20. Twenty
Twenty
Wes
Awarm weight presses down on my chest when I wake to the sound of birds outside.
The dim light of early morning filters through the window. Outside, a foggy haze settles over the grass where horses graze, and when I look over to the clock, I curse my body.
Years of waking up to do chores have conditioned me to go without an alarm. On the rare occasion that I do sleep in, a flurry of thoughts occupy my mind until the sleep is hardly worth it at all—so light I might as well get up anyway.
But with Cass draped over me?
I want the morning to come slow and sweet, like honey dripping from a jar.
With one arm draped across my chest, I look at Cass, where she lies. Her breaths are steady, golden hair sprawled across her bare back. On her side, I see the tattoo of a sunflower. It’s right over her ribcage in a spot I had the privilege of touching—of feeling—last night.
Nails click on the hardwood in the hall until Mud’s wet nose is poking my arm, his tail a windmill behind him.
So much for sleeping in.
“Shh,” I whisper, pressing a finger to my lips. “I’ll feed you. Just hold on.”
Carefully, I peel Cass’s arm off me, getting one last look at the curve of her back, the way it dips down where the blanket is pulled over her. Once I’m standing, I get the sudden urge to crawl back in bed, wake her with kisses until she manages to notice my hard cock.
I’d rock into her slowly—leisurely—like we have all the time in the world.
Mud pokes my arm again.
“Alright,” I say, scratching him behind the ear. “I’ll get up.”
When I’m finally dressed appropriately in a pair of flannel pants, we amble down to the kitchen where I see that summer sunrise pouring onto the worn, wooden floors.
I dump food into Mud’s bowl and grab what’s left of Roe’s sourdough loaf.
The counter is soon piled with bread, a bowl, a carton of eggs, and utensils.
I set to work on French toast, swearing I’ll make it up to Rosemary since I’m using the last of her pride and joy.
Maybe I can get Lennon to bake a replacement loaf and put it in the bread box in the middle of the night.
It’ll be like a parent replacing a dead hamster with a new hamster from the pet store. Roe will hardly notice.
The drip of the coffee pot and the sizzle of the pan greet the sun as it rises just above the horizon. Grabbing my phone, I check the time again.
“Shit,” I mutter, knowing I have a very short window of time to make this breakfast thing happen for the both of us. The difficulty with working on a farm is that you are responsible for the care of numerous animals, and you cannot take a break or wait hours before getting your chores done.
Things have eased up recently. Cass’s presence, along with Roe’s extra help has made a decent dent in the number of odd jobs we fell behind on. Unfortunately, Roe won’t be here forever, but if I can hire one extra farm hand—give them more of a full-time position, it should take care of it.
The biggest thing will be moving some funds around. Without the draw of the housing at the end of the drive, or in Rosemary’s case, my house, the pay will have to be higher for a full-time position. Lessons have been going well, but it’ll be tight.
I make a note to crunch some numbers when I get the chance.
The coffee pot beeps, and I’m glad I had the foresight to bring some of the coffee syrup up from the barn when I went out to get Mud last night. If not, Cass would be stuck with shitty coffee just like her first day at the farm, and I can’t have that.
“It smells good in here.”
I turn to find Cass standing in the entrance to the kitchen, one of my t-shirts kissing the tops of her thighs. Her hair is mussed, skin practically glowing.
“Breakfast?” I ask, and she walks past me, bending to swipe her shorts up from the floor where I helped her discard them last night.
My blood heats as I watch her, knowing that there’s nothing beneath that shirt—that if I wanted to, I could press her against the door again and sing her praises in a very, very physical way.
“Yes,” Cass says, hesitating. She looks down at her outfit. “I should probably walk down to the house to get changed, though. I don’t think I should be mucking stalls in…” She gestures to all of her.
I raise a brow, using the opportunity to rake my gaze down her body once more. “I don’t see the problem.”
“Har, har,” she says, stepping closer. As I flip the bread in the pan.
Cass wraps her arms around me, pressing herself in tight.
“Those look delicious,” she comments, peering around my shoulder to watch the French toast turn golden.
“Gus wants to come back out to the farm again soon,” she says.
“Even mentioned a possible trail ride. I thought it would be fun. I don’t think he’s ever been on a horse. ”
I chuckle. “Sounds good to me. Tell him to take some ibuprofen first. Or his ass is going to feel like it’ll fall off the next day.”
She laughs. “Noted.”
Mud’s tail thumps on the floor just as the screen door creaks open, followed by my sister poking her head in, acting surprised when she sees Cassidy standing beside me.
“Oh!” she says, beaming. “I’m so very sorry for intruding. I never expected to find you here this early, Cass! You must be very motivated to care for these animals.” Roe looks at me, a smug smile on her face. “You must be thrilled that you hired her, Wes.”
Cass’s cheeks turn pink. “I was just stepping out to get my things at the end of the drive.
