Chapter 84
84
Hudson
The sun isn’t even up yet, but the farm is alive.
I head toward the barn, the morning air biting at my skin.
Dad’s already there, of course, waiting like he’s been up for hours.
Most likely, he has.
He always beats me to it, no matter how early I get out of bed.
The man is a legend.
Too bad the farm hasn’t been profitable enough for him to retire yet or that he won’t let me help, because when I see him here, at this insanely early hour, I want to beg him to take my money.
His hands are currently wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, steam curling into the crisp air.
“Look who finally decided to join the party,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar mix of humor and pride.
“First off. It’s too early to make jokes.” I smirk, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Also, you could’ve—you know . . . waited for me.”
“Not my style,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Ready to get to it?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I roll up my sleeves.
Today is going to suck.
But I wouldn’t miss this.
It’s worth it to spend time with Dad.
Working with Dad was my dream a long time ago. If it weren’t for hockey, I’d probably be doing it.
I’d be happy doing it too.
Because out there, it’s just Dad and me.
Dad climbs into the cab of the combine.
Once he’s seated, he settles into the driver’s seat.
I take my place beside the auger cart, ready to guide the process.
“Remember the first time I let you help with the harvest?” Dad asks over the noise.
I shake my head in jest. Of course, I do. “Yeah, and you yelled at me for almost running over your boots.”
“You were so scrawny back then,” he says with a chuckle. “Could barely lift a bag of beans without tipping over.”
“Hey, I’ve bulked up.” I flex.
He laughs, the sound warm and familiar.
It reminds me of why I love this place.
Even if it interferes with the beginning of the hockey season.
The morning flies by as we work.
Sweat drips down my back, and my hands ache.
I don’t mind, though.
“All right, switch.”
I shake my head, wiping the sweat from my forehead. “I’ve got it. Take a break.”
“Hudson,” he says, giving me a look. “I can handle it.”
“And I can handle it better,” I shoot back. “Go sit down. Drink some water. I’ll finish this pass.”
He hesitates, but eventually, he nods. “Fine.”
“Thanks, old man.” I climb into the cab.
“Who are you calling old man?”
I smile while pointing at him before setting back to work.
Everything is running smoothly until it isn’t.
The machine jerks suddenly.
A loud, sickening screech fills the air.
I slam the brakes.
“What the fuck?” I climb down to see what the hell is going on.
The auger is jammed.
I crouch down, trying to get a better look.
“Hudson.” Dad jogs over. “What’s going on?”
“Auger’s jammed.” I point at the mess. “I’ll clear it out.”
“Wait.” He frowns. “We should call someone. That’s not safe.”
“I’m not calling anyone,” I say firmly. “It’ll take too long. I’ve got it.”
“Hudson.” His voice is low and serious. “You’re not supposed to be doing this kind of work. Your contract—”
“I know what my contract says,” I snap. “But we have no choice.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
“Just keep an eye on the controls,” I say.
The space inside is tight and hard to maneuver.
Sweat drips into my eyes.
I’m almost done when it happens. The machine jolts.
Pain explodes through my wrist.
My vision blurs for a moment.
Fuck.
The pain is unbearable.
“Hudson!” Dad’s voice is panicked, but I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears.
I pull back, cradling my wrist as I stumble out of the auger.
Blood drips onto the dirt, the bright red stark against the pale dust.
“Shit,” I mutter, my knees buckling.
Dad’s there in an instant, his hands on my shoulders as he helps me sit down. “Let me see.”
I hold out my arm, and his face pales when he sees my wrist.
There’s blood everywhere.
Shit.
This is bad.
“Dammit, Hudson,” he says, his voice shaking. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I didn’t want you doing it,” I say through gritted teeth.
He grabs his phone. “We need to get you to the house.”
The walk back to the house is a blur. By the time we reach the porch, I’m sure I’ll pass out.
“Mary!” Dad calls, his voice urgent.
The living room is quiet.
This is hell.
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
I sit on the couch holding a towel to my arm.
