Saddled and Spurred: A Blacktop Cowboys Novel by Lorelei James Page B
Authors: Lorelei James
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force her sister to talk it out. Some days, being a parental figure to Bailey was overwhelming, especially when Harper still felt like a lost kid herself.
Cooking soothed her because it was one of the few things in her life she could control. Mixing the right ingredients, adding her twist to traditional dishes that allowed them to be unique yet familiar.
Harper had been cooking, or at least scrounging up meals, since the year she’d turned twelve and Liberty had left the family to join the army. Their mother had spiraled into a drunken rage, spending months in deep depression, forcing Harper to become the responsible one in the household. Since Mom tended to blow all her tips on booze, cigarettes, and lottery tickets, Harper had learned to keep cheap staples on hand so she and Bailey wouldn’t starve during the weeks when there wasn’t money for groceries. Over the years, Harper had gotten very good at budgeting food and money and trying to make whatever crappy rental they landed in feel like a real home.
How many times had she imagined growing up a normal kid? Where home was a two-story Colonial house in the suburbs with a manicured lawn, a tire swing hung from an old oak tree in the backyard next to a playhouse, or better yet, a tree house. She’d dreamt of birthday parties with layer cake and homemade ice cream and beautifully wrapped presents. Surrounded by friends. She’d wished for a bike for herself and a baby doll for Bailey to appear under the tree on Christmas morning. She’d imagined hot summers selling lemonade on the sidewalk and swimming at the lake. Winters sledding and ice-skating and coming home to a steaming cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows.
Around age thirteen she’d given up on hopes for a normal life, pushing girlish dreams aside. She just wanted to survive until she turned eighteen and could take off like Liberty had.
Except that hadn’t happened. With the way things always went in Harper’s life, it probably never would. Some people were born lucky, or at least with a sprinkling of cosmic goodness, and things went their way once in a while. Not her. Not ever. She’d gotten so used to picking herself up, dusting herself off, she wouldn’t know what to do if the universe ever smiled on her.
After sprinkling Mozzarella cheese on the top layer of sauce, Harper popped the lasagna in the oven. She washed the last of the veggies, which were looking a bit wilted, and chopped a salad, adding a sweet-and-sour dressing. She set the bread machine on the counter, dumping flour, oil, yeast, and a pinch of sugar and salt into the inner pan. Nothing in the world smelled as delicious as fresh-baked bread filling the house with a homey scent. Plus, it was a lot cheaper to bake her own.
She poured a glass of water and scowled at the postage stamp- size backyard covered in a layer of dirty snow. The hedge separating their house from the one behind it offered minimal privacy. In the summertime Harper hesitated to hang their clothes on the line, suspecting that snoopy Mrs. Johnston was peering through her blinds to see if Harper or Bailey wore stripper clothes or indecent lingerie.
And speaking of lingerie . . . could she just say a prayer to the underwear gods for being down to her last clean pair of underwear and bra yesterday? Forcing her to put on the nicest ones she owned? Thank God she hadn’t worn tattered granny panties and the underwire bra that actually had a wire poking out of it.
But maybe Bran thought she wore matching lingerie all the time. That’d fit the beauty queen persona he attributed to her. So, how long had he checked her out before he’d covered her?
Her cell phone buzzed in her robe pocket. “Hello?”
“Little sister. How is the hellhole known as Muddy Gap, Wyoming?”
“Cold and snowy. How is the hellhole known as Afghanistan?”
“Cold. And shitty. So, speaking of shitty . . . Bailey tells me you’ve got a shitty new job—literally shoveling shit as a
Cooking soothed her because it was one of the few things in her life she could control. Mixing the right ingredients, adding her twist to traditional dishes that allowed them to be unique yet familiar.
Harper had been cooking, or at least scrounging up meals, since the year she’d turned twelve and Liberty had left the family to join the army. Their mother had spiraled into a drunken rage, spending months in deep depression, forcing Harper to become the responsible one in the household. Since Mom tended to blow all her tips on booze, cigarettes, and lottery tickets, Harper had learned to keep cheap staples on hand so she and Bailey wouldn’t starve during the weeks when there wasn’t money for groceries. Over the years, Harper had gotten very good at budgeting food and money and trying to make whatever crappy rental they landed in feel like a real home.
How many times had she imagined growing up a normal kid? Where home was a two-story Colonial house in the suburbs with a manicured lawn, a tire swing hung from an old oak tree in the backyard next to a playhouse, or better yet, a tree house. She’d dreamt of birthday parties with layer cake and homemade ice cream and beautifully wrapped presents. Surrounded by friends. She’d wished for a bike for herself and a baby doll for Bailey to appear under the tree on Christmas morning. She’d imagined hot summers selling lemonade on the sidewalk and swimming at the lake. Winters sledding and ice-skating and coming home to a steaming cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows.
Around age thirteen she’d given up on hopes for a normal life, pushing girlish dreams aside. She just wanted to survive until she turned eighteen and could take off like Liberty had.
Except that hadn’t happened. With the way things always went in Harper’s life, it probably never would. Some people were born lucky, or at least with a sprinkling of cosmic goodness, and things went their way once in a while. Not her. Not ever. She’d gotten so used to picking herself up, dusting herself off, she wouldn’t know what to do if the universe ever smiled on her.
After sprinkling Mozzarella cheese on the top layer of sauce, Harper popped the lasagna in the oven. She washed the last of the veggies, which were looking a bit wilted, and chopped a salad, adding a sweet-and-sour dressing. She set the bread machine on the counter, dumping flour, oil, yeast, and a pinch of sugar and salt into the inner pan. Nothing in the world smelled as delicious as fresh-baked bread filling the house with a homey scent. Plus, it was a lot cheaper to bake her own.
She poured a glass of water and scowled at the postage stamp- size backyard covered in a layer of dirty snow. The hedge separating their house from the one behind it offered minimal privacy. In the summertime Harper hesitated to hang their clothes on the line, suspecting that snoopy Mrs. Johnston was peering through her blinds to see if Harper or Bailey wore stripper clothes or indecent lingerie.
And speaking of lingerie . . . could she just say a prayer to the underwear gods for being down to her last clean pair of underwear and bra yesterday? Forcing her to put on the nicest ones she owned? Thank God she hadn’t worn tattered granny panties and the underwire bra that actually had a wire poking out of it.
But maybe Bran thought she wore matching lingerie all the time. That’d fit the beauty queen persona he attributed to her. So, how long had he checked her out before he’d covered her?
Her cell phone buzzed in her robe pocket. “Hello?”
“Little sister. How is the hellhole known as Muddy Gap, Wyoming?”
“Cold and snowy. How is the hellhole known as Afghanistan?”
“Cold. And shitty. So, speaking of shitty . . . Bailey tells me you’ve got a shitty new job—literally shoveling shit as a
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