Chapter 8
Cody
Nobody loves life like an old man.
~ Sophocles
Today’s my day off, but Captain asked us to come in overtime after the rain.
The regular alternating crew is busy with extra medical calls and basement pump-outs.
We’re heading out to the washed-out section on Old Salt Lick Road.
Only a few older farms and some larger rural properties are out this way.
They all lost town access when the road flooded yesterday.
The roads are still damp from the storm, a mist hangs around everything. Patrick is helping with a downed tree across town, so it's just the three of us. Dustin's singing softly to himself in the back seat and Greyson's quiet as usual.
The image comes out of nowhere: Carli dressed up, looking all professional, standing on the driveway of my fire station. What will it mean if she gets the job?
Dustin says something. I just nod along. I should listen.
We pull the brush truck up in front of Old Salt Lick Road, parking so we block access. The county trucks are already on site, including a dump truck filled with gravel.
“Hey, Jerry,” I say to the county utility worker who’s also been a friend of mine since high school.
“We just got here,” he tells me. “Coming off two other jobs.”
“We’ll make light work of this and get you off the clock so you can rest,” I tell him.
The air is crisp and moist, making the world feel soft around the edges. It’s the kind of morning that makes you wish you had nothing but spare time to sit on your porch or saddle up your horse. But instead, you’re digging branches out of a creek bed and patching old dirt roads.
I walk toward the crossing to assess the damage. The water receded overnight, leaving us easy access. The road is soft from the rain, bits of gravel are scattered like corn in a hen house, buried just beneath the surface of the mud.
I put all thoughts of Carli out of my head—I’m not thinking about the way her long hair fell across that silk top and how her eyes lingered on mine. I’m on the job. She’s not it.
“Branches got jammed in the culvert,” I shout over to Dustin and Greyson.
Grey nods, grabbing the pike poles and Halligan so we can pry the branches loose. We work for ten or fifteen minutes, ending with rakes and shovels until the pipeline is clear. Meanwhile, Jerry and his crew cut the branches with chainsaws and dump the debris up the bank above the high water line.
“I could be snuggled up with my girl right now,” Dustin whines.
“Isn’t she working?” I ask, wiping the Halligan with a towel and putting it back in the truck.
“Yeah, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
I chuckle. It must be nice to have that option always floating somewhere in your mind as a man—someone to cuddle on your days off, a woman who fills in the lonely spaces, a partner to share life with.
“You’ll live,” Grey says to Dustin. His face is dead serious, but his eyes are smiling. You have to know him to see it.
“I might not. I could die from lack of Emberleigh.” Dustin laughs at his own pathetic attempt at humor. “Like lack of oxygen.”
“The woman is your oxygen?” Grey asks.
“Darn straight, she is. You’ll see. Both of you will one day.”
Something tugs low in my belly. Greyson turns away. I try to imagine a day when a woman could be my oxygen. I’ve certainly known one to take my breath away. But she’s not mine.
Mr. Calhoun shows up on the landlocked side of the crossing. He hops out of his old truck. Greyson and Dustin hang back while I meet Mr. Calhoun at the spot where we’ve already cleared the culvert and poured gravel into the dirt. I glance at my crew—allowing me to take point on this job.
“Looks good,” he says. “Sorry I couldn’t be out here helpin’ y’all. I’m afraid I’m not of as much use as I used to be. I need to get over to the other pasture across the way as soon as you’re finished up here.”
“We just need to finish this fill up so it’s passable and then I’ll help you get that hay to wherever you need it to go,” I tell him.
I glance at Grey and he nods his assent. Sure, we could call it a day and clock out. And I won’t be officially on the clock while I’m helping Mr. Calhoun, but I can’t just leave an old farmer to tend to the aftermath of a storm in good conscience.
We assist while Jerry and his crew dig out the divot in the road to prep for the gravel, then we help tamp it with hand tampers after they go over it with a plate compactor. Mr. Calhoun stands by like a supervisor, watching us work, and occasionally talking to someone on the crew.
Once the repair is secure, I hop into the brush truck and roll carefully over the repair to ensure it’s passable.
Then I wave out the window, giving Mr. Calhoun the okay.
Grey and Dustin get in the truck and we drive down the road to the property across the way where the rest of Mr. Calhoun’s cattle graze.
An older barn sits toward the front of the property.
Mr. Calhoun steps out of his truck and the cows all bawl like children who missed their mom. They crowd the fence, pushing at one another. A few pace in the background. One of them stares pointedly at the feeder as if to say, Did you forget something?