“By all means,” Roe moves aside, that smug smile turning to a full-on grin. “You’re welcome here anytime, Cassidy. Preferably when I’m out.”
I place the piece of toast on a plate, readying the next slice in the beaten eggs.
Cass slips her shoes on. “I’ll be back for those.” She points at the pan before slipping outside, disappearing in the morning fog.
I regret looking at Rosemary as soon as I do it.
“Don’t even,” I warn.
She glides forward, making a show of the motion.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” she asks, her tone taunting.
I may be the older brother, but Rosemary always had a knack for making fun of me.
“Is my big brother making me breakfast with…” When she looks at the plate, she tosses the toast an exaggerated nod. “With the bread I made.”
I point the spatula at her. “Don’t touch it. It’s not for you.”
Roe pats me on the chest. “You’re lucky I’m desperate for a place to stay, Wesley Miller.” She strides to the fridge, pulling out the yogurt and container of strawberries.
I watch her as she prepares her own breakfast, the tension in her shoulders making last night's conversations at our mother’s house very apparent.
Though Roe tries to hide it, I can tell it didn’t go well.
It’s the way her smile falls when she adds the granola to her bowl—the way her brow creases, and she stretches out her neck by tipping her head side to side.
My mom has never been good at communicating with my sister. It never mattered what the topic was; it would always turn into a power struggle. Sometimes, it felt like my mom simply refused to see my sister for who she really was—to love her as she was.
It was always so strange.
Growing up on a farm, every woman I ever encountered had a certain grit to them—a headstrong determination to make the world bend to their will.
In horse world, this trait was admirable.
Sometimes it came with teeth, and other times, the determination was quieter—the strength coming from a far gentler soul. It was always there, though.
You’d think, devoted to the farm as my mother was, she would have found that headstrong determination admirable in Roe. Instead, it seemed like she resented her daughter for it.
Every second, my mom tried to break her just like a young horse. And her methods were controversial at best, and downright cruel at the worst.
If Rosemary got caught sneaking out, she’d be loaded down with so many chores, I’m certain it broke child labor laws. If she got too mouthy with our mother, one cruel comment would knock Roe off balance. My mother’s sharp tongue was a bit in Rosemary’s mouth.
I swallow, hating the memories as they come up.
The worst part is I didn’t do anything about it. I avoided and ran—found myself busying myself with this place. I never stopped to check on how Roe was feeling—never stood up for her.
“How was Mom’s?” I ask, hesitantly.
Roe sighs, snapping the lid back onto the yogurt container.
“Oh, you know,” she starts. “She thinks I either need to ask you for a larger role on the farm or start looking for other jobs. I’m wasting time by not settling down.
I think she’s afraid I’m just itching to hightail it out of here and fly my way back to Nashville. ”
“And are you?” I ask.
The question forces her to look at me. “No,” she says, glancing away.
I can see the sheen to her eyes—the one she used to get whenever our parents would argue.
I’d take her out to the hay loft and force her to climb the bales with me.
It was the best I could do to get us both away.
“Yes?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Wes.
I’m not happy it didn’t work out. I’m not happy about any of this.
I know that deep down she was right, but there’s just this thing inside me.
It won’t stop waiting for my big break, you know? ”
“I know.” I nod. “I’ll talk to her.”
“No, it’ll be fine,” she asserts. “You don’t have to do that.”
I put another slice of toast on the plate before turning off the stove. “Of course, I don’t have to,” I say. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”
Roe chews on her cheek, her voice lowering to a whisper.
There’s so much vulnerability here, I’m almost taken aback.
Rosemary is the strong one between us—the one who doesn’t let opinions or rules get in the way.
It’s jarring to see her like this. “She thinks I’m a fuck up,” she confesses.
“I mean, she’s our mother. She didn’t use those words, but the sentiment was there.
I’ve wasted my potential by refusing to grow up.
A real Peter Pan syndrome.” Roe blinks. “You know, she didn’t even ask what things were like in Nashville. ”
“If she did, do you think she would have even listened?”
She rolls her tongue along her cheek where she’d bitten it. “No.” Rosemary heaves a long sigh. “I know you love it here,” she says, “And I’m so proud of you for all you’ve done with this place, but this isn’t home for me, Wes.” One more harrowing look. “This is a cage.”
I nod, doing my best to be some kind of support.
Roe’s eyes flick to the plate again. “You sure I can’t have one of those?” she asks.
“You can have mine,” I offer, but she just shakes her head.
“I’m just joking,” she says. “I already got my breakfast.”
Rosemary scoops up her bowl of yogurt and takes it deeper into the house—to the sunroom, I’m assuming. “Next time,” she shouts over her shoulder. “You are going to her house. And stay away from my sourdough.”
“The sourdough counts as your rent!” I shout back, sensing the middle finger despite her disappearance.