and her sisters, Rowena and Bree, had rarely been part of all that. In fact, she used to watch those mischievous kids and wonder where they got the courage to be so naughty. Didn’t their fathers have tempers, too?
Their fathers...
She knew she ought to go to the ranch. Or at least by her new duplex.
But she knew she wasn’t ready. It didn’t make any sense, but she needed more time to come to terms with being in Silverdell again—and with the big changes that were coming.
It didn’t help to remind herself that they were changes she’d wanted. Changes she’d chosen. Suddenly the changes seemed more than “big.” They seemed crazy. Risky. Terrifying.
Annoyed with herself, but unable to break through the emotional paralysis, she found a parking space and headed into the ice-cream shop. She was hungry and nervous. Even before she had grown a full set of teeth she’d learned that a banana split could make everything better.
Her father and Ruth would both have been horrified—ice cream before lunch? Instead of lunch? But they weren’t here. And she wasn’t a child. Surely this one tiny act of independent thinking wasn’t too much for her, even today.
Baby steps.
“Hey!” The string-bean-shaped young man behind the counter tossed down his magazine and stood at attention, apparently delighted to see her. The shop was empty, so maybe he really was. “What can I get you?”
She glanced at the calligraphy on the menu over his head. “I’d love a banana split. Double whipped cream.”
“Awesome!” He grinned as if she’d said the magic words and began pulling out ingredients. “It’s getting nippy out, and we don’t get much business once it turns cold. We sell hot chocolate, but it takes a lot of hot chocolates to pay the rent, you know?”
She smiled, thinking how close her calculations had been when she decided how much rent she’d need to ask for the other side of her new duplex.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”
“About a hundred million,” the young man said, inserting his knife into a banana as carefully as if he were performing surgery. “Plus, there’s no art to making a cup of cocoa. Not like a good banana split.” He arranged the slices into the curved boat, tossing away a couple of bruised bits. “Now this is something you can get creative with.”
A warmhearted ice-cream artist who worried about making the rent but couldn’t force himself to serve a bruised banana. She made a mental note to come in as often as she could. Her sweet tooth didn’t know seasons.
She smiled. See? She hadn’t taken a single bite, and she was already feeling better.
“Go ahead and grab a seat,” he said. “I’m Danny. This is my shop. I’ll make you something special, and bring it to you.”
She arranged herself by the window, dropped her purse on the other side of the table and pulled out her legal pad and pen. Maybe if she worked on her list, she would retrieve her courage, and she could head to Bell River.
She flipped over a couple of pages, filled to the margins with practical information about who to call if the water wasn’t hooked up, or the electricity went wonky. All that was important, but not right now.
The third page... That’s the one that mattered. She tapped her pen against her lips and read what she’d written so far.
The Risk-it List.
The very words looked good, in her favorite turquoise ink, against the yellow lined paper. Last night, when she’d stopped—not wanting to arrive in Silverdell after dark—she had worked on the list. Right before she fell asleep, she’d doodled a small bluebird in the upper right corner of her paper.
The bluebird of happiness. That’s what Ro used to call it. Ro and Bree used to take Penny “hunting” in the woods, with butterfly nets that supposedly were magical, nets that could catch the bluebird that would make everything at Bell River right.
Obviously, they’d never captured one. But Penny had drawn birds, photographed them, been fascinated by them, ever since. This one was fat and contented, and smiled at the list below him.
The Risk-it List. She’d decided it should be twelve items long. She had six entries so far, and two check marks.
Sell town house. Check.
Buy place in Silverdell— Don’t let Bree and Ro overrule. Don’t tell Bree and Ro until purchase complete! Check.
Host a party...wearing a costume.
Learn to juggle.
Learn to dance.
Cut hair.
Seven...Seven...
Penny chewed on the end of her pen—a habit she’d never been able to break—and tried to make up her mind what number seven should be.
Ben had been right, of course. When the shock of the wasp spray incident had worn off, a strange pride took its place. She felt empowered. Why shouldn’t she? She’d prevailed over a big, hulking intruder. She might have been terrified, but she hadn’t panicked. She’d kept her head, and she’d driven him away—without anyone getting seriously hurt.
She’d decided that very day to start the list. And before any doubt could set in, she’d accomplished numbers one and two. Sell the town house—almost frighteningly easy. And buy a small house in Silverdell—much scarier, as she didn’t have time to see it for herself but had to trust Jenny Gladiola, Silverdell’s longtime real estate agent.
But she’d accomplished both, and now here she was, less than three miles from Bell River Ranch. Here to stay. Here to call Silverdell home again, after all these years.
A shiver passed through her. Thanks to Jenny’s discretion, no one in the family yet knew she was in town. Jenny had been a Dellian real estate agent forever, and she’d kept her career flourishing, through good markets and bad, by knowing how to keep her mouth shut.
For now Penny was safe. However, telling Bree and Rowena absolutely had to be next.
Her sisters had been begging her for months to come live at the dude ranch with them. They could use the help, they said. They needed an art teacher, they said. But she knew the truth—they were worried about her. They wanted to slip her into their nest, straight from the nest Ruth had kept her in.
No one wanted her to learn to fly.
But, by golly, she was going to learn anyhow.
So...back to the Risk-it List. What should number seven be? She had to pick very carefully. After the two big jolts of selling the town house and buying the duplex, she wanted the rest of the list to be relatively easy. She’d tackle a few of her phobias—but she wouldn’t set herself up for failure. No wrestling pythons in the rain forest or taking a commercial shuttle to the space station.
Just juggling, costumes, kissing...
Ben would laugh. He was much more the space station type. She’d decided not to call hers a bucket list. It sounded
