Chapter 4

four

WILL

"I am so sorry, Will."

Becca was shifting nervously before me on her bare feet. "I didn't mean to attack you."

I thought attack was pretty generous for what had gone down. But I didn't say that. I glanced to where the marshmallows had been. Carl had hoovered them up and then took off for the bedroom.

I shifted to the side so that Becca had a clear path to the door if she didn't feel comfortable with me here. Rolling my shoulders inward, I worked to make myself less imposing and intimidating to the woman staying alone in this house.

But she didn't seem to notice my efforts to make sure she was at ease.

Becca was still talking. She hadn't really stopped since the shock of my presence had worn off. We were on her fourth apology in as many minutes. "Your mom offered to let me stay here—to rent the house—while I'm in town since I'm at the Bake Shop almost every day. I'd been staying at the Sterling House, but she seemed weirdly opposed to that." She anxiously tucked a strand of long hair behind her ear and kept right on going. "I didn't know I'd be imposing."

I worked really hard to gentle my tone and my features, but I was tired and irritated. Yet none of this was Becca's fault. This had Maggie Clark written all over it.

Plus, I wasn't surprised if Vera Sterling was involved. She flirted shamelessly with my father when they ran across each other and had for years. My dad was too nice to tell her off, but Vera made him uncomfortable and made my mother murderous.

Peeking over to look out the front window, I wondered how I could have missed Becca's SUV sitting in the gravel driveway beside the house. I really did need to get those solar lights back out.

I started to dip my chin and then caught myself. No more bobblehead dumbass nodding around this woman. "It's okay. I didn't realize my mother . . . had done all this. I crash here sometimes when I'm working late. I wasn't expecting you, is all. I should apologize for barging in and scaring you." I eyed the remaining marshmallows in the floppy clear plastic bag. "Why the marshmallows?"

Becca's cheeks went a little pink. "Um. I like to eat them in bed. They don't leave crumbs."

I felt the corner of my lips twitch but I made myself ask, "I mean, if you thought I was someone breaking in, why did you choose that to attack me with?" My gaze touched on objects around the room—a carved solid wood candlestick holder on the mantel, a coffee table book by a local photographer, a metal paperweight on the end table next to the couch and within easy reaching distance.

"Oh, I didn't want to break any of Maggie's nice things."

I stared at her incredulously and then pointed. "There was a fireplace poker right there."

She frowned, a little vee forming between her blond brows. "I wouldn't want to hurt anyone."

I shook myself and rubbed my forehead. How did this girl make it in Detroit?

When I opened my eyes, she was closer—still nervous, though.

Becca was wearing an honest-to-God matching pajama set. A pale pink button-up top and little pink shorts with cartoon avocados on them .

She must have noticed me looking because she offered awkwardly, "I, um, really like avocado toast."

Before I could even begin to know how to respond to that, she hurriedly apologized once more. "I really am sorry for the confusion. I can grab my stuff and?—"

"No." I cut her off. "This isn't your fault. You're staying. I'm the one going."

"But it's really late. Why don't you take the couch? That way, you don't have to drive all the way home when you clearly planned on staying here." Becca tilted her head toward the fireplace. "I should have known when I saw that dog bed."

An unexpected laugh huffed out of me as I turned with her to look at the white fleece bed in pristine condition. "That . . . is wishful thinking. He would never use it. He's a warm-spot thief and a bed hog."

Becca shifted again, and I fought the urge to look at her bare feet. Her toenails were painted pink. And there was an awful lot of leg showing beyond those ridiculous pajamas. "Stay, please. I feel terrible for messing up your night."

I sighed. Not this again. "You didn't?—"

"But I'll blame myself," she interjected firmly. "Unless you stay, like you planned. I'll feel bad and won't get a bit of sleep."

I could see that she was being serious. This wasn't a manipulation tactic. She was fretting over this mix-up.

"Well, I don't want to ruin your day tomorrow," I said, sliding my sneakers off without untying them. "And you probably have a busy day working as"—I squinted, considering—"an online kindergarten teacher?"

She grinned, full pink lips and those even white teeth. "Is that what you think I do all day in front of the Bake Shop?"

I scratched my beard. "That was one of my guesses."

Becca hummed noncommittally but seemed amused and didn't offer up the truth behind her employment or her continued presence on my family's farm.

