seriousness and stiffness. Ainsley yawned and rolled over, snuggling under the warm blankets.
An hour later she was still awake, the surrounding silence overwhelming instead of comforting. The glimmering roof of the greenhouse coupled with Molly’s tale made waiting until morning a struggle. Besides, Molly had said to explore the ranch. She quietly got dressed and slipped out of the cabin with a flashlight. The air was cooler than she was used to for early spring, so she ducked back inside to grab a cotton sweater.
She closed the cabin door behind her with a soft click. Invigorated by the crispness in the air that blended with the fresh, sticky scent of spruce trees, she followed the path with renewed energy. The cabins were all dark. Pinpoints of light lit the sky and she kept her flashlight off so she could stargaze as she made her way to the greenhouse.
Finally she stood in front of the glass door. Breaking the peace inside felt intrusive. Still, the flowers called to her, waiting to be discovered. She went into the building.
The earthy odor greeted her with an underlying hint of neglect. Flower and herbal aromas hovered under the thick, dank air. She slowly passed through the rows of flora from all over the world, brushing the leaves and caressing them with gentle fingers in the darkness. Who cared about a stupid, stinky cowboy, anyway? This was why she was here.
She made her way down the main aisle and approached a wooden workbench set up toward the back. On it sat a small shrub in a clay pot, the stems stark and bare, showing no sign of the flower that Ainsley instinctively knew should now be blooming. A spiral-bound notebook lay open next to the plant, its pages covered in writing.
A small trickle of sweat ran down her back and she shrugged out of her sweater, laying it next to the notebook. Dirt and fallen, dried-out leaves covered the pages and she smoothed them away before she picked it up and read some of the notes. Someone was cultivating the Japanese Kerria, trying to keep the vine contained. The experiment had been ongoing over the past year, but the notes stopped four months ago. She put the notebook down and studied the area around the shrub.
Everything had that neglected, uncared-for look, but there were no fallen leaves anywhere other than directly below the plant. Whatever this gardener had done to keep the vines from growing seemed to be working. Ainsley stifled a yawn and thumbed forward through a few more pages, but there were no more entries. So why did they stop? And why leave their carefully detailed notes lying out here?
She stretched, raising her arms overhead, then continued through the rows of the greenhouse, shining her light on the carefully labeled plants. Some sported flowers, but they lacked the vitality she expected from Molly’s passion about the greenhouse. A large, leafy green plant waved her over and she stuck her finger into its soil then rubbed her fingers together, feeling the particles of dirt for moisture. Someone was doing the bare minimum to keep these plants alive. If this was her greenhouse, she’d spend hours here every day. Even in the dark the atmosphere was one of peace and rebirth. Imagine what it would be like in the sunlight and in full bloom.
Another yawn made her jaws creak. She should go back to her cabin and plan how to help the flora regain some of their beauty. Then she’d escape Meagan in the morning and avoid the brunch, coming back here to make everything grow.
She closed the door of the greenhouse behind her. Voices sounded over the rise and she scurried away so she wouldn’t be discovered. Halfway up the hill, she realized her sweater was still lying on the table next to that notebook.
* * *
Riley’s father had always been eager to see what the next step in his life brought him. When their mother left, John Pommer had turned his agony into adventure, going forth with the plans they had made and channeling his energy into rebuilding the
An hour later she was still awake, the surrounding silence overwhelming instead of comforting. The glimmering roof of the greenhouse coupled with Molly’s tale made waiting until morning a struggle. Besides, Molly had said to explore the ranch. She quietly got dressed and slipped out of the cabin with a flashlight. The air was cooler than she was used to for early spring, so she ducked back inside to grab a cotton sweater.
She closed the cabin door behind her with a soft click. Invigorated by the crispness in the air that blended with the fresh, sticky scent of spruce trees, she followed the path with renewed energy. The cabins were all dark. Pinpoints of light lit the sky and she kept her flashlight off so she could stargaze as she made her way to the greenhouse.
Finally she stood in front of the glass door. Breaking the peace inside felt intrusive. Still, the flowers called to her, waiting to be discovered. She went into the building.
The earthy odor greeted her with an underlying hint of neglect. Flower and herbal aromas hovered under the thick, dank air. She slowly passed through the rows of flora from all over the world, brushing the leaves and caressing them with gentle fingers in the darkness. Who cared about a stupid, stinky cowboy, anyway? This was why she was here.
She made her way down the main aisle and approached a wooden workbench set up toward the back. On it sat a small shrub in a clay pot, the stems stark and bare, showing no sign of the flower that Ainsley instinctively knew should now be blooming. A spiral-bound notebook lay open next to the plant, its pages covered in writing.
A small trickle of sweat ran down her back and she shrugged out of her sweater, laying it next to the notebook. Dirt and fallen, dried-out leaves covered the pages and she smoothed them away before she picked it up and read some of the notes. Someone was cultivating the Japanese Kerria, trying to keep the vine contained. The experiment had been ongoing over the past year, but the notes stopped four months ago. She put the notebook down and studied the area around the shrub.
Everything had that neglected, uncared-for look, but there were no fallen leaves anywhere other than directly below the plant. Whatever this gardener had done to keep the vines from growing seemed to be working. Ainsley stifled a yawn and thumbed forward through a few more pages, but there were no more entries. So why did they stop? And why leave their carefully detailed notes lying out here?
She stretched, raising her arms overhead, then continued through the rows of the greenhouse, shining her light on the carefully labeled plants. Some sported flowers, but they lacked the vitality she expected from Molly’s passion about the greenhouse. A large, leafy green plant waved her over and she stuck her finger into its soil then rubbed her fingers together, feeling the particles of dirt for moisture. Someone was doing the bare minimum to keep these plants alive. If this was her greenhouse, she’d spend hours here every day. Even in the dark the atmosphere was one of peace and rebirth. Imagine what it would be like in the sunlight and in full bloom.
Another yawn made her jaws creak. She should go back to her cabin and plan how to help the flora regain some of their beauty. Then she’d escape Meagan in the morning and avoid the brunch, coming back here to make everything grow.
She closed the door of the greenhouse behind her. Voices sounded over the rise and she scurried away so she wouldn’t be discovered. Halfway up the hill, she realized her sweater was still lying on the table next to that notebook.
* * *
Riley’s father had always been eager to see what the next step in his life brought him. When their mother left, John Pommer had turned his agony into adventure, going forth with the plans they had made and channeling his energy into rebuilding the
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