Celia smiles. “Go on upstairs,” she says. “You’ve got just enough time to wash up before this pie is done.”

I scale the creaking staircase back up to my room.

The guest room is a beautiful space, like all the rooms in the ranch house: light, airy, and open. The walls and ceiling are white-washed wood, and the floor is dark oak, partly covered by a hand-woven rug. The pretty blue quilt on the bed, against the white walls, makes me feel like I’m inside of a cloud, way up in the sky.

I can see an article of clothing laid out on the bed—a dress. It’s light and summery, pale green with a prairie floral print. It looks too feminine to be something out of Bo’s closet. Surely she’s the one who put it here for me, though.

I take a shower, then try to battle with my hair, which is becoming less cooperative by the day. I usually straighten it with all kinds of expensive salon shampoos and serums, and an arsenal of tools. Here I don’t even have a proper blow dryer. I have to let it air dry while I borrow some of Bo’s makeup.

We don’t share the same coloring, and Bo clearly leans toward the minimalist look, with a swipe of heavy black eyeliner. Still, she’s got enough selection that I can add a little color to my pale face. I use her blush, and her lip gloss.

Then I slip into the dress, which fits quite nicely.

It’s nothing I would wear usually—too girly and too country. But I’ll admit, it’s pretty, with a ruffled skirt and a row of tiny buttons down the front.

Right as I finish dressing, I hear Celia calling, “Dinner’s ready!” from the kitchen.

I can hear footsteps hurrying from all corners of the house. Sounds like everyone else is as hungry as I am.

We all crowd in around the table, which is set with the mismatched crockery of several different generations. Grady has brought Shelby and the boys over for dinner again, and Bo is already seated, dressed up a little more than usual in torn black jeans and a sleeveless top, with beaded earrings dangling from her ears.

“How come you look so fancy?” Grady asks her.

“I don’t.” Bo scowls.

“Leave her be,” Shelby says. “You’re the last person in the world to give fashion advice.”

I go to the window, to check if Raylan is still out in the pen.

“Don’t worry, he came in a while ago,” Grady says.

“Where is he now?” I ask.

“Probably cleaning up. He was a mess.”

Nobody else seems inclined to wait for Raylan—Bo starts dishing up a hearty helping of the chicken pot pie, and Celia passes around a basket of warm rolls.

“Do you always eat together?” I ask Shelby.

“Most nights,” she says cheerily. “But sometimes Celia and Bo come over to our place instead.”

Raylan pointed out their house to me—it sits about a mile away, not visible from the front yard because of the birch trees all around. From what I could see, it’s a little smaller than the ranch house, but newer.