I was in charge of a lot at Grandpappy's, safety being one of them. It was important to make sure she wasn't up to something nefarious. She was always on her laptop. Maybe she was a hacker. Criminals could do that from anywhere, right? However, the public Wi-Fi wasn't actually that great .

And if this girl were an evil mastermind computer hacker, she'd have to be an even better actress. As bewildered as I was by her presence here, I just couldn't make myself believe something like that.

She stifled a yawn, and I suddenly remembered how late it was.

"Are you sure you won't feel uncomfortable with me here?" I was a stranger. Did this girl have no self-preservation instincts? I knew I posed no threat to her. But she didn't.

That little vee formed again on her forehead. "Why would I feel uncomfortable?"

I rubbed a hand across my jaw absently. "You don't know me, Becca."

Her frown cleared immediately. "Well, of course I do. You're Ms. Maggie's son, and you rescued me from a tree just yesterday."

"I didn't—" I started to argue the rescue thing and then just gave the fuck up. "If you're sure?" I felt the need to confirm.

Becca eyed me for a long moment. "I'm sure you are welcome to stay in this house that your family owns. Yes."

I couldn't tell if she was being a sassy smart-ass on purpose, but I hoped so. It made her less of a good-girl robot.

She straightened out of her thoughtful pause when I shrugged out of my flannel and hung it on the coatrack by the front door. And before I could do more than watch her disappear, she took off toward the linen closet calling, "I'll grab some blankets for you."

"That's alright. I can take care of myself."

But she was already loaded up with two extra pillows, folded white sheets, and a blue-and-gray quilt my grandmother had made.

I moved to take the items from her, and a bit of a tug-of-war ensued, in which we both smiled a little awkwardly. She didn't need to handle this for me. I was going to pass out on the couch in my jeans and then take off in the morning at the crack of dawn.

"I'll go get the dog out of your bed," I offered tightly, moving the short distance to the bedroom. Because of course he'd abandoned me and picked this stranger to curl up with .

For eight years, I'd been the center of that dog's world. Carl had such an attitude and didn't really like most people. I'd gotten suckered into adopting him right after college. I hadn't been in a good headspace and hated everyone and everything after nearly a year recuperating from surgery and then finally being released from the team. Jordan and my family had been the only ones willing to put up with my grumpy ass, and sometimes I'd even managed to scare them off. But somehow, adopting an adult dog who'd been just as standoffish and stubborn as me had worked out. I'd earned Carl's trust and, eventually, his unconditional love.

But I looked at him now. Snuggled up on a bed that was probably warm and smelled like leafer and marshmallows.

Then my eyes snagged on Becca's slender calves as she stepped around me. I told myself to stop being a jackass and look away, and then I thought I really couldn't blame the dog so much.

"Oh, that's okay," Becca said. "If you don't mind, he can stay. I've never had a pet before."

Never had a pet. Never climbed a tree. I was starting to wonder about this city girl.

And then she laughed a little under her breath. "It sounds kind of nice to share a bed with someone. It's been a while."

I swallowed, not knowing what to say to that . Because now I was thinking of the pretty tourist in bed . . . and not with my dog.

Clearing my throat, I backed out into the hallway. "Well, just know, he steals the covers."

"Sorry again about tonight."

"It's okay. Good night, Becca."

She smiled softly, looking like she wanted to sneak one more apology in there. "Good night, Will."

Becca needed to stop apologizing. It wasn't her fault. She'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like me. And in a few hours, I'd talk to the woman who'd orchestrated our little mix-up because I had a feeling it hadn't been so innocent.

"Good morning, Mother."

Maggie Clark glanced up from the mini quiches she was plating on the serving tray—probably for the book club brunch ladies. Their meeting was starting shortly. "The gazebo looks great. Thanks for taking care of that for me, sugar. Want a quiche? They're ham and swiss."

"No, I do not want a quiche." Okay, I did want a quiche. My mom was a damn good cook and baker. I grabbed one off the tray. "Why didn't you tell me you had someone renting the tiny house?"

She removed her oven mitt and adopted a confused expression. "Oh, did I not mention that Becca Kernsy was staying there for the next little bit?"

"No, Mom. You didn't." I popped the quiche in my mouth and chewed in what I hoped was a disapproving manner.

