But I can’t complain. I certainly wasn’t neglected growing up. I had three brothers to chase after and always was the apple of my daddy’s eye. “We’ll see you later, then, and don’t rush your meal. We’ll be here when you return.”

I pocket the cell phone in my snug-fitting jeans and push through the screen door to step into the yard. Now that I’m back on the ranch, I wear only jeans, T-shirts, and boots, which makes getting dressed every morning easy.

The heels of my cowboy boots sink in the muddy drive as I walk from the shade of the house into the sun. We’ve had a few days of rain, which is good for the land but not so great for the property. The driveway is more mud than gravel these days, and the mud sticks to everything.

The Sleepy Acre Ranch hasn’t changed since I was a little girl. Pop never saw the point of spending money to fix up the house or yard—this is a working cattle ranch, after all—and when Brick married Charlotte twenty-five years ago, they built their own house on our family ranch, and that’s where Charlotte’s energy and design skills go.

Now kicking around the scraggly front yard, I wonder yet again how I could have thought the answer to our problems was moving back home.

How could I have imagined that Parkfield, Texas, population sixty-seven, would solve anything?

But then I am a Texas girl, born and raised on our ranch—literally born on the ranch, since for the birth of her fourth baby, Mama didn’t even bother going to the hospital—and when I came home last June for Cody’s funeral, I felt better than I had in a long time. I’m crazy about all the fields and oak trees and big sky, and I love the relaxed pace as well. Even the boys seemed happy to be out of New York, and they’re East Coast, private-school-educated, field-hockey-and-lacrosse-playing kids.

But three months into our new “adventure,” I’m beginning to question my impulsive decision to relocate us all here. Cooper has settled in fine, but Bo and Hank are struggling. They miss their friends and their sports—no one here plays lacrosse or field hockey—and I can’t help wondering if maybe I shouldn’t move us back to New York.

But my husband, John, is in New York. And John’s no longer in love with me. He’s living with his new partner—a man—and I can compete with another woman, but how on earth do I compete with a man for my husband’s affections?

I can’t.

My heart sinks and I dig the toe of my beat-up boot into the mud, watching the reddish brown earth ooze around the scuffed, pointed tip.

We would have been married seventeen years this year. I was happy with him. We’d had a good marriage, and at times a great marriage, until this.

I’ve known for nine months now that John’s in love with someone else, but it’s still bigger than I can get my head around. I’m mad. Confused. But maybe the worst part is that I still love John. I don’t know how to stop loving him. Don’t know if I should. I don’t want a divorce, but I sure don’t want to share him. Thus, we’ve filed for divorce, but it all feels so hideously wrong.

The phone in my pocket vibrates and I fish it out, grateful for the distraction, and see Marta’s name and number. Marta. One of my buds. “Hey, Ta,” I say, taking Marta’s call. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Eva’s at a birthday party and the other three are all napping, so I thought I’d call you, check in, see how things are going.”

Marta’s one of my two best friends from boarding school. We met in Monterey, California, when we were attending St.