21. Jaxon
Jaxon
I know this farm now. Not the way my parents did, of course, but good enough to keep it running.
I’ve started figuring out horse schedules, organizing hay deliveries and farrier visits, and following up on vet appointments.
Most nights I fall into bed so exhausted, I don’t even remember closing my eyes.
During hockey season the schedule was brutal, but things eased off during offseason.
Since a horse farm never has an offseason, I’m still learning how to pace myself.
I’m up before daybreak every morning because horses can’t wait.
Summer always stops in the farmhouse for coffee, which is the best part of my day.
She used to do the same with Mom, discussing any changes with the foals and mares, while Mom shared the latest gossip from Wanda Roy at the gas station.
Now it’s become our morning habit, minus Wanda’s gossip.
Somehow, I think Mom would like that I’ve continued in her place.
When I hear the screen door’s usual smack, I call out, “Good morning, Wildflower,” before she even steps foot into the kitchen. It’s become a game to see who says it first. Another of our many unspoken rivalries.
“Good morning,” she says, heading straight for the coffeepot. She gives me a smile that feels like sunshine through a window. “Sleep okay?”
“Like the dead.” I turn back to my open laptop on the table. “No wonder Earl takes a nap every afternoon.”
“I think he’s hoping you’ll fire him for sleeping on the job.”
“I would. Except I need him too badly.” I nod toward the stovetop. “Left you some scrambled eggs if you’re hungry.”
“Oh, thanks,” she says, pouring a cup of coffee. I sneak a glance at her instead of focusing on the email in front of me.
I love seeing her first thing in the morning, her blonde ponytail brushing her shoulders and a tank top peeking out from under her denim shirt. She’s a distraction I don’t have time for, but some things are worth losing focus over.
“What are you working on?” she asks, sitting down beside me with her breakfast.
“Email to Branford Farms. Earl told me Branford’s moving a section of fence and he suspects, based on the stakes he put in the ground, it’s on our land.
I rode out there last night, but it was too dark to take any pictures.
So I’m riding again this morning, and then sending him a friendly reminder to stay off our property. ”
She lifts her brows. “Need some backup?”
“Don’t you have mares to check on?”
“I do. But if you want company on the fence line—”
“I can wait until you’re done at the broodmare barn,” I answer before she even finishes.
“Perfect. I want to do a quick check on a mare and make sure I don’t need to call the vet.”
While she’s still talking, an email slides into the general farm inbox.
Hey, pretty lady,
Sorry to email you at work, but I was hoping you might want to come to the Friday night concert with me.
My jaw clenches. Pretty lady? Then I see whose name it is and roll my eyes. Blaine the Drain.
“Anyway,” Summer says, completely unaware that I’m now composing an inappropriate response in my head. “Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I say absently, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Dear Jerkface…
I hit the delete button.
The professional thing is to forward it to her. Don’t engage. But I can’t help myself.
Summer will be busy on Friday, and every day after that, indefinitely.
Please direct all future correspondence to anyone else but her.
She is totally out of your league. Several leagues, actually.
And if you ever call her “pretty lady” again, I will personally introduce you to my horse, who does not share my restraint.
I highlight it all and hit delete.
I am a reasonable man. But when it comes to Blaine going anywhere near Summer, I can’t be reasonable.
The man called her pretty lady in a work email through the farm’s general inbox. Apparently, he doesn’t even have her personal contact information, which means she hasn’t given it to him…and why does that realization make me feel so darn smug right now?
I mean, if Blaine Callahan wants to ask Summer out, the least he could do is ask her like a real man and not like some loser sending a company memo.
“Jaxon?” Summer asks.
I look up and see her studying me. “You’re just staring at your computer screen.”
“You got an email.” I turn the laptop toward her. “From Blaine.”
She leans in to read it before turning the computer back to me with a “Hmm.”
If she wanted to go out with him, wouldn’t she show a little more excitement than hmm?
“Seems like he’s pretty interested in you,” I say in an even voice.
She pushes her eggs around with her fork. “Does that bother you?”
“Nope,” I say. “Just didn’t know Golden Springs had any social events.”
“It started a few summers ago. Every first Friday of the month they have entertainment in town—a live band and dancing.” She scoops up some eggs and pauses. “It’s not a date, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, even though I’m well aware of my feelings about Blaine taking her out.
She stares at me. “But you don’t approve.”
I pick up my mug. “Never said that.”
“I can tell.” She chews, then swallows. “You have this look every time his name comes up.”
I frown. “What kind of look?”
“Like you just stepped in a pile of horse manure,” she says before taking another bite.
I motion toward the email. “It sounds like he has feelings for you.”
She holds her fork mid-air. “I told you we’re just friends.”
“Friends who go to concerts together?” My jaw flexes again.
“No. Friends who occasionally spend time together because there aren’t many people our age in Golden Springs.” She stabs at her eggs. “That’s not a date.”
I lift a brow. “He called you pretty lady.”
She points her fork at me. “You weren’t supposed to read that.”
“I didn’t know what it was when I opened it. He used the farm’s general inbox. Doesn’t he have your personal contact info?”
She looks down at her plate, not answering.
That’s what I thought.
“Are you going to go with him?” I press.
She drops her fork on her plate, like she’s run out of patience for questions. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I just got a weird vibe from him. And I don’t like him around you.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t roll back into her head. “He doesn’t have a weird vibe. He’s just not like you.”
“How?”
“He’s—” She pauses, like she’s searching for the right word.
“Safe?” I offer. “Someone who pencils you into his calendar like a legal appointment?”
“I was going to say…normal.” She gives me a hard stare. “You know, average. Like all of us around here.”
I stare at her for a beat before I shake my head. “You could never be average.”
She freezes, something stirring behind her eyes.
“Well, you said there was nothing here for you back in high school.” She sets her napkin on her plate.
“Maybe you were right about there being nothing here for you, but Blaine actually wants to be here. He doesn’t treat this town like it’s beneath him. ”
“If you want to go out with Blaine Callahan, I won’t stop you.” I lean back in my chair.
Her brow pulls down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t surprise me if he gave you tax preparation software for your birthday.”
“I’m sure whatever he came up with would be more than anything you’d manage,” she snaps.
“That’s a bold statement from someone whose pulse flatlined while reading that email,” I fire back.
Her frown deepens. “You have no clue what my pulse did.”
I let out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I could absolutely tell. Your face was ice cold when you read his email. Even on a slow day, I’m certain I could do more damage to your pulse than that man ever could.”
She blinks, speechless. Then she pushes away from the table, the chair screeching against the floor like nails on a chalkboard before she storms toward the door, almost directly into Earl.
“Whoa!” Earl wheezes with a furrowed brow. “You all right?”
“Fine,” she snaps, sidestepping him before rushing out. “Sorry, Earl.”
Earl looks over his shoulder as he lumbers toward the coffeepot. “What’s gotten into her?”
“No idea,” I mutter, even though I know why she’s rushing out of here.
I close the laptop, frustration pulsing through my veins. I need to find something to distract myself before I find Blaine and punch him in the face.
“I’m going for a ride,” I grumble to Earl, dumping my plate in the sink. “Scout needs to run off steam.”
“I don’t think it’s the horse that needs to run off steam,” Earl says with a low chuckle, “but you enjoy that ride.”