Eyeing me in confusion, she grabbed a bowl of fruit salad from the walk-in cooler. "Well, she is. There. Now you know. Why does it matter? Haven't you met Becca? She's as sweet as pie."

I didn't really want to admit that I'd walked in and scared the hell out of Becca last night, so I grabbed another quiche and chewed instead of answering.

But I still didn't trust that my mother wasn't trying to play matchmaker. She made no secret of the fact that I, her only offspring, should be settled down at the advanced age of thirty.

"Hi, Will," Chloe greeted with a smile while she operated the espresso machine. "Want a coffee?"

The morning rush was over. I'd waited to question my mother until I knew things would be settled down a little.

I'd woken up on the short sofa in the tiny house before six, shoulder stiff and legs cramped. After a silent conversation with stern eyebrows and threatening looks, Carl had finally stretched and slid off the bed where Becca was covered entirely by blankets—the one on top was a colorful crocheted throw I didn't recognize from the tiny house. I could only hear her deep breathing as the covers rose and fell over her balled-up form beneath the covers. That was probably for the best. I didn't need to get caught watching her sleep like a creeper while, in reality, I'd just been trying to pry my ungrateful mutt away from her side.

"Hi, Chloe," I finally responded. "I'll take some coffee in a to-go thermos. Thanks."

"You got it. And don't forget about trivia on Monday."

I resisted the urge to groan. Trivia Night at Trailview Brewing was on my weekly calendar thanks to her and Jordan. I figured they were attempting to socialize me like a misbehaved puppy or a homeschooled adolescent.

"Right," I muttered, accepting the green travel mug from her.

"Bring those math skills and sports knowledge," she added with a wink.

Baseball stats were why I was a math nerd in the first place. Math had been my best subject growing up. I liked numbers and percentages, and it came easy to me. When it was time to pick a college major—something I'd never given much thought to since baseball had always been my end goal—I'd picked accounting. I'd been surprised by how much I liked it. That was probably the only reason I managed to finish my degree and graduate following my injury and exit from the majors.

When everything went to shit, coming back home to the farm was supposed to mean taking over the administrative side of things—managing the books, dealing with buyers and vendors, and anything money-related. This was my family's farm. Whether it had been in my life plan as a twenty-one-year-old or not, I was responsible for it.

Nearly a decade later, everything had changed, including my obligations. My responsibilities had grown and expanded a lot over the years. Now I handled whatever needed doing.

"I've gotta get this stuff over to the gazebo," Mom said, interrupting my stumble down memory lane. "Is there a problem with Becca staying in the tiny house?"

"Becca's staying in the tiny house?" Chloe inserted herself in our conversation, blue eyes bright with interest. Shit .

"No, it's not a problem," I replied to my mother, ignoring Chloe. "I just wish I'd known before I tried to crash there last night after setting up the gazebo. "

Mom set down the chicken salad croissants she'd been packing up. "Oh? What happened?"

Chloe looked equally invested in my response, and I took a step back toward the exit. I peeked out front, but, luckily, I didn't see Becca out on the covered porch yet. It was a little early in the day for her to be here. "Nothing. I just surprised her is all." My mom raised her eyebrows expectantly, but I wasn't about to say that I'd slept on the couch or seen Becca in her avocado pajamas. So I made sure my tone conveyed disappointment and amended, "And it looks really unprofessional for us when you don't communicate properly about rentals."

The women were standing next to each other now, and both wore identical expressions—the trying-not-to-laugh kind.

"You're right, Will," my mother said in a surprisingly serious tone as she nodded sagely. "Very unprofessional. I'll try to communicate adequately in the future."

Chloe covered her mouth with her hand as my mother smiled indulgently.

"Okay, fine. Never mind." I tugged my hat out of my back pocket and pulled it on. "Forget I said anything."

They were both giggling as I snatched up my thermos, two more mini quiches, and strode through the half door of the Bake Shop.

I made my way around the back of the building I shared with the bakery to my cramped office, where Carl was snoring on top of the dog bed in the corner. While drinking my coffee, I worked at my desk, doing the accounting for August, making sure all invoices were paid, the event deposits were sent, and all the upcoming vendor orders were placed. With the Orchard Festival in a couple of weeks, I decided a last-minute merch order of Grandpappy's tee shirts would probably be wise.

