Chapter Eleven
Holly
We drive out of the woods and into a clearing where the grass is still nearly waist high, but in the distance, an old farmhouse catches my eye.
It’s smaller than the main house, but still fairly large.
The overall design resembles the one that is used today, with a long porch that spans the entire front half.
Any paint that once covered the boards has been chipped away, leaving the entire house a muted gray color. The once-pitched roof has started to sag in on one side, but even though it's in disarray, I can tell it was a gorgeous home.
“This was the first farmhouse my great-grandparents built when they established our farm.” Grayson puts the side-by-side into park and shuts off the engine. Chandler takes that opportunity to scamper off the seat, down to the floor, and through the thick grass, disappearing immediately.
“Is he going to be alright?” I ask.
Grayson nods. “Oh yeah, he’s off chasing field mice now. He’ll find his way back to the farm when he’s ready.”
With cautious steps, we walk toward the old house.
I find the stump of a fallen tree and check to make sure it's sturdy before climbing up to peer in through a window. Careful not to cut myself on a piece of jagged glass, I rest my hands on the ledge to glance inside and find that I’m transported back in time.
A few pieces of old furniture still sit inside; a broken antique piano rests against one wall.
The floorboards that aren’t warped need some serious work, but I’ll bet if they were repaired and buffed, they would be gorgeous.
“This is so cool,” I whisper under my breath.
I stand back and let Grayson look in, though he doesn’t need the boost of the stump like I do.
I move around to the front of the house and stand on the front step, taking them carefully one at a time, making sure they will hold my weight.
Once I reach the top step, I slowly spin around and take in the beauty surrounding me.
The massive front yard spans the entire front of the house, leading to the gravel driveway that paves a path off to one side.
Everyway I turn, I’m met with an incredible view.
My eye catches on the front railing, and when I reach a hand out, the tip of my finger traces a worn L + M etched into the old wood.
“How come the other houses were built?” I ask Grayson. “If this was the first one, and it was clearly gorgeous at one time, why didn't they build the farm around here?”
Grayson leans down to snap the head of a yellow dandelion off its stem.
He brings it to his nose, twirling once and inhaling, before tossing it aside.
“The original barn is still the one that stands today. They built the house here knowing that they would want the farm down the road, but I guess as the years went on and their family grew, they decided that they wanted the house closer to the animals. Probably safer that way.”
I nod in agreement. “Makes sense.” And it does, but it’s such a shame to see a beautiful house sit abandoned.
We get back into the UTV and take the worn driveway to the main road.
Overhanging branches scrape the top of the vehicle, scratching at us as we drive.
Grayson immediately turns left into his driveway, taking us through the lot, around his house, and down into the small ravine that leads us up and into the main fields.
“I love how all of this is connected,” I tell him. “How everyone has their privacy, or how all the houses are separate, but the family is still close.”
“Same. It’s like what we built is surrounding us, you know?”
I inhale a slow full breath, holding it for a few seconds before I release it. “This is going to sound crazy, maybe, but it’s like I can breathe out here.”
Grayson keeps his eyes in front of us, but I can tell his brows are pulled together. “Tell me more.”
I lay my head against his shoulder again, letting the slow rumble of the tires over the rocks and rough land soothe me.
“Sometimes, when I’m anxious, or in a stage where I’m wound too tight, it’s like I can’t breathe.
” Physically, I can. But in the moment, it’s hard to remind myself that nothing is physically wrong with me.
“My chest feels tight, and my breaths will get choppy. There’s nothing physically wrong, I know that, but it’s like my mind doesn’t agree and messes with me anyways. ”
Grayson’s head turns a bit, and the side of his cheek rests against the top of my head. “I give you so much credit for living like that day in and day out.”
I huff out a laugh. “You credit me for being crazy?”
“I don’t see it as being crazy. You know as well as I do, hell, better than I do, what anxiety can do to your body. The work you do every day is more stressful than anything I could ever imagine, so the fact that your body reacts that way makes sense.”
