Kent chuckled to himself. He should have it so easy.
When he walked through his back door and into his empty kitchen a few minutes later, the weight of living alone hit him like a punch to the gut. Which was crazy, because the solitary life was exactly what he wanted—no, needed. Peace and quiet and green growing things all around him. And his animals—a trusty cow horse, a couple of gentle mares he’d rescued, a few head of cattle and the sleepy old dog, who on day one of his adoption, had claimed Kent’s easy chair and relegated him permanently to the sofa.
“I’m home, Skip.” Kent tossed his dusty felt hat onto the breakfast table and stooped to pick up Skip’s food dish. “Hungry, boy?”
A thud followed by toenails clicking on hardwood announced the yellow half Lab’s lazy approach. Kent filled the dog’s dish with kibble, and while Skip munched, Kent’s gaze swept the drab walls, bare of any adornments except for the calendar his boss at the hardware store gave out to all his customers every December. The kitchen, like every room in the house—and the outside, too, for that matter—badly needed a fresh coat of paint.
Except for the couple of times a year when his folks came down from Tulsa for a visit, Kent never much concerned himself with appearances, and why should he start now? Yeah, his mom was always on his case about how the place could sure use a woman’s touch. Every visit, she’d get busy cleaning light fixtures and rearranging his badly disorganized cupboards, while Dad puttered around outside, pulling weeds or shoring up sagging porch steps.
But standing here now, and with visions of this afternoon’s pretty basket weaver playing through his mind like a video on an endless loop, Kent found himself wondering what Erin Dearborn would have to say about his bleak living conditions. She clearly had an eye for beauty, not to mention a talent for creating art from what anyone else would toss aside. He could still recall the delicate feel of the little twig basket in his hand, still picture the amazingly realistic straw bluebonnets and the dainty letter A, so perfectly formed. He wondered what the initial stood for—maybe her daughter’s name?
You can ask next time you see her.
Startled by the realization that he wanted there to be a next time, Kent pulled a quick breath of air into his lungs. Seriously? He was allowing one random encounter to make him question everything about the life he’d so carefully constructed for himself? Kent had long ago decided he wasn’t relationship material anyway, not with the baggage he carried from his wartime service as a corpsman.
Nope, this bachelor cowboy had everything he needed right here. He’d stick a frozen dinner in the microwave, and after supper, he’d fall asleep in front of the TV while his dog snored in the easy chair. Tomorrow morning, he’d get up early for chores, work at the hardware store till noon, come home for lunch and then get busy fixing those fences. Routine was his comfort zone, and nobody better mess with it.
Yep, the historical society could just find some other old house to show off.
Copyright © 2019 by Myra Johnson
ISBN-13: 9781488042836
Her Twins’ Cowboy Dad
Copyright © 2019 by Patricia Johns
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