my old room. Karalynn was already in there, having set my bags down at the foot of my old full-sized bed.

You hungry? she asked, the dutiful ranch wife in her taking over.

I shook my head. I’m going to take a quick nap. I drove all night and I’m pretty tired.

After Karalynn left my room, I sunk down onto the bed, wondering how long it’d been since the patchwork quilt—the same quilt Karalynn and I pieced together years ago—had been washed. The room hadn’t changed. The same certificates and awards, proof I was going to make it out there in the big, wide world, hung on pale blue walls. I was too tired to check, but I was sure the dresser still housed my old faded Wranglers and work shirts, and the closet, too, surely was filled with more than one pair of old, crusty boots.

I curled onto my side and closed my eyes.

When I woke up, I knew where I was, but it took me a few beats to remember why I was there. A quick glance at the clock revealed that I’d slept for almost 20 hours straight. My quick nap had turned into a deep sleep, the deepest I’d had in a long time, but it still took me a few minutes to gather the courage and strength I needed to climb out of bed and get dressed.

The jeans I threw on were even snugger than yesterday’s, and I almost screamed in frustration, detesting the change in the circumference of my waist. I smoothed down my hair with my hands and threw it back into a ponytail, then wandered downstairs. Karalynn was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher with what had to have been the remnants of the morning’s breakfast.

Good morning, she said, her voice and expression overly bright and cheerful. This may be the first time in history I’ve gotten up before you. I think hell just froze over.

I couldn’t even force a smile. No part of this situation was amusing, not even a little. I looked out the kitchen window toward the barn. There was no movement whatsoever.

Where are Robby and the boys?

Riding fences. They left early this morning.

Oh. I looked out across the yard, the stillness of it all sinking into me. I’d always hated the quiet out here, the sound of nothingness. What a difference from the city, where something was always moving or making noise. Here, the only thing disturbing the rural stagnation was the occasional cow moo. Hardly exciting. Deeply depressing.

So how are you? Karalynn asked softly.

I didn’t look at her when I answered. I knew if I did, I’d see concern, or worse, pity.

Better. I was just so tired yesterday. I knew I hadn’t really answered the question the way she meant it, but she should have known better than to expect a heartfelt answer from me.

We McIntires didn’t do emotions.

Robby and the boys unloaded your car.

Oh. Surprise shot through me. For as far back as I could remember, my brother Robby had always made me do everything for myself. When I was younger, I mucked stalls, shoveled manure and pitched hay, all chores I hated, imagining myself as Cinderella. I dreamed that someday a prince—Jason, back then—would come take me away from it all. That seemed so long ago. I’m not waiting for a prince anymore, long since stripped of any illusions that life would turn out like a fairy tale. Disney is full of crap.

Charlie, are you sure you’re okay? Karalynn’s voice snapped me back to reality.

I’m fine. I’m going to unpack.

I turned my back, and I could sense her eyes roll at my unwillingness to talk about my situation. Enduring this from her, though, was the lesser evil, if I had to choose between judgment and answering questions about what the hell I was doing here.

Robby and the boys came home just as I finished setting the kitchen table for dinner. My nephews, 10-year-old Hunter and seven-year-old Drake, gave me quick hugs before running off to wash up. Robby was dirty, and as he always did, he kicked his boots off on the porch and headed straight toward the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

Where has your lazy ass been all day? He tossed over his shoulder as he scrubbed. It had been almost a year since I’d last seen him, and this was how he chose to greet me. Thank God, because if he’d been overly nice, I very well may have crumbled. I needed some normalcy, not that sensitive crap Karalynn had been tossing my way all day.

Unpacking.

Lots of bags. Staying a while? He turned to dry his hands on a towel and finally glanced my way. I nodded.

Good to have you back. As close to an emotional greeting as I was going to get from Robby, I was sure of it. And then, as he headed to the fridge to grab a beer, he said, we sure have a lot of manure to shovel.

I smiled, my first real smile in weeks, and meant it. Robby didn’t speak in metaphors, and he didn’t know it, but his words were an unadulterated reflection of my situation, of the shit I’d be walking through over the next few months, the shit that would probably hit the fan when he finally found out why I was back.

I woke up the next morning before the sun rose, wishing I could sleep a little longer. Knowing that would be impossible, I threw on some clothes and made my way downstairs to brew some coffee. Just when it stopped brewing, Robby walked in.

He poured himself a cup and sat across from me at the table before acknowledging me. You’re up early.