Funny how that’s exactly what I would tell, and have told, patients of mine when they come into the ER.
Many times, someone is rushed inside thinking they are having a heart attack.
They’ll be in tears, telling me about their crushing chest pain, their difficulty breathing, then when all tests come back normal and we talk about the situation that led up to their symptoms, it’s often traced back to anxiety.
The reaction is usually the same. Confusion. Embarrassment. Embarrassed that they couldn’t tell the difference between true cardiac chest pain and panic. But now that I’ve experienced it, suffered through it just like them, I understand why they’d think it’s something more.
“Maybe. I know you’re right. It’s just … I guess it’s hard to see it as anything but a weakness.”
His cheek brushes against my head and we ride in silence for a few minutes before he responds. “But you feel like you can breathe easier out here?”
I inhale another breath, letting my chest expand before I push it out. “Absolutely.”
Nothing but a smug laugh from him. “So, it’s like I’m the cure, some might say. Like you should plan on spending a lot more time with me.”
I twist my head so I can rest my chin on his shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky, now. It might be the open air, the land. I’d argue it’s the chickens and goats before it’s you.”
He scoffs at that, and I playfully reach over to squeeze his arm. I’m about to tease him again about the chickens, because I can’t get enough of that, when we enter the fields that the cattle are grazing in.
As we get closer, the mooing we had heard at the house grows louder, more urgent, and Grayson's brow pinches in a worried expression.
“What's going on?” I ask as goosebumps threaten to spring up on my skin.
He shakes his head once before murmuring, “I don't know,” under his breath. “Sounds like one of the moms is not happy.”
He explains to me that spring is calving season, usually May into early June, and that there were a few mamas still waiting to have their calf. He slows his speed once he gets to the group of cows.
They hesitantly part to let us take a path through the herd, our ears perked to follow the sound until we spot a cow that's separate from the others.
She's standing on the other side of a knee-high creek next to a thicket of gray thorny bushes.
Grayson parks the side-by-side, cuts the engine, and climbs out.
I go to follow, and he spins, surprised to see me.
“Is it okay if I come with you?” I ask, looking around at the other cows. I'm not sure if they would charge me or trample me, and I'm not sure what's on the other side of the creek, but I'm pretty sure I'd rather be next to Grayson than sitting here by myself.
“Of course,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Watch your step, it’s mucky back here.”
I reach for his open palm, and when our skin meets, he curls his hand around mine. I try and fail to ignore the fluttering in my belly that has me wanting to tuck myself under his arm when we walk.
He wasn't kidding about the muck. The rains must have flooded this small creek recently, leaving the earth surrounding it a wet mess. Our boots squish underneath us as we traipse through mud mixed with clay and manure, some pockets so deep I sink to my calves.
I stop at the edge of the creek bed, knowing that if I walk through, the water is going to be well over my boots.
“I’ll be right back,” Grayson says, and I nod, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the sudden chill that's racking through me.
Grayson turns away from me, wading through the knee-high water and the stream parts around his careful steps.
The mama cow that stands alone continues to bellow, taking a hesitant step back and moving a little to the side as Grayson approaches.
“I know, I know, mama, what’s wrong?” His faint words carry over the water.
He gently reaches a hand out, but not trying to pet her like he does the other animals.
He already warned me that these types of cows are a lot more skittish since they’re not exposed to people as often.
She must have some trust in him, however, because as he approaches, she continues to yell at him, but she doesn’t run. It’s then that I hear another moo, this one much lighter and a little more faint.
Grayson crouches down to a squat with an elbow resting on his knee as he talks to something in the thicket.
He tells the mama cow to hold on, and then he heads back in my direction, wading through the stream a little quicker this time.
“What’s going on?” I ask once he’s within reach. I follow Grayson back up the little hill to the UTV, and he digs in a tool box that’s nestled in the back. He grabs a huge pair of cutting pliers, and when he goes to walk by me, he pauses, reaching a hand up to gently squeeze my elbow.
“Her baby is stuck in the thorns, but don’t worry, he’ll be alright.”