“These are my old girls,” Mr. Calhoun says as if he’s introducing us to his family. “They’re out to pasture, but don’t tell them that.”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Dustin says.
“Sorry, ladies,” Mr. Calhoun says. “I got stuck on the other side of the creek.”
He might be charming them with his voice, but his eyes are roving over the herd like a seasoned dairyman. I’m doing the same—looking for any sign of distress or injury besides the obvious hunger they’re all not-so-subtly complaining about.
We all pitch in, grabbing bales off the back of the truck and hoisting them into the raised feeder. They’ve got water access and it’s been just about a day and a half since the road washed out, so they’re okay.
“They ate yesterday,” Mr. Calhoun tells us. “I called over to Smitty and asked him to pop in on ’em. By the way they’re going on, you’d think it had been a week of neglect.”
Dustin laughs. He’s the least used to rural life of all of us, but to his credit, he’s taken to it like a local.
The cows gather round the feeder, taking big mouthfuls of hay. Their lowing noises settle, replaced by the rhythmic sounds of slowed breathing and steady chewing.
“You can’t neglect a woman,” Dustin says.
“Got that right,” Mr. Calhoun agrees, a wistful expression pulling his wrinkles into deeper grooves across his brow.
“And you shouldn’t. One day they’re with you.
The next … well … they’re not. Can’t treat a woman like she’ll be around forever.
” His gaze drifts out across the pasture.
“Of course, every man’s guilty of neglect. ”
We all nod. What do you say to a man who lost the love of his life? He lives all the way out here, mostly alone. I take a step toward Mr. Calhoun, but falter, shoving my hands into my pockets and staying right where I am.
“You boys think you’ll be young forever. Life’s at your fingertips. The future stretches longer than a Tennessee highway out in front of you. But old age comes more quickly than you expect.” He smiles warmly. “It happens to the best of us.”
We’re silent. Dustin doesn’t even crack a joke to lighten the mood.
“Aww. Listen to me ramblin’ on. I’m fine.
Wipe those looks off your faces. I’ve lived a good life—my cattle, this land.
And I’ll work it ’til I can’t.” He pauses, looking back down the road toward the repair at the crossing.
“Things like yesterday’s storm show me I’m closer to can’t than I usually like to admit. ”
“You look pretty good to me,” Dustin says. “I hope I’ll be hauling hay at your age.”
Mr. Calhoun smiles. Then he looks Dustin square in the eyes. “Son, life changes whether we vote for it or not. You just gotta decide which parts of it you want to cling to and which parts don’t matter a lick in the long run.”
He might be looking at Dustin, but his words pierce me right between the ribs. A dull ache fills the space, tugging at me and pulling me off balance.
“Well, I’d better let you get to it,” Mr. Calhoun says. “Thanks again for patchin’ up our road and for feeding my girls with me.”
“Anytime,” I tell him. And I mean it.
On the ride back, Dustin’s full of energy, his knee bounces with enough vibration that I feel it from the front seat. He’s buzzing over his newly hatched plan to surprise Emberleigh by popping into the bakery to take her to lunch. He texts Sydney to work out the details.
“You’d better hop in the station shower if you want this to be a good surprise,” Grey warns Dustin.
“She loves me when I’m messy,” is his answer, even though we all know he wouldn’t dare show up caked in mud and smelling like a field of cattle.
“A shower sounds just right,” I say to Grey.
“And a nap,” he adds.
We ride in silence. Usually I’m more talkative, but Mr. Calhoun’s words still rumble around in my head, that dull ache between my ribs lessening, but still tugging at me like a child demanding attention.
The radio crackles and our dispatcher comes on. Grey unclips the dash mic.
“Non-emergency,” Gina says. “Anyone available to swing by Waterford Elementary? Goat’s in the pickup line.”
Greyson mutters, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” before pressing the button to respond. He looks over at me, brows raised in question. I nod silently. “Brush Truck One. We’ll take the call.”
Everything’s quiet for a beat and then dispatch comes through again. “It appears the goat is unsupervised … and attempting to enter the building. We’ve got a goat breaking-and-entering situation here.”
Greyson’s expression doesn’t change. “Copy. Goat breaking and entering unsupervised.”
“We’ve lost visual on the goat,” the dispatcher says.
Greyson takes his thumb off the mic button. His jaw flexes. He presses the button, lifting the mic to his mouth again. “Brush Truck One. Keep us posted.”