I told you I would be. The previous night just before I went to bed, Robby asked if I’d be joining him on his daily five-mile run. Running was the last thing I wanted to do, and I was almost positive I wouldn’t last more than a mile or two, but I told Robby I’d join him, anyway, because running together in the mornings had always been our thing.

When’s the last time you ran?

It’s been a while. I hadn’t had the strength to run over the past few weeks. I wasn’t even sure it was good for me at this point. I might die trying to keep up.

It’ll make you tougher.

That’s your answer to everything.

Because it’s true.

Maybe. I’m going to put on my shoes.

As I knew it would, the run did wonders for my mood. During the past three months, what I was feeling inside had alternated between despondency and anger. But as I ran east into the foothills well behind my brother, down the dirt road we’d run together countless times, I inhaled the smell of the cedar trees and the clear August air rushed into my lungs. I felt as I always had on these runs with my brother. Free. Strong. Invincible. The feeling of being on the verge of tears went away as I ran, and I returned to the house ready to face the day, if not the decisions that lay ahead.

Chapter 2

I learned at a young age that life on the ranch keeps going, regardless. Feelings are secondary to chores, and even on what others might consider the worst day of their lives, cowboys push on because there’s still feeding to be done, fences to check, and a herd to move. My grandma died of breast cancer when I was 12, and rather than sit around and cry about it, my grandpa, Robby, and I took off on a three-day cattle drive. I remember riding for hours on end, crying softly to myself, grateful that Robby and Grandpa were too busy chasing strays to notice my tears. I forced myself to hold it together during dinner and while we were sitting around the campfire, but I cried myself to sleep. Did it all again the next day. Did it all again four years later, when my grandpa died of a heart attack and Robby returned from college to take care of me and oversee the running of the ranch.

After years of conditioning, emotions rarely got the best of me. I learned to rein them in, to push feelings so deeply inside that I could forget them. Mostly. This served me well as I began my career as an attorney; early on I proved I was tough enough to handle whatever was thrown my way. I worked 80 hours a weeks without flinching, handled would-be stare downs from opposing council (nothing compared to a stare down from a 2,400-pound Charolaise bull), and never faltered in my work, no matter what I faced.

Embracing my inner tough girl was a little harder these days given my situation, but as always, I held it in. I kept myself occupied by cleaning the house, organizing the barn, and spending hours on the swather cutting hay—doing anything short of shoveling manure to keep myself busy. I was exhausted from trying to hold it together, or maybe it was the hormones, or maybe the multiple times a night I woke up because I was dreaming of him again, but I pushed through. It was all I knew how to do.

Robby must have known something was wrong (why else would I be there?), but he went about his business as usual, no questions or noticeable concerns. Karalynn, however, wasn’t about to let things slide so easily.

She waited until I’d been home exactly one week. The boys were in bed, the dishes were done, and I’d wandered outside to sit on the old porch swing. It was a warm summer night, and the crickets were so loud I could barely hear the sound of the creek that ran on the west side of the house. They were noises unique to the country, sounds I left behind to pursue life in the city.

As I sat there, my focus shifted beyond the sounds of the insects and water and into the vast silence encompassing the world around me. Without the barrier of city clamor or the busyness of my job, or even the daily ranch chores to protect me, the thoughts I’d been suppressing inevitably rushed in on me. They came pouring out as fast and powerful as water bursting from a dam and I was powerless to stop them. I could no longer hold in the tears.

I sat there, trying to figure out where I took the wrong turn, and how I’d let myself come to this point. I was never supposed to be in this situation. I was the smart one.

And yet, here I was.

I cried quietly, the tears warm on my cheeks, and tried to find the silver lining in all of this. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t one. I heard the door open and tried my best to wipe away evidence of my crying before anyone saw it.

Charlie? Karalynn’s soft voice came out of the darkness. What are you doing out here?

I didn’t answer, just took a deep breath and gave silent thanks that it was dark enough on the porch that she couldn’t see my face.

Then the light turned on and Robby stepped out onto the porch. He and Karalynn sat in the chairs across from the swing, both looking at me in a way that told me they knew I’d been crying.

What’s going on, Charlie? asked Robby. And don’t tell me nothing. You wouldn’t be here if it was nothing.

I sat quietly for a good full minute before I found the courage to face my brother and tell him the truth, or at least the part of it that I was ready to admit.

I’m pregnant. I looked him in the eye when I said it, showing him I wasn’t afraid of what he had to say.

