Chapter 6
My forearms burn,itching deep beneath my inflamed skin. I tear the gloves from my hands and shove them into the pocket of my dusty jeans before beginning to scratch at my arms.
“You good?” Johnny, a ranch hand with dark hair in need of a cut, asks from beside me.
It took two hours of digging through hay bales to find another human among the cows. He was twisting the wire fence with a pair of plyers when he looked up and saw me storming toward him, dirty pitchfork in hand. One up-and-down glance at my shit- and mud-covered running shoes had him howling a laugh loud enough to send the cows scattering.
He introduced himself as Johnny shortly after, seeming to piece together quickly that I was not in the mood for his laughter and judgment. It wasn’t until he saw the colour of my forearms and throat that he offered to help me back to the guest house.
Apparently, I’m allergic to fucking hay. And I’ve just spent the past two hours rubbing it all over my skin.
“Other than the fact I feel like I’ve rubbed acid on my skin? I’m fan-fucking-tastic.” I seethe, keeping my pace quick through the pasture.
“Did Wade have you out here tearing apart bales?” he asks, quickening his steps to keep up with me.
“Obviously.”
A strained exhale escapes him, and I whip my head over to see him puffing out his cheeks, lips rolled to keep in a laugh.
“What?” I snap.
“We don’t tear hay by hand. Haven’t for a long time now. The tractors shred it and spread it throughout in the pasture on their own. Wade was just hazing you. He does it to all of us when we start here,” he explains, the words still strained, wheezed.
I freeze, slowly turning my head so I can meet Johnny’s waiting stare. There’s no hint of a lie in it, just a whole lot of fucking amusement.
He takes in my expression and sucks in a breath. “And you didn’t want to hear that, right? Honestly, I shouldn’t have even told you yet. Usually, we let the newbies do this for a solid two days before telling them.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Yes?” he offers, hands sliding into his pockets.
“Well, it doesn’t. I’m going to speak with him.”
I carry on through the pasture, my speed kicked up a notch. The spring air is cool today, and I’m glad for that when it blows over my inflamed skin, providing the slightest amount of relief. What I need is some calamine lotion and to get as far away from this wretched place as possible. Only one of those things is available to me, however.
“Slow down!” Johnny calls, his footsteps smacking the dead grass.
“I don’t need an escort.”
“Do you know your way around this place yet?”
I don’t reply.
“That’s what I thought,” Johnny sings. “You need to go to the main house to see Eliza. She’ll get you sorted.”
My jaw throbs from the pressure of keeping my teeth ground together as we get closer to the fence and the truck parked behind it. It’s not until Johnny rushes ahead to lift the lock and push open the gate that I realize I can’t drive the truck back. I’ve never learned how to drive a manual.
“Fuck,” I grit out.
“What?” Johnny asks, staring at the truck with casual ease. “It’s a bit old, but she does the job.”
“You’ve driven this thing before?”
“’Course I have. Been driving farm trucks my whole life.”
Relief blows through me. “You can drive us back to the house, then.”
“You gonna say please at least?” he asks, but he’s already getting in the driver’s side.
I toss the pitchfork back in the bed and then slide back into the passenger seat with a muttered “Please.”
It’s better to tell him what he wants than have him learn that I just don’t know how to drive myself back. I mark learning how to drive manual on the top of my to-do list.
“Alright.” He grabs the key from its place tucked in the back of the visor and starts it up, that same loud noise and stink of exhaust following right after. “So, why are you here?”
I crank down the window and stick my arm outside, my eyelids threatening to shut at the cool relief on my skin. “I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“That’s cryptic.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“You’re not much of a talker, huh?”
“What gave me away?”
He chuckles, tapping a hand on the steering wheel as we pull onto the gravel road, and he fiddles with the gearshift. “A snappy son of a bitch too.”
“Guess so.”
“You know, this isn’t exactly a bad place to wind up. Your choice or not.”
“That’s great. I’ll remember that the next time I have an allergic reaction caused by one of Wade’s stunts.”
“Pop an allergy pill and stop whining about it. You could have stabbed yourself with the pitchfork instead.”
“Why would I have done that?”
He shrugs. “Donno. I’m just saying you could have had something worse happen today than a little reaction to some hay.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. Why?”
“Just curious.”
He has a sense of life that has long since been lost on me. An optimism that comes from never experiencing hardships that knock you down to your knees and keep you there every time you attempt to push back to your feet.
I look out the window and stare at the hint of a two-story farmhouse far out past the pasture, a massive garage at its side. A red car is parked out front, but we’re too far to notice much else.
“Okay then. How old are you?” he asks.
“Thirty.”
“No wonder you’re complaining about a rash. You must get them often in your old age.”
My laugh is unexpected. It fills the cab of the truck before the wind carries it out the window. “I’m not much older than you.”
“Eight years is a long fucking time.”
“You say that because you’re young. Time catches up to you quick.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re gonna be stuck here for a while. Might as well drop your little golden eggs of knowledge into my hands.”
