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Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for the novels of Mia Sheridan
  3. About the Author
  4. NOTE TO READERS
  5. Dedication
  6. prologue
  7. chapter one
  8. chapter two
  9. chapter three
  10. chapter four
  11. chapter five
  12. chapter six
  13. chapter seven
  14. chapter eight
  15. chapter nine
  16. chapter ten
  17. chapter eleven
  18. chapter twelve
  19. chapter thirteen
  20. chapter fourteen
  21. chapter fifteen
  22. chapter sixteen
  23. chapter seventeen
  24. chapter eighteen
  25. chapter nineteen
  26. chapter twenty
  27. chapter twenty-one
  28. chapter twenty-two
  29. chapter twenty-three
  30. chapter twenty-four
  31. chapter twenty-five
  32. chapter twenty-six
  33. chapter twenty-seven
  34. chapter twenty-eight
  35. chapter twenty-nine
  36. chapter thirty
  37. chapter thirty-one
  38. chapter thirty-two
  39. chapter thirty-three
  40. chapter thirty-four
  41. chapter thirty-five
  42. chapter thirty-six
  43. chapter thirty-seven
  44. chapter thirty-eight
  45. chapter thirty-nine
  46. chapter forty
  47. chapter forty-one
  48. chapter forty-two
  49. chapter forty-three
  50. chapter forty-four
  51. chapter forty-five
  52. chapter forty-six
  53. chapter forty-seven
  54. chapter forty-eight
  55. epilogue
  56. acknowledgments

“Thank you for your apology, son. That shows a man of principle.”

Principle.

My mother caught my eye, giving me an encouraging nod. I didn’t glance at Emily again before I turned and walked away.

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chapter three

Tuck

I hefted the pitchfork, dropping the pile of dirty, urine-drenched hay into the wheelbarrow, and spearing another. It was hot in the stable, the quiet chuffs of the horses in the other stalls mixing with the distant buzz of the crickets outside.

Soft footsteps sounded near the entrance, but I didn’t turn until Emily was right next to me. I gave her a quick glance, not halting my work, lifting another pile and dropping it in the half-filled wheelbarrow.

She retrieved another pitchfork from against the wall, and without a word, walked to the other side of me and began collecting forkfuls of dirty hay and dumping them on top of the pile I’d started.

When the first load was full, I wheeled it outside and grabbed a second wheelbarrow. I’d bring both out to the garden in the morning where it would be used as mulch. If you ran a farm well, nothing needed to go to waste.

We worked in silence until all four empty stalls were cleared out. Our horses were settled for the night, so in the morning, when they headed out to the pasture, I’d clean out the remaining stalls. Emily set her pitchfork against the wall and then turned to me. She was dirty and sweaty and had pieces of hay sticking out of her hair. I swiped my forearm across my own damp forehead. “You better get to bed since you’re leaving early,” I said.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked. “Why’d you cover for me?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t have anything going on this weekend. And I don’t mind the work.” What I didn’t say—what I didn’t know how to say—was that after hearing her sing, it had seemed wrong in some massive way that she should miss out on her music camp. On developing her talent or whatever my mom had said about the program. And so, I’d lied. I hadn’t even really thought about it; I’d just acted. I couldn’t exactly explain my split-second decision, but I also couldn’t seem to regret it, even standing there smelling like sweat and horseshit, and knowing I was facing down a long weekend of back-to-back chores under the grueling sun. Not to mention my dad’s anger and disappointment.