Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Not to worry,” I tell our cranky neighbor, Mr. Feeny. “We’ll take care of it.”
“Give Louisa my regards,” he replies before hanging up.
I pull on my Stetson and step into my chore boots, then hurry out the door. The snow from this morning is melting fast, creating the kind of thick, sticky mud that acts like glue.
I feel very far away from Florida right now. And it’s not just the weather.
Seeing my strong, hardworking mom in a hospital bed, knowing that she’s suffering was bad enough, but seeing Ava again…
After grabbing a halter and lead from the barn, I continue past the greenhouse to the gate then jog across the road to Mr. Feeny’s orchards, where one of Mom’s boarders is busy strip mining a row of apple tree seedlings.
The Appaloosa lifts his head, his big jaws working a mouthful of greens. If he’s surprised to see me, his big, docile eyes don’t show it.
“Okay, big guy,” I say, stroking his strong neck. “Snack time’s over. Let’s go home.”
He lets me slip the halter on, and with a click of my tongue and a slight tug on the lead rope, he turns from the row of eviscerated baby apple trees. I promised Mr. Feeny I would replace them, and I will.
First, I need to get my bearings.
After leading Caspar across the road and back into his paddock, I double check the gate so he can’t get loose again, then start the long list of chores. Mom’s black Labrador, Toby, accompanies me like a shadow, his tail wagging. Together we feed Mom’s horses and the six “guest” horses plus the rest of the animals, collect the eggs, and muck the barn. I’m just heading into the greenhouse when my sister Beth pulls up in the compact silver Honda I helped her buy two years ago, her blasting rock music going silent with the engine when she stops next to Mom’s truck.
She takes one look at me, then jumps out, dressed in a short jeans skirt with a ragged hem, teal cowboy boots, and a shirt that could be a bandana—or wait, is it? Her light brown hair is tied back in a high ponytail, with loose tendrils framing her face, and her eyelashes are thick and dark, making her look much older than nineteen.
“It’s forty degrees,” I say. “Where’s your coat?” What I really want to say is where’s the rest of your skirt but it might be better to work up to that.
She lifts the bag of groceries from the trunk and gives me a subtle arch of her brow. “Look who’s gotten soft. Forty’s downright balmy.”
She marches past me to the house.
Do I detect a sassy sway in her hips as she climbs the porch steps?
A headache starts tapping at the base of my skull. I continue to the greenhouse, but inside I’m surprised to find a long row of plywood boxes dedicated to chick-rearing complete with heat lamps. The blast of cold air from outside and my heavy steps wakes the chicks, little brown and yellow fluffballs, who start peeping and darting around.
Good grief. There must be a hundred of them.
I close my eyes and stifle a groan.
Who thought this would be a good idea? Baby chicks are fragile and require extra care. The horses and goats can get by for a day alone in a pinch—not counting our escape artist, Caspar—but chicks need steady monitoring. And once they start dust bathing at five weeks, they’ll need a new place to live or the fine particles of sawdust and poop will settle all over everything. Just thinking about it makes me tired.
Beth slips in behind me. “Aren’t they cute?”
“No.”
“Jeez, grumpy much?”
I’m encouraged that she’s changed into jeans and a fleece pullover and redone her hair in a braid. This is the sister I remember.
While Beth tends to the baby chicks, I take a quick tour of the crops growing in the stripes of dark dirt along the opposite side and down the middle. Zucchini, carrots, and tomatoes. The neighboring greenhouse contains early starts of what I’m guessing are lettuce and mom’s famous flowers, and Beth’s workstation for her wreath-making and flower crown side gig.
I knew the moment I got the news about mom’s heart that I had to come home. May is a critical month for Moonbeam Farm, and though it’s not exactly a lucrative business, it’s mom’s pride and joy. I couldn’t let the responsibilities fall solely on Beth’s shoulders. Thea offered to come, but I told her to focus on finishing her degree. She’s so close. I can hold down the fort for a few weeks.
And staying busy on the farm means I’ll be less likely to run into Ava again.
Beth joins me out in the field, where bare rows of dark dirt wait for the seedlings we’ll need to transplant soon meet the rows tulips, lupine, and iris that are in bloom. The sun has slipped between ribbons of orange-hued clouds hugging the horizon, casting a muted glow over the foothills.
“You miss it, don’t you,” she says.
I sling my arm around her shoulder. “This will always be home.”
“Does Mom know that?” she asks, slinking away.
“Of course,” I reply, frustration edging my tone .
“You got a funny way of showin’ it,” she calls over her shoulder.
I resist taking this bait. It’s just Beth’s way of saying she missed me too.
After a quick dinner of leftovers Beth brought from the diner, we talk to Mom to reassure her that everything’s under control. She gives me the names of her most responsible 4H kids who can lend a hand plus a list of projects so long I have to take notes. Then she shares the latest from Dr. Shelby. She says they can’t do the surgery until Mom is stronger. They’ll be sending her home soon, but she’ll be under strict orders. Absolutely no farm work, and no stress.
Beth’s gaze flicks to the window over the sink, her mouth a hard line.
I slip my hand beneath hers, but she draws it away.
