There was nothing like the smell of home. The Flying Cross Ranch smelled of fresh-cut grass, of turned earth laced with manure. Joe’s nostrils flared as he took in the familiar scent. He opened his mouth so that he could gulp down lungfuls of the stuff. It was the smell of belonging, the scent of security, the knowledge that he was safe in this place.
In his younger years, his sense of smell had been his first defense. Clean smells were far and few between. Joe had spent the first part of his life sleeping on lumpy mattresses that had sometimes been used as toilets. He’d hid in corners that smelled of rotted food. He’d cowered in closets of unwashed clothes.
Joe knew he was made out of love. The letter from his dead mother told him so. He could only just barely remember her face. Her blo