He said nothing, but Karalynn sucked in a large amount of air, indicating her surprise. She rose from the chair, sat beside me in the swing, and put her arms around me as best as she could. I sat stiffly by her side.

How did this happen, Charlie? she asked.

There it was. The inevitable question. I knew it was coming, knew I couldn’t just show up and announce I was pregnant without everyone wondering how it happened.

I was still wondering myself.

But, I’d spent a good portion of my 18-hour drive preparing and rehearsing exactly what I was going to say in this moment.

It’s like a country song, really, I said, forcing myself to adopt a light-hearted tone, the lie coming out of my mouth for the first time. I reminded myself it was for the best—Robby would come undone if he knew the truth—and forged on. I met a guy in a bar one night and, well, here I am. Single and knocked up. I gave a little chuckle, hoping they would react lightly to the story I’d just told. They both just stared at me in surprise.

Jesus, Charles. Rob finally muttered. He stood up, walked to the edge of the porch and leaned on the railing. He mumbled something under his breath, probably a few choice curse words that he’d later unleash on me in a fit of anger—I was sure of it.

I took a deep breath, trying to find something to say. Nothing came to mind.

At least you’re home, Karalynn said, filling the silence on the porch.

As though the fact that I’d run home, tail between my legs, and dropped everything I worked so hard for was the silver lining in all this.

So what now? she asked.

I don’t have a goddamn clue, I admitted, glad I could at least be honest about that.

If Robby was surprised the next morning that I was up and running with him at dawn, he never said. If he were disappointed that his brainiac sister, the one who landed a full-tuition scholarship to a good university, the one who’d completed law school in record time and landed the first job she interviewed for at a prestigious law firm in Chicago, he never let on. Not that I would expect him to…just as I didn’t expect him to wait for me on the run. By the time I arrived back at the house, he’d already changed into his work clothes and brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

What’s on the agenda today? I asked as I cracked eggs in a pan, not as much interested in his daily tasks as I was anxious to fill the quiet in the kitchen. Karalynn was still asleep, and the boys were outside gathering eggs and feeding the pigs, the same morning chores that were mine before I left.

Just running the ranch, sis. They were words he said often, passed down from grandpa. I must have heard them a million times. For the first time, they ran through me and reached right to the depths of my soul, comforting me in a way that only home can.

I smiled as I placed a breakfast sandwich in his large, callused hands.

I’m glad you’re smiling, Charlie. I don’t know what to expect from you these days.

A silence hung in the air while we both waited for my reaction.

At least I’m home, I choked out. If I said more, my voice would crack—and then we’d both be sorry. Robby pushed his chair back from the table and grabbed his coffee thermos. He took a bite of his sandwich and headed toward the back door. He paused just before opening it and looked at me, seeming like he wanted to say something.

Gotta get to work, was all he said. The story of his life.

If only life really were that simple.

The one thing, the only thing I knew when all this transpired was that I needed to go home. I needed familiarity and the strength of the ranch to see me through this. I didn’t come home expecting to get sympathy from Robby, and in that sense, I’d been right. He didn’t talk to me about my condition, didn’t try to offer up advice. In fact, the only indication he even remembered my situation was that he banned me from all physical labor.

Robby had raised me to be tough, yet he refused to listen to me when I insisted I was still strong enough to do chores. He also told all the ranch hands to alert him if they caught me doing physical labor, and so I was more or less bound to the house.

Luckily for me, it was nearing the end of summer and there was endless canning to be done. Karalynn and I spent the better part of our day picking, peeling, and cutting fruit from the orchard and vegetables from the garden. I was grateful to keep my hands occupied, even if my mind wandered during the endless chatter from my sister-in-law.

I sunk into bed each night just after the boys, partly because I was exhausted, partly because I didn’t want to get trapped in a where is your life going conversation with the adults in the house. Since that night on the porch, none of us had talked about the pregnancy or my plans for the future. Maybe that was because I didn’t give them the opportunity to, or maybe it was because that just wasn’t the way things were done around here. Life on the ranch went on, as predictable as the sun rising in the east every morning.

Chapter 3

Equally as predictable was Founder’s Day, an annual tradition that occurred Labor Day weekend. The whole town of Montgomery, which boasted 90% of the county’s population of 1,758 (plus one come March, courtesy of yours truly) came out to celebrate. The festivities kicked off with a parade Friday night, followed by an ice cream/beer social outside the town hall. Saturday was filled with various events, including horse races, clay pigeon shooting (Robby won every year, it was his thing), a horseshoe tournament, a town lunch, a rodeo, and finally, the Dance Under the Stars. (Around these parts, we all learned at a young age the basics of square dancing. If I remember correctly, it was a requirement to pass elementary school.)

