The Delivery of Decor (Shiloh Ridge Ranch in Three Rivers #7) - Liz Isaacson Page 0,37

he didn’t have to hit the door to find the barn.

He stepped away from the corner of the house, his eyes searching the misty, snowy soup in front of him. Another step. Nothing. Then another.

He made sure to keep his feet moving in precisely the same direction as when he’d stepped away from the house. Finally, the shape of the swing set—which now had no swings—came into his view. He reached out and grabbed onto one of the poles and took another step. Then another.

He reached the back of the swing set. The shed was only a few more paces.

It was then that Ward realized he hadn’t brought a rope with him, and he’d have to make this blind trek on the way back too. It’s okay, he thought, stepping away from the swing set. Keep going. You’re almost there.

Almost there, almost there, almost there…

Chapter Twelve

Dot did shower, and the water rolled down her back nice and hot. She stayed in for a long time, and then she curled up in bed and called her mother. “There you are, honey,” her mom said. “I was hoping you’d call before too long.”

“You got my texts, right?” Dot asked. “I’m safe. I’m up at Shiloh Ridge.”

“Yes, yes,” Mom said. “I got them.”

“How are you and Dad?” Dot asked. “Did you lose power?”

“Only for about fifteen minutes,” Mom said, and she proceeded to say that Dad had roasted off four pounds of chicken breast before she could convince him that they weren’t going to lose everything in the freezer. “So we have shredded chicken for about an army.” She trilled out a laugh, and Dot smiled.

“You love shredded chicken tacos,” she said.

“I’m making chimichangas today,” she said. “It’s not very traditional, but I suppose it could be.”

“Why not?” Dot asked. “You’re from Mexico. I’m sure someone down there had chimichangas for Christmas dinner.” They laughed together, and Dot got an update on her father’s health. He’d been diagnosed with mild dementia earlier this year, but Dot hadn’t noticed any symptoms when she spent time with him. Mom had some good stories though, and the baking off of dozens of chicken breasts probably had something to do with his mental health.

“Have you talked to Tyson?” Mom asked. “Or Kassie?”

“Nope,” Dot said. “I called you first, Mom.” Her mom would like that, and Dot smiled as her mom told her that she was sure Dot’s siblings would love to hear from her. “We saw Ty last night. He brought over some hand warmers to appease your father.”

“During the storm?” Dot asked, shocked that Tyson would risk himself or his car for hand warmers.

“Yes,” she said. “It hadn’t gotten too bad yet.”

“Mom, it was bad at one o’clock when they rang the siren.”

Her mom said something else that didn’t really make sense to Dot, and then said, “The timer on the oven is going off. I have to go.”

“What are you cooking now?” Dot asked, but her Mom hung up a moment later. “Bye,” Dot said grumpily. “I love you too.”

She glared at her phone like it had cut them off and her scatterbrained mother hadn’t been behind the abrupt end to the call. Dot slid out of bed and got dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Thankfully, she’d only done one delivery before coming up to Shiloh Ridge, so her clothes weren’t visibly dirty. Didn’t mean they were clean, especially to Dot.

She rubbed her hair as dry as she could get it without an appliance and hung the towel on the back of the doorknob before going out into the living room again.

Ward wasn’t there, and Dot’s eyes immediately flew to the office. The door sat open today, and while the light pouring in the huge back windows wasn’t made of golden rays, it was definitely bright enough to see everything.

“Ward?” Dot called, glancing into the kitchen. His boots didn’t sit by the garage exit, and the house felt deathly still and far too quiet. She walked through the living room toward the office. The front door rattled in its battle against the storm outside, but Dot ignored it. Surely Ward would be sitting behind his computer, his earbuds in while he worked on his song.

He’d told her a month or two ago, when they’d still been dating, that he was writing his own tune, and that he sometimes recorded himself playing right into the computer. Then he’d cut the music and let a program write the specific music in bars and notes for him. Later, after