“Normally a dozen, but those are wild ones my sister picked up the other day in Wyoming.”
“What does she do with them?”
“Well,” he says, as he reaches the top of the driveway and puts his truck into park. Minus the two-story home sitting in front of me, the view of the vast land abutting the mountains is breathtaking. “This is it.”
“You grew up here?”
“I did. The mountains seem closer than they appear, but yeah, this is the Sinclair Ranch.” He gets out of the truck and
walks over to the passenger side and opens it. “The land extends for many miles in all directions.”
“And you’d buy Longwoods for what?” I ask as he helps me out of the truck.
“I don’t know. Mostly to protect my father’s land from Larsen and his company. Maybe to build a new recreation center with a place for my sister to train her students. She does it here, that’s her paying job. The horse wrangling she does because she thinks it’s fun. Come on, let’s go see who’s home.”
Wait, he didn’t call first to make sure? “What if no one’s home or they’re busy?”
Hawk laughs and pulls me along behind him, up the wide plank stairs, onto the porch and down the side of the house. When we get to the backside, huge barns block some of the view, but it’s all the people I see that has me in awe. They’re everywhere. Cowboys and cowgirls on horses, pulling horses by their reins, some are moving cattle into trailers, others are riding horses around barrels.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, you would’ve never guessed this is going on from the front of the house.”
“Not in a million years.”
“My great-grandma set it up this way. Said she wanted peace and tranquility in the front and chaos could exist out back.”
“Sort of like a mullet,” I blurt out before catching myself. Hawk laughs so hard he has to bend over to catch his breath. I know my joke wasn’t that funny, but I’m laughing right along with him. When he finally stands tall, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me deeply.
“Ahem.” The clearing of a voice breaks us apart.
“Hey, Dad,” Hawk says to the man coming up the steps. Instantly, my cheeks heat up and as subtly as possible, I try to wipe my lips clean.
“Son, who do we have here?”
“Dad, I’d like you to meet Bellamy Patrick.”
We shake hands. “Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot about you and your son from Hawk and Nolan. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Mr. Sinclair.”
He waves me off. “Name’s John. None of this ‘Mister’ crap. I’m far too young for that.” The three of us chuckle. “Come on, Ma’s got something brewing inside.”
Hawk motions for me to follow his dad inside. Once I step in, I’m enveloped in warmth and basking in the smell of homemade bread. This kitchen is straight out of a magazine with its farmhouse table, wrought iron light fixtures, farmhouse sink and eight-burner stove. The cupboards are white and gray, and the floors are wide plank, stained to look rustic and old. I am in love with this kitchen and probably the rest of the house if I get to see it.
“Ma, I’d like you to meet Bellamy.”
The woman at the stove turns around, wipes her hands on her apron and comes toward me. She’s short, maybe five foot. She places both hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.
“Okay, I see it,” she says.
“See what?” I look at Hawk for an answer, but he doesn’t give one.
“My son is in love with you, young lady. I knew it the moment he came home and started talking about this beautiful woman he met. I’m Rhonda, but you can call me Ma, Mom, whatever you like.”
“You have a beautiful kitchen,” I tell her, but my eyes are on Hawk, who winks at me.
“Thank you, this was my anniversary present from John a few years ago. It’s functional and my daughters tell me it’s also very stylish.”