My favorite thing about Founder’s Day, though, was that my dear Aunt Joan would come to town.

Aunt Joan was as close to a mom as I’d ever had, although she’d lived far away in a magical land called California since even before I was born. She was the sister of my biological mother, Cynthia, and the oldest and wisest of the two girls my grandma produced before the doctors forbade her to have any more. She was an inspiration in my life, the reason I chose to go into law, and the reason for my leaving home the day I turned 18. She was the person who always believed in me and told me I could have anything I wanted in life.

She was also the one person in the world to whom I didn’t want to have to answer.

She showed up as she always did, on Friday just after noon. I sat on the porch as her rental car made its way down the dirt road that led to the house. She parked and emerged, glowing, I suppose, because for the first time since her divorce 15 years ago, she was in love. (He’d left her for his secretary, and I suspected she was more upset over the cliché than anything.)

She was tan and smiley and full of life. Gorgeous, as always. Everyone said I looked more like her than I did my real mom, except Joan’s dark brown hair had been lightened in recent years (blonde streaks hid the gray, she said), and her cheekbones were more prominent than mine at the moment. (I had the pregnancy to thank for that, and she had Pilates.) But we both stood at 5’6", had the same slender figure, and our eyes were the exact same shade of blue—the same blue as Robby’s, my grandpa’s, and the Colorado sky in the summertime.

Joan was radiant. I was exhausted, retaining water and trying to force a smile.

Her full lips curved into a smile as she reached me. She hugged me, looked me over and raised a brow.

You look like hell, she said, but you’re still the most beautiful girl on the planet.

I laughed and cringed at the same time. Aunt Joan was my rock, the one person I could always count on to make me feel better. The one person I could talk to, no matter what. The one person I was afraid would judge me if she really knew the truth.

Thanks. It’s great to see you, I said.

It’s great to see you. She smoothed my hair, glancing down at my belly. You’re still tiny.

I’m only 12 weeks. According to the books, I won’t show for another month or so, but my pants are all almost too tight to wear.

So how are you feeling?

Well, I’m having bouts of nausea here and there, and my breasts are tender, but other than that, fine. According to Karalynn, I’m pretty lucky. It’s too hot to stand out here; let’s go inside so you can have a drink and say hi to Karalynn. And then you can tell me all about Richard.

I made a move to go inside, but Joan placed a hand on my arm as I was about to open the door.

I know exactly what you just did, Charlie Jo. Her eyes bored into mine in the way that only Joan’s could. I’ll let it slide right now because you’re right, it is too hot out here. But don’t think for one moment that you’ve escaped anything I have to say to you.

Crap, I thought to myself. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go there.

I should have known better.

God, this place is beautiful, Joan said a few hours later as we turned off our dirt road onto the county’s paved one and began our 15-mile drive to town. We were on our way to watch the Founder’s Day parade. Robby, Karalynn and the boys had left earlier with the intent of vying for one of the few spots on Main Street that would provide shade during the nearly two-hour event. Temperatures were still in the triple digits.

I stared out the window at the endless acres of farmland, appreciating it for the first time ever. The wheat fields had been harvested, leaving behind golden stubs that would either be trampled by cattle or plowed up in late fall. Other fields boasted rows of freshly cut hay, the last crop of the season, waiting to be baled. When I was younger, I’d always hated looking around at the vast acres of what I perceived as nothingness. I wanted something more, a place where I didn’t know everyone within a 100-mile radius and where everyone didn’t know me. I always dreamed of something bigger and better.

But maybe this was the bigger and better. Maybe having a home you could always count on to be there was worth more than anything else in this world.

So how is it being back here? Joan asked, breaking the silence. Are you going crazy with boredom yet?

"I’ve been away from

Reviews for Down This Road

[denisa8howe · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this book a lot and felt it was one I wanted to keep turning the pages to get to the end… I actually enjoyed the fact it was a bit longer than most books of this type. I really got to sit and enjoy and watch the characters develop instead of them just slammed dunk here they are. The characters were developed very well… maybe a bit too much as they were very predictable. The fact that this particular story was so close to real life, including human emotions, feelings, and even mistakes it allowed for bonding with the characters. It left me wondering what might happen to the characters in the next year..The writing style was refreshing, clear and very in tune with human nature facing situations as these. I won this book via goodreads and did in fact enjoy it.