“I’ll drop by in a little bit,” I tell Mom before we end the call.
Beth is already in motion, slipping down the dark hallway.
I call my 4H helpers and finish cleaning the kitchen, then walk toward Beth’s room to let her know I’m headed to the hospital, but she breezes by me.
If I was put off by the outfit she wore to work, I’m alarmed by what she’s wearing now. Tight dark jeans tucked into calfskin boots, a red cropped T-shirt, her hair in two loose braids and the flash of something silver in her nose.
“Where are you going?” I call out, but it’s like snatching at air because she’s already turned the corner.
“Out!” she calls a split second before the door slams.
I hurry to catch up, jumping into my mud-caked boots on my way. “Out where?” I call as she slips behind the wheel of her Honda.
Her heavily made-up eyes flash with hostility. “Don’t wait up.”
I force a steadying breath. “Not trying to cramp your style, okay? Just give me some details. Who, where, when you’ll be home.”
She rolls her eyes. “We’re just hanging out.”
Yeah, I remember that line. “Where?”
“Rhett’s.”
“Rhett who? ”
“Morris.”
“Who else?”
“I dunno. Troy, Cam, Wilder.”
“Those are some scary odds.”
Her mouth drops open in outrage. “They’re just friends.”
My heart drops into my stomach. I remember that one, too.
“Zimmie’s supposed to show,” Beth continues, “maybe Marin too.”
That’s a little better, but I’m still not crazy about this. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“So I can track you.”
She stares me down. “You’re unbelievable.”
I arch my eyebrow. “It’s just for emergencies. I’ll let you track me, too.”
Her lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Fine. But don’t you dare show up at Rhett’s and embarrass me.”
“Embarrassing you is in my job description.” I take the phone and open the settings so I can turn on location tracking, then also make it so she can’t turn it off.
“Whatever,” Beth says, and drops into her seat.
“If anyone needs a ride, call. Okay?”
She looks me in the eyes, and for an instant, the attitude is gone. “I know.”
“Home by midnight.”
“No way! Two.”
“One o’clock sharp or you’ll be shoveling pig shit at first light.”
With a murderous glare, she starts her engine and backs out, flipping me the bird on her way down the driveway.
Though I’m no substitute for the dad who left us, I’m her big brother and I’ve always looked out for her. I shouldn’t worry. She’s a good kid, with more street smarts than most her age. And she’s clearly been doing just fine taking care of herself.
But that look on her face when she heard the news about Mom needing to get strong before they can fix her heart is telling.
I’m going to have to be strong for both of them.
I wake at five, the sky outside my window a dark canvas scattered with hazy stars.
Beth made it home at almost exactly one, the rapid click, click, click of Toby’s nails on the hardwood floor as he loped to greet her stirring me awake. We didn’t talk, but I made sure she locked the front door, then lay awake, worrying about Mom. I’ll have to drill the doctors tomorrow so I understand exactly what they mean by her not being strong enough for the surgery. How much stronger can a woman get? She’s survived cancer, Dad leaving, raising three kids, hard winters, crop failures, starting her own business…it’s difficult to accept that she could ever be perceived as not strong enough to face a challenge.
Though I tried not to, I thought about Ava too. And about the night that changed us.
Forcing myself from the bed, I do a twenty-minute strengthening routine before dressing in my work jeans, thermal shirt and wool sweater, then pad into the kitchen to make coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. The coffeemaker with the broken light fires up like a champ, and soon I’m lifting one of Mom’s thrift store mugs to my lips for the first sip of the day. Outside the window, pale light from the sunrise outlines the barn and distant pastures, filling in the shadows.
Movement in one of the pastures catches my eye, making me jolt. Hot coffee spills over the lip of my mug, burning my wrist.
“Fuck!” I set the mug on the counter and jam my wrist under the cold tap, then lean sideways so I can get a better view of the pasture. Someone’s in the far one, feeding horses. It’s early for my 4H helpers, and I feel bad that they’re out there alone while I’m still tucked into the warm kitchen, leisurely enjoying my breakfast .
I scarf down the oatmeal—no time to root out the brown sugar—then tug on my wool socks and thick coat and step into my boots.
Outside, the cold, dry air scrapes my throat and pierces my skin. A light breeze carries the musky scent of the animals and the rich minerals from yesterday’s mud. I tuck my Falcons ball cap securely in place and take the worn path toward the pastures, the ground stiff from the cold night. The car parked behind Mom’s truck in the driveway is a dark blue SUV with local plates. Not new but close to it, and not familiar.
I stop at the barn to pick up a load of hay. In the dim light from the tack room, I catch a flash of dark brown ponytail and denim as my helper slips into one of the stalls.
My heart quickens in my chest because I know who’s here. It’s the knockout curves and silky dark hair and the fluid way she moves.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Helping,” Ava says from inside the stall.
“I’ve got it handled.” I put my hands on my hips and glance at the row of stalls. Our boarders are munching their breakfast. What time did she get here?
“Then I guess I’ll leave you to it,” Ava says, frustration edging her tone. She steps out of the stall and heads for the exit.
“Wait,” I say, reaching for her arm.