Thanks to caffeine, he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t nod off until the time he usually woke up. He slept until eight in the morning and in a panic, called her cell. He couldn’t have her beat him to the farm.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I slept a little late myself. I’m having breakfast with my mom and dad, then I’ll be headed your way. I won’t be there before ten.”

“Are you sure you remember where the farm is?”

“I’m sure,” she said, laughing. “Don’t rush me now. I’ll be coming when I’m done visiting with my parents.”

She was the bravest woman he’d ever met. Strong to the bone, that’s what Ginger was. She was the epitome of womanhood in his mind—after all she’d been through, after all she’d had to overcome, she could still be so sweet, so funny, so positive. Her scars were not thistles, they were velvet artwork on her heart.

In the whole of his extended family he could only remember the loss of one child, one of his distant cousins, an infant who had been born with serious birth defects and had lived only a year. Every woman in the family rushed to the young parents. They came from as far away as San Francisco and Reno with food and prayer beads. The Jews and sitting Shiva had nothing on these Basque women. But as far as he could recall, it was only that one time. And it was fated. The poor child had not been expected to live; a year had been a miracle.

Ginger faced her demons head-on. She even talked about it. Honestly. Matt hadn’t been able to do that yet. He was a master of evasion. I can’t explain, but I had to, he’d said. How flimsy. Ginger would wonder what kind of problem would cause a man who professed to put marriage and family first to turn and walk away. But she hadn’t even questioned him.

He sat on the front porch steps, waiting for her. Just like a kid waiting for the Easter Bunny.

She finally pulled up in her well-used gray Audi. She stepped out and gave him a little wave. He took a deep breath and smiled; she was just about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. She wore a lacy sundress that fell below the knee. On her feet were knee-high boots and she wore a blue denim jacket. Her blond hair lifted in the breeze. It curled a little today, like maybe she hadn’t straightened it out with the blow dryer or something. He wanted to grab her up in his arms and smother her with kisses.

“Hi,” she said. “You’re a little impatient, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t want you waiting for me. That would be bad manners. Want to see the chicks first?”

“Shouldn’t I say hello to your mother?”

“They’re not back from morning mass yet, but the house is already full of good smells.” He looked her up and down. “Why don’t I go get the Rhino?”

“The what?”

“It’s like a mini-Jeep—gets us around the farm. You’re too pretty to tromp through a farm.”

“These are my most comfortable, toughest boots. I’m prepared to tromp.”

Not like Natalie, is she? he thought. She’d show up in her fancy heels and he could tell his mother was biting her tongue against asking what she used for a brain. It was a farm, not a runway.

“And the dress?”

“Not new. Very durable. Come on, let’s go.”

He kept his hands in his pockets because he really wanted to hold her for a minute. Oh, hell, he wanted to make out for an hour or three. He’d wanted to kiss her last night, even though her ex-husband sang her a love song, even though she talked about her misfortunes and how she struggled to get beyond it all. But he had put her in her car to leave without taking any chances.

They walked to the coop where a few broody hens were keeping a lot of chicks warm, but the chicks were a couple of weeks old and were peeping and climbing all over the hens and each other.

“There must be two dozen!” she said.

“Adoption,” he said. “Sometimes my mother will just let them hatch, sometimes she’ll take delivery of some new chicks and if she has a broody hen, slide them under the hen at night when she’s docile and most of the time the hen will take over. A good broody hen can sit on ten eggs or chicks. Sometimes she incubates a couple dozen and either tries an adoption or keeps them in the brooder—it’s a pen—until they’re bigger and can fend for themselves. I’d take one out for you to hold but broody hens are a little temperamental and you don’t want me pecked.”

“Thus, the term ‘henpecked,’” she said.

“It’s no laughing matter. Once they’re big, it’s pretty communal. You have to remember, these hens are here to work and these chicks are being raised to lay eggs, then they’re dinner.”

“You’re just trying to shock me,” she accused. “I do understand where the chicken breasts I buy come from.”

After she sighed and fussed over their cuteness, he told her they should go see the lambs. “George has the lambs. It’s almost a mile. Should I get the Rhino?”

“Not for me,” she said. “Lead the way. Unless you’re in a hurry?”

“I have all day, Ginger. But some women don’t enjoy plodding through a pasture or orchard.”

“I don’t have all day,” she said with a laugh. “I have a four-hour drive ahead. But there’s no rush.” Then she drew in a deep breath. “Does it seem like the air is fresher here, on the farm?”

“There are still some blossoms and other flowers,” he said. “There’s also fertilizer and droppings, so watch your step in your comfortable boots.”

He walked beside her, shortening his stride so she wouldn’t have to jog to keep up. She brought up the prior evening and how awkward it was that they were all there alone and yet ended up being a group of exes. You couldn’t plan something like that.

“Are you anxious to get back to Thunder Point?” he asked.

“To my friends and the shop and Ray Anne, yes, always. It turned out to be such a good move for me. And believe me, I was against it from the start. I just wanted to be left alone.”

“But you did it,” he said. Impulsively, he reached for her hand, holding it. “You picked yourself up and made yourself do it. I think maybe you’re the strongest person I know.”

“No,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. “Not me.”