I sober up at the reminder of being stuck here. Two months is a long, long time to be away from both my company and my mother.
“You don’t want the knowledge I would give.”
“Too bitter?”
“I suppose so.”
“Oh well. I’m still up to hear it one of these days.”
“I don’t plan on making friends while I’m here,” I say bluntly.
He doesn’t sound offended when he asks, “Why not?”
“Friends are a distraction. And I don’t plan on staying here longer than I have to.”
“Staying here with no one to talk to sounds lonely.”
“Are you trying to volunteer yourself as a friend or something?”
He laughs again, this time while we pull off the gravel onto the lawn in front of the main house. My rental car is still here, filthy beyond belief.
“Maybe. Why not?”
I pull my arm back into the truck before cranking the window back up and scratching at my throat. My first instinct is to tell him to piss off. That it would be more of a bother than anything else. But I don’t have it in me to do that. Not at this moment.
“Fine. But you won’t get much from the friendship.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Opening the door, I mutter, “Guess so.”
“Ask Eliza for some lotion and an allergy pill. The woman keeps just about everything in her first aid kit,” he says when I step out of the truck and go to shut the door.
“Thanks.”
I head toward the house, not bothering to see if he’s taking or leaving the truck. Now that I’m here, I’d prefer to drive back to the guest house in my rental.
Climbing the porch stairs, I glance at the array of planters beneath the front window and rocking chairs beside them. The baby blue and yellow patterned seat cushions are old and worn. Well-loved, I suppose would be a better term.
I’m about to knock on the screen door when the gentle, weathered face of an old woman appears from behind it. I drop my arm, rubbing the back of my hand on the rough material of my jeans.
“I was wondering when you’d come by the house. I’m Eliza. Now, let me have a look at you,” she orders softly, waiting for me to take a step back before pushing open the door. “Oh! What happened here?”
“Your husband happened,” I mutter while toeing off my dirty shoes on the porch and following her inside.
The house is warm and smells like the buns my mom bakes every Sunday morning. A sense of nostalgia hits me hard, but I shake it off, letting the porch door swing shut.
“Oh, dear. Was it the hay?” she asks. We head through the hallway and into an open kitchen, where four bread pans sit on the stove. “Who am I kidding? Of course it was.”
“Seems I’m allergic to it.”
She turns off the oven before rushing back to me, inspecting my arms under the bright lights. I blink down at the short woman, taking in the pure silver bob swishing side to side as she cocks her head, the pursed lips painted bright pink, and the deep-set smile lines at both corners of them. Brody’s grandmother has a gentle aura about her that I feel guilty popping.
I swallow thickly and allow her to twist my wrist left and right and poke at the side of my inflamed throat. Something tells me Eliza Steele is a woman used to being obeyed in moments like these, and if it means I’ll stop itching, then by all means, she can have at it.
“That’s no good. Come with me. I have some lotion in the bathroom.”
It’s a short walk from the kitchen to the bathroom, but I reel at just how much stuff this family has managed to fit in the small distance. Pictures and clutter and rugs of every colour and pattern. I stare at the photo of Brody and Annalise at a grand opening in town for longer than I should. When I look away, I shake my head at my misplaced curiosity.
Eliza flicks the light on in the bathroom, and the outdated feel of the space doesn’t appear out of place at all in this house. I expected the yellowing tub and chipped porcelain sink. The two fluffy, purple towels hung on the towel rack match the bath mat and even the soap dispenser. It’s incredibly clean, though. Every inch of it.
“Sit on the edge of the tub, and I’ll find you something to help,” she demands, starting to root through the medicine cabinet.
I do as she says, keeping my legs pressed tight together to avoid knocking my knee into the toilet. “Thank you.”
She swipes a dainty hand through the air. “Please know that my husband, while he does love a good prank, wouldn’t have tasked you with the hay had he known you were allergic.”
“He doesn’t particularly like me, so I wouldn’t put it past him to enjoy this.”
Eliza ignores my comment and, instead of telling me off like she probably should, hands me a pink bottle of lotion and a pack of tiny pills. “I’ll go grab you a juice. Do you have a preference?”
“No.”
“Be right back, then. Start to rub that lotion over your skin. It should take the sting away.”
I pop the cap as she slips from the room and start lathering myself in the runny substance. The relief is instant, and I sigh at the lack of itching. I look ridiculous painted in the stuff, but as I pop two of the allergy pills into my palm, I let that thought go.
“I had some lemonade in the fridge, so I brought that instead of juice. Do you like lemonade?” Eliza asks once she returns, a tall orange cup in her hand.
I answer her question by taking the cup from her and tossing the pills back before draining the lemonade in one go. The lingering sweet yet tangy taste settles in my mouth, making my stomach growl loudly.
Eliza’s face goes bright as she grins and clasps her hands against her middle, over the frilly apron. “If you’re done in here, you come with me back to the kitchen. Why don’t you help me with lunch instead of working back outside?”
My stomach growls again, and then I’m rinsing my hands off in the sink before following her out of the bathroom.