An hour later, MacKenzie radioed for additional help at the pond where the apple cannon and hayride were stationed. It was a Friday, and tourists seemed to start the weekend whenever they felt like it. Laramie responded and said she'd be right there, but I figured I could take a break and mosey on over to make sure they had coverage and the lines didn't get too long. I'd peek in on the gazebo while I was at it to make sure everything was under control over there and the brunch ladies had enough chairs .

Carl stayed behind, barely giving me a head raise as I stepped out into the midmorning sunshine of another fall day on the farm.

As I strolled around the building and onto the main path, I glanced toward the front porch of the Bake Shop and the table closest to the electrical outlet, but I didn't let myself think about why.

She wasn't there anyway.

I tugged my hat lower on my forehead and walked on. There were several things I needed to do today, including prepping the produce for the farmers' market tomorrow. I needed to check in with my aunt up at the General Store. I was pretty sure we had an event she was organizing after closing on Saturday night—an engagement party or something. I was still busy running through my mental to-do list when I approached the gazebo and heard loud laughter.

My boots slowed in the surrounding trees as I saw Becca, of all people, seated among the brunch ladies. They crowded around her, ignoring the four tables I'd carefully arranged the night before. They'd pulled their chairs over to be closer to her and whatever she was saying. Her face was expressive and smiling. She spoke with big sweeping hand movements, and I stared for a moment in confusion.

Becca was almost always smiling, and if she wasn't, she was right on the edge of it. Just waiting for someone to give her the opportunity.

She was the youngest woman present by at least twenty-five years. But the ladies were hanging on to her every word, smiling and nodding along. With her long blond hair loose in the breeze, Becca held up a book and flipped through the pages. Finally, she found her place and looked like she was reciting from the text.

Not wanting to be spotted, I backed up slowly into the tree cover as the discussion continued. And if I stayed there longer than necessary, it was because I was confused, not annoyingly intrigued by whatever Becca was doing here. Maybe I stood listening to the breeze carry her voice closer because I was working through solutions in my head. When I hadn't reached any logical conclusions, I made myself ignore the irritating, attractive mystery of it all and turned away.

I had to admit that everything looked like it was well in hand .

Actually, it looked like a tourist who'd been in town a handful of weeks was leading a local book club, and they'd welcomed her like a long-lost granddaughter. But what did I know?

As I redirected to where Mac was working at the pond, I remained baffled about Becca's presence at the event this morning. Maybe she was an author. That would explain her remote work schedule at the Bake Shop. And maybe the brunch ladies found out and featured her book for this month's pick. That all seemed very implausible. But maybe?

Yet it was far more likely than a random leafer being invited to participate in a meeting for local grandmothers.

"Will!" my cousin MacKenzie called as I approached the covered area that housed the apple cannon. "We're low on the ugly apples. Can you bring us a pallet over?"

I snapped out of my weird thoughts about Becca, the tourist, and took in the busy line where my other cousin, Laramie, sold tickets to visitors of all ages for a chance to shoot five apples out of the cannon over to a red-and-white bullseye positioned in the middle of the water.

"Yeah," I told Mac. "I can do that."

It was a good thing I'd wandered over to check on things. During the busy season, something always needed to be done on the farm. My dad and his staff generally handled all the produce and plantings, but the business side of Grandpappy's Farm had a hundred working parts. Hiring a general manager would probably be a good idea. That wasn't the role I'd been brought in to fill, but here I was, doing my best to keep everything together.

Later that afternoon, after delivering apples and then holding down the fort at the pond so that my cousins could take lunch breaks, I finally made my way back toward the Bake Shop, intent on finishing the day in my office, barring any more emergencies on the walkie.

My attention was on the ground as I ran through the remainder of my immediate tasks when I caught sight of a four-leaf clover in the grass. I paused and reached down, plucking it from the patch of clover. I'd always been good at spotting them, and several areas around the farm seemed to produce them pretty regularly .

I held the tiny clover in my hand and continued walking, mind on a dozen things at once.

Maybe I could stop by and see if Mom had any little quiches left since I'd missed lunch. My eyes sort of drifted of their own accord to the picnic table near the wall of the building. Becca was sipping an iced coffee and reading over something on the screen of her laptop. Carl sat beside her on the bench, and she absently stroked a floppy black ear.