This is bad.
The blood is soaking through.
This is really bad.
I try to keep my face neutral, but it’s damn near impossible.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Mom’s voice rises as she paces the room, her hands fluttering uselessly.
“Mom, I’m fine.” My tight voice betrays me. I’m not fine. I’m in a fuck load of pain.
“Fine?” She spins toward me. “You’re bleeding all over my floor, Hudson.”
“What happened?” Molly asks. Shit, when did she come into the room?
She’s the last person I want to see me like this.
All eyes snap to her. No one speaks.
“He-he got hurt. The auger jammed, and he—” Dad finally says.
“I tried to fix it.” Not that I think anyone will care right now. But for some reason, I feel defensive.
“You what?” Her eyes narrow as she stares me down.
“It isn’t a big deal.” I try to shrug but end up wincing. Real smooth, Wilde.
Goddamn, that hurts.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” she repeats, her voice rising, “yet you’re sitting here bleeding like you’re the star of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre ?”
“Hex, please,” I say softly, trying to calm her down. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” Her green eyes blaze. “You need a doctor.”
“I can’t,” I say firmly, meeting her gaze.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
I glance at Dad, then back at her. “It’s against my contract,” I admit, my voice low. “If the team finds out I was doing farm work, I could lose my job.”
Her eyes widen, and she blinks at me, trying to process what I’ve just said. “Your contract forbids you from . . . what? Doing anything useful?”
“Anything dangerous,” I correct, glaring at her like it’s a perfectly reasonable clause.
“And this qualifies,” Dad mutters.
Molly lets out a frustrated breath. She’s quiet for a moment before running her hands through her hair. “Okay, so what’s the plan, then? Because you can’t just sit here bleeding out.”
“We’ll clean it up and wrap it properly,” Mom says. “Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
I clench my jaw, looking away. She doesn’t need to know how bad it is.
“It’s deep,” Mom admits quietly. “He needs stitches.”
“And we’re just . . . not going to do that?” Molly sounds pissed.
“We can’t.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “If I go to a hospital, they’ll ask questions.”
“Hudson, this isn’t just about you. If this gets infected—”
“It won’t,” I say, cutting her off. “We’ll take care of it.”
She glares at me. “This is ridiculous.”
“And risk my contract?” I say through gritted teeth as my mom cleans the wound with antiseptic. “No way.”
“You’re risking your life instead,” she snaps. “Great. Just great.”
“I’m not risking anything,” I grit out through the pain. “I need this job, Molly.”
The words hang heavy in the air.
“This is not okay,” Molly says.
“No, it’s not,” I admit, my voice softening.
She doesn’t say anything to that; she just focuses on holding my arm steady while Mom works.
Once the wound is cleaned and wrapped, I lean back in the chair.
I feel like shit. Everything hurts.
“All right,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “What’s next?”
“Next?” Molly repeats, crossing her arms. “Next is figuring out how you’re going to hide this from the team.”
“I have two weeks before practice starts,” I say. “I’ll keep it covered, take it easy, and hope for the best.”
“Hope for the best?” she practically growls. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s worked so far,” I say with a faint smirk.
She glares at me, her frustration bubbling over. “Hudson, this isn’t a game. If the team finds out—”
“They won’t.” My voice is firm. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t.
I wish she understood.
This isn’t just about pride. It’s about survival—for me and for my family.
“Fine,” she says finally, her voice tight. “But if anything gets worse, you’re going to a doctor. Contract or no contract.”
“Deal,” I say, though we both know I don’t mean it.
For now, that’s enough.
After a minute, she breaks the silence. “Why did you do it?”
I open my eyes, meeting her glare. “Would you rather I let my dad do it?”
Her expression softens. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, sitting down beside me.
“As you’ve told me many times.” I grin despite the pain.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
“I’ll try not to.” I rest my head against the back of the couch.
As the exhaustion pulls me under, I feel her hand brush lightly against mine. When she touches me like this the pain doesn’t seem so bad.