guy of my father’s choosing, but I couldn’t come up with one. Reputation meant everything to my father’s business—just a small PR faux pas could be the difference between a major movie deal or a contract with top talent.
An engine gunned loudly in the distance, and I saw a motorcycle passing through the gates. I’d never seen a delivery guy on a motorcycle. A bike? Occasionally, but a pitch-black motorcycle that you could hear from half a mile away? No way.
He sped all the way to the end of the drive until he spun to a stop in front of the house. Thankfully he hadn’t left a mark on the cement, because Mr. Rush would have had his head on a platter. He pulled the helmet off and shook out his dark, shaggy hair. His brown eyes collided with mine, full of intensity.
I stumbled back, caught off guard by the strength in his gaze. The corner of his lips lifted in a smirk before he turned his back to me and began unzipping the insulated bag on the back of his bike.
It gave me just enough time to lift my chin, square my shoulders, and walk toward him.
Only a few feet stood between us when he turned back around, and I was ready for the impact of his gaze this time. He flicked his eyes lazily over me, lingering on my curves, and a chill went through me. Something told me it wasn’t related to the crisp spring air.
“Here you go.” He handed me the bag, and my fingers brushed his fingerless gloves in the transfer.
He was different from what I spent every day around—preppy boys with six-figure cars and seven-figure egos.
“See you around,” he said, lifting his leg over his bike and gunning the engine.
As he drove away, one thought ran through my mind: I hoped he was right.
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Author’s Note
This book has nearly eighty thousand words of heart and soul crammed into it. So much of Ginger’s story is my own—loving younger siblings with all your heart, the struggle of choosing who you are with so many voices, and falling in love with agriculture.
I grew up on a farm where I could hear cattle mooing each morning and could smell the silage going into the feed bunks. The world was my back yard and I could explore and play to my heart’s content—as long as all of the work was done.
I loved going to work cattle and the way dust rolled in through open windows as we drove the pasture. I loved calving season when we could bring calves into the kitchen to make sure they were well fed and cared for if their mothers didn’t make it. I loved laying out salt licks for them to get their minerals in or listening to a horse slurp at a fresh tank of water.
But the older I got, the smaller the farm began to feel. Instead of having endless space to explore, I realized there was a world out there with different people, different beliefs, differing sights and sounds and smells and colors than those I had always known. I learned there were people out there vehemently against what my family did every single day.
When I went to college and studied abroad in the Czech Republic, I was as far away from the farm as I’d ever been. Stripped of everything I’d ever been, I was forced to take a hard look at who I was. Who I wanted to be. Did I want to be an adversary or a friend?
In this story, Ray has strong beliefs about ranching and farming, and so does Ginger’s mom. (Isn’t it funny how we fall for people like our parents?) They both had a decision to make: do we let someone who believes differently from us sit at the family table? Do we protect our beliefs more than someone’s humanity?
Ginger in this story is everything I strive to be—she’s open and honest and curious. Instead of listening to one voice in her head, she opened herself up to the truth. She questioned what she’d always known and discovered her own truth along the way.
Are there some areas in your life you’ve been protecting your beliefs more than the truth? What might happen if you took the chance, just like Ray, to invite someone