I sighed. I guessed I should go retrieve my wayward dog.

Becca noticed my approach. Her blue eyes lit behind dark-framed glasses, and I was, once again, struck by her genuine warmth. We hardly knew each other, and each interaction had been more awkward than the last. But here she was, smiling as bright as the sun like we were old friends.

But then I saw her features change, and I just knew she was about to apologize . . . again.

"Hey."

She placed her iced coffee on the table next to her computer. "Hi, Will. I'm so sorry again about last night."

I held up a hand. "Not necessary. You don't have to keep apologizing, especially for something that wasn't your fault."

"Okay. Sorry." Then she winced, and I felt my lips twitch. "I'm really done now."

"Good." I nodded and then caught myself. What was it about this woman who made me nod my head like an idiot all the time? I'd never had a nodding problem before this week. Shaking myself, I pointed at Carl. "Sorry if he's bothering you. I'll take him back with me."

"Oh, he's not bothering me at all. He's my buddy." She turned on the bench and used both hands to rub Carl's doggy face. His tail wagged in traitorous ecstasy, and I fought my eye roll. "I've been meaning to ask, what's his name?"

"It's Carl."

She blinked. "Your dog's name is Carl? "

I shifted and slid a hand into my pocket, wondering what was wrong with that. Carl was a good name. "Yeah."

Becca grinned. "Are you a fan of The Walking Dead ?"

I stared at her, not getting it before shaking my head in the negative.

"You know, ‘get in the house, Carl.'" She said this in a really terrible Southern accent before laughing.

I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Oh well," she finally said, cheeks getting a little pink. "It's a nice name. I like it."

"He doesn't usually take to people," I admitted. "Are you sneaking him table food?"

Becca's features morphed into abject horror. "I would never. I don't know his allergies or his favorite foods or what might make him sick. I've never had a dog, but I know enough to recognize that you have to ask permission for those sorts of things."

I nodded again. Dammit.

"Carl just likes me," Becca murmured sweetly, her gaze back on my dog. He gave a happy bark before licking her face.

Her grin was triumphant like she'd won an argument we weren't even having.

I knew Carl liked Becca. That wasn't in question. I was just curious why my typically aloof-with-strangers sidekick had taken to her so easily without food as a bribe.

"I guess he does," I admitted, reaching up to scratch my beard.

Suddenly, Becca gasped, and I froze. "Is that a four-leaf clover?"

I realized I still had the tiny green stem in my hand and glanced at the clover. "Uh, yeah. I found it while I was walking."

She sat up straight and stared with such amazement that I didn't know what to think.

Tentatively, I held it out to her .

Becca accepted the clover like it was a newborn, grinning and marveling all the while. "This is so amazing. I've never seen a real four-leaf clover."

I took in her blue eyes, bright with wonder over something so minor. Of course, this was the same girl who'd gotten all moony-eyed over climbing a tree. Seriously, was there nothing green in Detroit?

"Well, you can have it," I said. She started to protest but I went on, "I find 'em all the time. If you want to keep it, just make sure you flatten it in the pages of a book or something. You've got about ten minutes before it starts to shrivel up."

She was already digging through her laptop bag on the table, pulling out what looked like a planner or notebook. I watched in amusement as she carefully smoothed the leaves between two pieces of lined paper before gently closing the book. "Thank you so much, Will."

I cleared my throat. "It's nothing."

Eyeing her laptop, I wondered again what she was up to. Her laughter down by the gazebo floated back to me. I hadn't gotten a good look at the cover, but I was relatively sure I could find out what this month's book club pick was. My mom probably knew, if nothing else. "How's work going today?"

Both Becca and Carl looked up from their seated positions across from me. Amusement sparkled in the woman's eyes, and the dog just looked embarrassed for me. "Productive," she finally replied, giving nothing away. And then she grinned. "Those kindergarteners won't teach themselves."

"Alright, so you're not a teacher."

Her smile widened. "Nope." But she didn't offer up any alternative career choices. It was like she could tell I was curious about her, and that made me take a sudden step back. No sense in wondering about Becca Kernsy. She was a tourist. She'd go back to her real life when the charm of autumn in Kirby Falls wore off. Like some small-town fairy tale, by the time the last leaf fell, she'd be a goner.

