Free Close to Home by Lisa Jackson

timber that he’d inherited from his old man. The ranch sprawled across the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, bordered government land on three sides, and was only half a mile down the road from Blue Peacock Manor, which he, along with most of the locals, called the “the Stewart house.”
    His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly, and though he told himself that it was over, had been for half his life, he wondered about Sarah. What did she look like? Who were her friends? Was she really single . . . ?
    â€œTrouble. That’s what she is,” he confided to the dog as he remembered Sarah’s mysterious smile, the sparkle in her eyes, her not-so-innocent laugh, low and sexy and free. He told himself that back then he was a horny kid, that she’d just been a fling. However, she was like a burn that had gotten under his skin when he was twenty and, he suspected, had never quite died.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. Though their affair had been over ages ago, he still thought of her now and again . . . well, probably, if he were completely honest with himself, a lot more often than that, but he’d let go of the fantasy of reconnecting with her a long time ago.
    â€œWater under the bridge,” he said as he turned off the county road, then drove down the long, winding lane to the farmhouse where he’d grown up. Through stands of pine and fir and over a short bridge that spanned the creek, the truck bounced along rocky ruts that could use a new load or two of gravel. The lane curved as the forest gave way to dry pasture where horses and cattle grazed. Farther ahead, the homestead house anchored the ranch, outbuildings spaced around a huge parking area filled with a dozen or more potholes. Yeah, before winter really set in, he’d have to order that gravel.
    He parked near the barn. “Come on,” he said, whistling to the dog. Tex eagerly bounded out of the truck and ran to the nearest fence post, where he sniffed before lifting his leg. “Yeah, a lotta good you are.” He hauled the sacks of grain up the ramp to the lower level of the barn, under the hay mow, where he stacked them near the old open bins.
    This time of day the cattle and horses weren’t inside, but their smells assailed him, the acrid odors of manure and urine mixed with the scents of dusty, dry hay and oiled leather—smells he’d grown up with.
    Glancing up at the hay mow, he remembered more than one summer night when he and Sarah had climbed the old metal rungs to lie on an old blanket and make out for hours. It’s not that the mow was special; they’d also spent hours on the shore of the pond on her parents’ property and high on the ridge above the river. For no good reason, he climbed upward and stood on the wooden floor before the bales stacked to the high, pitched ceiling. It was pretty much the same as it had been all those years before, the small round window at the apex of the roof line cracked open a bit. He remembered breathing hard, holding her naked body close, the scents of dusty hay, sweat, and sex mingling as his hands tangled in her hair. He’d stared through that same round window and seen hundreds of stars strewn across the night sky.
    He shook his head and mentally chastised himself before climbing down the ladder again. No need for nostalgia right now, Sarah or no Sarah.
    None whatsoever.
    Â 
    â€œHey, Sleeping Beauty, join the party,” her mother said.
    Jade opened a bleary eye to find Sarah standing over her. “It’s afternoon, and I let you sleep in today,” she went on, “but now it’s time to get up and get going. We’ve got a lot to do.”
    Jade groaned and rolled over in her sleeping bag, pulling it over her head.
    â€œYou can start with the garbage sacks that Gracie and I’ve filled.” Her mother’s voice was muffled but firm. “I’m serious, Jade,