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count (I fell out of trees a lot before Lyon introduced me to horses). But doctors mean trouble. Lyon should know this.
    He focuses on his boots, kneads his forehead. “I know it’s tough seeing G.D. sick.”
    â€œHe’s not sick!” The words shoot out of my mouth, sharper than I mean them to be. I throw the peppers into the pan, stir them so hard that pieces of beef fly out, land in splats onto the counter.
    â€œDill, Doc Kerring needs to get a look at G.D.” Lyon pauses. “You might as well know that he may want G.D. to go to the hospital for some tests.”
    I glare at Lyon over my shoulder. He knows that even the thought of a hospital and tests scrapes the insides of my ears, sours my stomach. “No.” My voice busts out loud and startling. I turn back to the chili, grabbing a can of beans and the electric can opener. “He’s not going to any hospital,” I remind him, my throat tight, restrained. “He promised me that he wouldn’t.”
    â€œDill…”
    The grind of the can opener chews up Lyon’s words.
    When it finally stops, he clears his throat, sounding impatient. “Dill, I know it’s been a rough year, especially the last nine months, but you have to deal with…”
    My hands slam the can to the counter. The thud is startling. My heart is galloping. Beneath it, sadness escapes the jar deep in my core. The ache swells up and wraps around my insides until my breathing becomes short and ragged.
    â€œDill, you can’t spend the rest of your life avoiding certain words. You can’t keep avoiding visiting her grave.”
    â€œSTOP!” My scream about shakes the ranch as my fingers torpedo into my ears. A tidal wave of a sob wells up into my chest.
    My legs take me out of the kitchen, through the family room and back doorway. I fly across the yard, wishing with everything I have that Dead End has come home.

CHAPTER 4
    NEIGHBORS AND FARMERS
    The sweet smell of flour, milk, and eggs near knocks me flat as I step into the kitchen. It’s the first time in a long while that I’ve smelled breakfast when I haven’t cooked it. G.D. has never gone near ovens. And Lyon hasn’t opened a carton of pancake batter in months. Up until now, I figured he’d forgotten how to use a pan, and wouldn’t recognize a spatula if it slapped him between the eyes. But delicious smells don’t lie.
    â€œMorning, girl.” G.D. leans on a counter, winks at me.
    I smile at him as the breakfast smells take me back to special times when Mom, Lyon, and I began each day together around the kitchen table, G.D. joining us whenever he visited. Mom used to say how she loved starting her day watching Lyon and G.D. smile and listen to me chatter like a mockingbird gone amuck while we all inhaled her amazing blueberry, banana, or chocolate chip muffins—made from scratch, when Lyon didn’t pour pancakes.
    When Lyon went to work and I went to school, or off to ride at the stable, G.D. and Mom would sit longer, drinking coffee and talk, talk, talking for hours, especially after Mom got sick and found it hard to get up the energy to garden, clean the ranch, and take care of her animals.
    Even now I still catch myself half-expecting to see her by the stove, her long hair piled on top of her head, the way she wore it while cooking.
    â€œHope you’re hungry.” G.D. straightens. “Lyon made a mountain of pancakes before he left for the store this morning.”
    â€œFrom the batter that comes in a carton, I bet.” Lyon doesn’t know how to make anything but pancakes from a container. Mom tried to teach him how to cook more, until he near burned the house down. After that, she didn’t let him near our oven, something I used to be able to tease him about.
    That’s why, for the last six months, I’ve been the muffin baker. Mom fussed some about this, the way she did whenever I cooked or cleaned too