"I'll let you get back to it," I said, tugging my hat low. Patting my leg, I called Carl to my side.

Becca gave him an ear-rub goodbye, her face going soft around the edges. "Thanks again for my four-leaf clover. I'll see you later. "

I caught myself mid-nod and then hightailed it toward my office. Carl plodded dejectedly along behind me. I didn't bother stopping to beg quiches off my mother. The sight of her grinning at me through the half door had my appetite abruptly departing. The last thing I needed was for her to be encouraged by my interactions with Becca.

I wished she and Jordan would give the matchmaker thing a rest. Things were just fine the way they were.

Two days later, I had the evening off. Grandpappy's Farm closed at five on Sundays, and at least once per month, I visited my namesake, Grandpa William, at the Legacy Hills assisted living facility between Kirby Halls and Miller Creek.

My great-grandfather was a widower, and about eight years ago, he got a difficult dementia diagnosis. It wasn't until nearly two years later that he willingly went to live at Legacy Hills and insisted that I move into his house to help keep it up and take care of it.

William Sr. was a proud man. Stoic and steady, he was the patriarch of our family. He'd always been someone I respected, so when he'd entrusted me with the upkeep of the family homestead, I'd gladly taken it on. The house was old and too big for one man. But I'd been slowly rehabbing it and fixing whatever saw fit to break down at any given time. But I hadn't done much in the way of modernizing or making it my own. I figured I'd get around to it someday.

Of course, I liked the convenience of the tiny house. The proximity to the farm didn't hurt either. But the homestead off the winding roads of the Appalachian Mountains was part of my heritage—my great-grandfather Clark's legacy. I'd had many a family dinner at the sturdy wooden table in the dining room. I'd learned to work on cars, clean a fish, and build things with my own two hands under Grandpa William's watchful eye.

The house was, at times, a painful reminder. It was also one more thing tying me to my hometown. Another responsibility, another obligation.

But I pushed away the familiar guilt that accompanied those ungrateful thoughts as I went through the automatic front doors of Legacy Hills .

The front desk staff recognized me beneath my ball cap and buzzed me in through the locked doors leading to the long-term-care wing. The nurses did a good job with their patients, and our family was grateful that Grandpa William received a high level of care at Legacy Hills when living home alone was no longer safe.

My great-grandfather rarely recognized me or even spoke during my time here, but the staff said he always had a good day following my Sunday evening visitation.

I greeted several of the nurses and assistants at the desk before making my way to Grandpa Clark's private room. He was by the window, seated in his cushioned glider, gazing out over the well-kept grounds. The light grew dim as the sun worked its way behind the hills in the distance. But he didn't seem to mind. He didn't acknowledge me as I spoke and settled in the chair across from him.

Reaching for the book on his bedside table, I frowned when I noticed it had an unfamiliar blue-and-white cover. A Collection of Poems by Robert Frost. "Huh. I thought we were in the middle of that John Grisham novel."

I flipped through the pages until they parted helpfully around a bookmark from Paperback Writer, the bookstore and gift shop downtown.

Without giving it too much thought, I cradled the leather-bound book in my hand and read aloud the poem on the page, After Apple-Picking .

" . . . This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep."

Grandpa had ceased his rocking about two lines in. When I finished, I noticed his gaze was still fixed on the setting sun in the distance.

As they often did, my eyes lingered on the collection of framed photographs in the room. There was one with Grandpa and his wife who passed away before I was born. In it, she was playing the piano that still sat in the formal living room of my great-grandfather's house—my house. He sat stiffly beside her on the bench, but a small smile lifted his lips. In another photo, they stood on the front porch of the homestead. Her lined face was bright with laughter while Grandpa Clark stood stoically by her side. Another image showed a much younger version of the man before me seated on a tractor in a freshly plowed field. A handful of memories caged in four-by-six-inch frames. A long life lived over ninety-four years. One that had worked the land, raised a family, and started a legacy.

I knew I was lucky in a lot of ways. My history and my family being a big part of that. This town, too.

I continued reading out of the collection of poetry for the next hour until the nurses came in to help my great-grandfather get ready for bed.

Briefly, I considered asking one of the nurses about the mysterious book, but in the end, I decided not to bother the hardworking caregivers.

Instead, I took myself home to the land my great-grandfather had built.