Wheeling one of my bags to the gate, I show myself through the very same picket fence my father built twenty years ago and pause to take it all in.
I wasn’t sure what coming home would feel like. I’d thought about it a thousand times before, mostly in little daydreams, but I don’t think anything could’ve prepared me for the fullness enveloping my body or the tingles running down my spine and out my fingertips. I can’t remember the last time I felt this connected to anything.
Being here just feels … right.
This is home.
This. Is. Home.
Closing my eyes, I can almost hear the sound of my brother and sister chasing each other around the yard with the hose, giggling and squealing. I can picture my mother’s flower beds next to the front porch—a sea of pink blooms—and all the Boston ferns she insisted on hanging every spring. The scent of clean air and freshly cut hay fills my lungs, and in the distance a cow bellows and a wind chime jingles.
All these years have passed and yet nothing has changed.
There’s not enough money in the world to buy this feeling again, so I bask in it, standing on the sidewalk as the bright South Dakota sun kisses the top of my head.
It’s been far too long.
Moving on, I make my way up the painted steps of the front porch, toward the screen door. The storm door is wide open and in the distance, the smell of someone’s dinner wafts through an open window.
That’s odd …
Why would the owner make themselves dinner in a rental property?
Knocking on the screen door, I clear my throat and peer inside, hands cupped around my eyes.
“Hello?” I call out.
The clinking and clamoring of kitchen dishes tells me someone’s definitely in there.
“Hello?” I call again, louder. “Anybody home?”
Pulling my shoulders back, I practice a friendly smile until the sound of heavy boots scuffing against wood floors grows louder.
A shadowed presence fills the doorway before slowly stepping into the light. The door swings open and a tall man wearing dusty jeans, faded boots, and a plaid button down stares me down.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m Leighton.”
The man says nothing, his honey brown eyes inspecting me from head to toe.
“Leighton Hart,” I add. “From Arizona.”
He’s quiet, still.
“We were emailing yesterday …” My smile fades. “About your house …”
His dark brows meet and he releases a hard breath. There’s a tiny scar above his upper lip, no bigger than a point on a barbed-wire fence, and while there’s a touch of salt-and-pepper at his temples, he’s got a young face and a body built for riding and roping.
“Woman, I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about,” he breaks his silence, his voice low and monotone. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
He steps inside, letting the screen door slam against the frame.
“Wait, what?” I knock on the door. “Come back.”
I hear him groan, his boots shuffling and then stopping as he turns to glance back at me.
“I paid you five thousand dollars,” I say, my voice broken and climbing higher in pitch than I’d like.
The cowboy moves closer, opening the door. I take a step back and he follows, letting the door slam again behind him as he strides onto the porch.
“Five thousand dollars?” His lips pull up at one corner, and the closer he stands, the more he towers over me.
“Yes,” I say. “For a sixty-night stay at this house.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember the owner’s name, the man who eagerly accepted my payment and seemed more than excited to ensure I was going to have a lovely stay.
“Casey,” I say when it hits me. “Casey Tibbs. That’s your name.”
His face is washed in incredulousness as he stares into the distance for a brief second.
“Casey Tibbs?” he asks.
I nod, certain that was the name.
“Lady, I think someone played some kind of trick on you.” He snuffs his chuckle, expression turning serious. “Casey Tibbs is dead.”
“I’m confused …”
“He was an old rodeo cowboy from the fifties,” he says. “Whoever scammed you out of your five grand knew their South Dakota lore. Man’s buried about ninety miles from here.”
“So this house isn’t for rent?” My posture deflates.
My everything deflates.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“No, ma’am,” he says, shoving his hands down the front of his tight jeans pockets and rocking back on his boot heels. “This is my home. Has been for the last seven years.”
My jaw falls, but nothing comes out.
“Better call your bank. Get your money back and get yourself a real place to stay.” He studies my face.
“I wired him the money.” Like a fucking idiot because he seemed so friendly and benign and sent me a contract—that in retrospect was nothing more than a piece of paper with a bunch of fake names and numbers on it ….
“Good lord.” The cowboy shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his straight nose. “Why would you do something like that?”
Everything happened so fast. When I saw the listing, I didn’t want it to get away. I didn’t want to lose my chance. And I wanted to get the hell out of Scottsdale and away from Grant as quickly as possible. “Casey Tibbs” claimed that sending him the money directly through the website would take three to five business days to clear, and if I wanted the place immediately, I could just wire him the money and he’d meet me at the front door with the keys the next day.
I can’t believe I fell for that.
“I have my reasons.” My cheeks scald, my ego burnt to a crisp. Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, this unquestionably takes the cake.
He shakes his head. I can almost feel him judging me.
“Not as smart as you look, I take it.”
“Would it be too much to ask for a little bit of compassion here? Kindness? Something?” My hand spans my forehead, and I remind myself to breathe. I don’t mean to bite his head off, but stating the obvious is a dick move.
“Compassion?” The man scoffs. “I don’t do compassion. And if you’re looking for kindness, you’re looking at the wrong man.”
Our eyes meet, and I see his are dark, pained almost. There are no smile lines etched on his smooth face. No crinkles at the sides of his eyes. His movements are steady, deliberate. His stare is heavy, loaded.
“People used to be nicer around here.” I exhale, shaking my head and taking in my surroundings one final time. A wave of emptiness washes over me followed by a flood of exhaustion. I’m officially directionless, stuck in a boat with no oars and drowning in a sea of rash decisions. “I remember a time when people around here smiled. And helped each other. And treated others with the same fairness and respect they expected.”
His eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”