Tucker Stewart wanted to date her.
Ginny stretched her arms over her head and let out a squeal of delight. Okay that thought was every bit as thrilling as fourteen-year-old her could have wanted.
But she was serious about not interfering with him getting established at Silver Stone. Maybe if things had been different, like if Tucker had been around every year, or if her parents and the Hayeses had still been there. Being mentored by a solid group of older men would’ve given Tucker so much of a head start.
She was pretty sure her brothers would approve in theory. Caleb obviously did, and Luke thought the world of Tucker.
But if she was in the picture, would her brothers get tangled up with thoughts of her as their little sister to protect, instead of focusing on Tucker as a cohort to encourage and bring up to speed?
She sighed. Being an adult sucked, but here they were.
Which meant her plans to juggle the next thing while making frequent booty calls got adjusted. In a way, it might be good to focus all of her attention on catching up with old friends and future plans for staying on the ranch.
The package on top of the dresser caught her attention. She was revved up enough from the excitement bubbling inside and the sneaky suspicion that she would be an emotional wreck that night anyway once it sank in that she didn’t get to cuddle with Tucker.
She grabbed the package off the dresser and sat back on the bed.
Unraveling the ancient twine gave her time to reconsider, but now her curiosity was in high gear.
She carefully undid the brittle tape holding the parchment paper in place and discovered a plain but sturdy cardboard box. The lid lifted off easily revealing two matching hardcover journals.
A rush of memory slipped in…
* * *
“Mom?” Ginny kicked off her boots at the back door and made her way farther into the house. Something bubbled on the stove, so her mom had to be somewhere nearby.
“In here,” her mom called. “Just a minute.”
Ginny rounded the corner into her mom’s office in time to see her pick up her shiny red journal and tuck it into the top desk drawer. “Oh. Writing in your diary,” Ginny teased.
Her mom folded her hands. “Yes, I was. Someday you’ll appreciate it.”
“Not if you’re writing stuff in there about you and Dad. There are some things I don’t need to know,” Ginny insisted.
“Wait until you fall in love. Then you might be curious to hear other people’s stories.”
Ginny shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t hold your breath. Anyway, Dusty is hiding in the barn. He refuses to come in the house because he failed a test, and now he thinks he’ll get kicked out of Grade Two, but even worse, that Dad might take away his riding privileges.”
Deb Stone made a face. “The kid is probably not wrong about that last one. What kind of test?” She eyed Ginny hard. “How come you know this, and why are you telling me?”
“Because I, as his beloved big sister, who is nearly eight years older, know all and see all.”
“Ginny. Spit it out without dramatizing it any further, if that’s possible,” her mother demanded.
“You’re no fun. Fine, Dusty was cranky on the bus ride home from school, so I asked him what was wrong, and he told me. The reason he failed was he was actually sitting in the hallway being disciplined when the teacher handed out the test.”
Their mother folded her arms over her chest. “You’re not making things better for your brother right now.”
Ginny held up a finger. “Ah, but here’s the part that neither the teacher nor Dusty will tell you. I happen to know Dusty got sent to sit in the hall because he told Jeremy Dane to stuff it and stop teasing Fern Fields about having a prosthetic arm. And when Jeremy made a rude gesture, Dusty sat on him. Which was probably really uncomfortable because Jeremy is lumpy like a bag full of rocks. Personally, I hope Dusty didn’t bruise himself.”
Deb pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for that little bit of colour commentating.”
“Anyway. Rose and Tansy told me about that part, because Fern told them, so I told Dusty that I was sure you would understand he did the right thing, but if it came down to it, I would help him study for a makeup test. And I’m making peanut butter cookies so when he comes in, he has something to make him happy, okay?”
Her mom rose from behind the desk and came to offer her a hug. “That sounds fine. I guess I’ll put my boots on and go on a Dusty hunt.”
“Look for the nearest set of kittens. The last batch we found are in the south corner of the loft,” Ginny suggested as they headed back to the kitchen and her mom began layering on outdoor gear. “Mom? What do you write in your journal?”
Deb adjusted her toque and pulled on warm winter gloves. “Memories. Joys and sorrows. Dreams. Sometimes I write the most outlandish thing that I possibly can, just to make myself smile.”
“Something absolutely wild and outrageous like Dad taking over the accounting books?”
Her mother laughed. “So disrespectful. No, but I do sometimes try to imagine the future.”
“The immediate future includes the heavenly scent of peanut butter cookies wrapping around you and your beloved son when you return from your quest,” Ginny said, offering a dramatic bow.
“I love you, kiddo. Now let me go find your brother.”
It was only one memory. Ginny had seen the journal many times over the years, at least the red one on the right that was bumped and banged and a little worn. The second one was identical, only the shine on the cover was still pristine, and instead of red, the cover was sky blue.
Ginny’s favourite colour.
She traced her fingers over them both, and a knot grew in her throat as she thought back to all the times and places she’d seen her mom holding it. Curled up in a chair by the fire. Sitting on the porch swing. Hanging out in the hayloft, the journal spread in her lap as she either wrote or read back over well-worn pages.
Oh, dear God, Ginny was going to cry again. At least this time there was no one around to witness as she lifted the little piece of the past and cradled it carefully.
A sticky note that had lost all its stick fluttered to the bedspread beside Ginny’s hip.
All it said was 2 of 3.
Ginny opened the red journal in the hopes there would be some further explanation. Another folded note addressed to her in her mother’s clear beautiful handwriting waited between the pages.
You’re always asking what I’m writing in my journal, so as your second present on this milestone birthday, I’m going to show you.
* * *
This is a loan, mind you. Some of what’s written in these pages is very personal, to me and to others, but I trust you to keep the things private that should remain that way. But I’m also trusting you to share what should be shared when and if appropriate.
* * *
I suppose it’s a bit old-fashioned and slightly misogynistic to automatically think you should someday become the family record keeper. That chore seems to typically fall to the women, but I never complained because it’s something I enjoy. I hope it’s something you do as well.