Mindy Obenhaus - Their Ranch Reunion

“Not yet.” Carly set her bag atop the dining room table. “I’d like to see the kitchen.”

“Let’s do that tomorrow. It’s getting dark outside anyway, so you won’t be able to see much.”

Leaving her bag behind, she took several determined steps toward him and stopped. “I want to see it. Now.”

Chapter Five

Talking tough was one thing. Putting words into action was another. And try as she might, Carly couldn’t persuade her feet to move across the wooden floorboards of her dining room. Still, she had to do this, had to see her kitchen, because not knowing left far too much to the imagination.

She drew in a bolstering breath, the sickening smell of smoke turning her stomach. At least her great-grandmother’s dining room set and sideboard had been spared, as had the antique pieces in the parlor and her bedroom. Her gaze traveled to the opening that separated the dining room from the kitchen. Based on the charred swinging door, she doubted things on the other side of the wall had fared so well.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” The uncertainty in Andrew’s voice only solidified her determination.

“Yes.” She eyed her daughter. “Megan, you stay with Andrew.”

Willing one foot in front of the other, she eased toward the kitchen door, her mouth dry. Her heart thudded against her chest as though it were looking for escape.

The closer she drew to the kitchen, the more bleak things became. She reached out a steadying hand, only to have her fingers brush across the scorched casing that surrounded the door. Trim that was original to the house, now burned and blackened. And she had yet to see the worst of it.

Two more steps and she rounded into the kitchen. She clicked on the flashlight Andrew had given her.

Her heart, which had been beating wildly only seconds ago, skidded to a stop. The space was almost unrecognizable. Soot-covered paint peeled away from the walls, dangling in pathetic strips. Floors and countertops were littered with water-soaked ash and all kinds of matter she couldn’t begin to identify or explain. She always kept a clean kitchen, so how could—?

Looking up, she realized the ceiling was gone. Over a hundred years of drywall, plaster and who knew what else now strewn across the room, exposing the still-intact floor joists of the bedroom above.

How could she have been so careless? This would take forever to fix. Where would she even begin?

The once dark stained cabinets that Carly had painted white shortly after taking over the house were blistered and burned. The butcher-block island top, salvaged from the original kitchen, had met a similar fate.

Noting her commercial range at the far end of the room, she tiptoed across the wet floor, tears welling as she ran her hand over the soot-covered stainless steel. It had been only two months since she’d paid it off.

“Mommy?”

She blinked hard and fast. She couldn’t let Megan see her like this.

Turning, she saw her daughter standing in the doorway, lip quivering, holding up a blackened, half-melted blob of blue-and-white fur.

A sob caught in Carly’s throat. Boo Bunny, Megan’s favorite stuffed animal. The one her father had given her, the one she still slept with every night.

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