Inheriting the Farmhouse

The house could either bring them together—or divide them for good.

Belle never wanted Havenwood Farm, but inheriting it after her grandfather's death means she's forced back to a place she vowed to leave behind.

Her plan? Attend the funeral, sell the farm, and leave.

But on her first night back, a reckless kiss with a handsome cowboy flips her world upside down. That cowboy? None other than Luke, her grandfather’s trusted farmhand.

Luke learns of Belle's plan to sell the farm—the very land he calls home. He’s not about to let it go without a fight, and he’s certainly not letting her go either.

Luke embodies everything Belle ran from three years ago. Her heart's still mending from the past, and getting close to him risks shattering it all over again. She’s determined to sell the farmhouse, even if it means losing the cowboy who's capturing her heart, piece by piece.

If you like the heartwarming, small-town feel of Jessie Gussman and the enthralling romance of Liz Isaacson, then you’ll devour this addictively moving series.

Buy INHERITING THE FARMHOUSE, book one in Catelyn Meadows’ latest cowboy romance series, to enter this charming, quaint town today!

Chapter One

I must’ve been delusional. There was no other word for it. For why I was in my best friend’s van right now, heading toward my least favorite place in the continental U.S.

Make that my least favorite place in the world.

Not that I’d been to that many cities, but if I ever did become a world traveler, Bridgewater, Idaho, would still rank as Worst Town in Existence.

And I was coming back to it.

What was I thinking?

I told Aunt Sarah I’d come for the funeral—I mean, of course, I would. But that meant—

I closed my eyes, blocking out the passing farmland on both sides of Bex’s minivan, and reached for the side of the torn leather seat. I needed something I could hold onto.

“Something wrong?” Bex asked. Her steady hands guided the wheel, and though my eyes were closed, I knew she slipped a quick glance in my direction.

The last time I’d seen my high school best friend, Bex had had a rounded belly and a toddler on her hip. Now, we were making for town to pick up that toddler from flag football practice, the baby was jabbering from the backseat about preschool and what she’d played during rug time, and a new baby whose cheeks I couldn’t wait to squish babbled nonsense in return.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I told her, exhaling slowly through a small opening in my lips, praying the constant, controlled breaths would do their part and tell my heart to get a grip.

“Funerals are tough,” Bex said, passing the green road sign announcing the exit toward Bridgewater was in one mile.

One mile. The sight flared the flame already imposing on my lungs.

Though I’d been in a car thousands of times before, no matter whose it was, the frame had never closed on me like this before. And yet the framework supporting the windshield and keeping it a reasonable distance from where I sat seemed to bend closer, encroaching on my personal space and my sanity.

I braced a hand against the van’s upper structure as Bex signaled, slowed, and took the unwanted exit.

“Belle?” Bex said.

The stop sign was nearing. Beats pounded in my throat. Road sounds crashed, filling my ears with uproarious sound, and I couldn’t breathe.

“Stop the car,” I pleaded, as calmly as I could manage, though it still didn’t mask the struggle in my tone. “Bex, please. Stop the car.”

She pulled off onto the safety zone within the roadside’s white line, and I bolted out, swallowing the cool fall air, and willing it to clear the cotton suffocating my brain and my airways.

The familiar Idaho countryside swept before me. Sunflowers danced wild and carefree, bowing to the warm October breeze. Sunlight blazed orange, and I reached for that light, for the comfort it promised, even as I bent to rest my hands on my knees.

“What’s wrong with Auntie Belle?” Bex’s three-year-old daughter asked from her seat.

I closed my eyes. In my panic attack, I hadn’t thought to close the car door behind me.

“Why did we stop, Mommy?”

“I’ll be right back,” Bex replied circumspectly.

Clicking sounds followed, and as the van was still running, the driver car door made several repetitive binging sounds before her feet crunched the gravel beside me.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I stared at the sun, wishing it could burn me up, wishing whatever outside source was pressing against my skull would ease up already.

“Is this the first time you’ve been back since—?” She didn’t finish, and I was glad.

If I could barely handle returning to Bridgewater, period, I sure as the blue sky couldn’t handle talking about why.

All I could do was nod.

Bex chewed her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry,” she said, sounding genuine and just a little bit lost. “I’m no expert on PTSD, but some time has passed since it happened.
Maybe this is good for you. I’ve heard facing your fears helps to ease them. Making yourself face this could be the best thing for you."

I knew she meant well, but that couldn’t be right.

According to my body, confronting pain was only making that pain worse.

My heart was a dull ache. Anxiety had taken place of my bloodstream, shooting my veins with stalwart fear and stubbornness and the certainty that walls were closing in even though there were none.

“I can’t do this,” I said.