Chapter Sixteen
Anthony
“Did you miss me?” I have no right to ask this question as Lottie careens down a long, gravel road, surrounded on both sides by tall corn stalks waving in the wind.
She gives me an airy look. “Why would I have missed you?”
Way to make me regret asking. I guess I won’t admit to how much luster Atlanta lost during my first three-week stay in Iowa. How is it that Atlanta felt so desolate when I landed last week, and Iowa felt like the source of life when I drove the now-familiar roads from Des Moines to Red Rock Place today?
“You must have been busy in Atlanta.” Lottie slows her truck as we near a large, white farmhouse. I see a monstrous barn behind it and other structures, even a silo. This is a for-real farm. I’ve never seen one up close before. “Camila’s the only one who heard from you.”
I say nothing until she’s parked. “Thought you didn’t miss me.”
“I didn’t. I’m thinking of poor Doris. She was bereft when you left.”
I full-on snort at that. “Right. Anyway, yes, I got a lot done. I represented clients in court three times this week and hopped a flight as soon as I was done.” I catch her eye above Felicity’s head. It’s turning back and forth between her mom and me like a tennis ball, and we’re the rackets pummeling her back and forth. “Not for Doris. I came for my mom. And you.”
Her lips part, her eyes startled. My pulse is speeding like a train intent on derailment, but I maintain eye contact and nod. “I’m not too proud to admit I missed you, Lottie. Now.” I pull the door latch with my hand. “Teach me this farming thing, why don’t you?”
Nothing could have prepared me for the odor that assaults me when I open the truck door. It’s a living thing, crawling over me, up my nostrils, and into my mouth and lungs.
And I thought the air in town was bad.
I cough and try to smother my face with my sleeve, but there’s no escape.
“That’s fresh manure,” Felicity announces, landing on the ground beside me. “Uncle Easton was spreading it when he saw the broken fence.”
My eyes are watering by the time Lottie makes it around the front of the truck. When she sees my face, she tries hard to school her expression, but she fails.
“You’ll get used to it.” She pats me on the shoulder—it’s still bruised, by the way—and heads in the direction of the barn. “Easton? You here?”
A young man stomps from the barn entrance in rubber boots that reach his knees. A cap rests on his head, obscuring my view, but the set of his jaw is much like Lottie’s.
“Who’s that?” He gives me a look up and down that says he’d sooner have a stampede of cattle on his hands than this misplaced, suited lawyer.
I really need to invest in a pair of jeans. Until now, I’ve had two modes in life. Working or working out. But it might be time to add a third. This thing called living.
Lottie slips her arm around the guy in a side hug. “You met Anthony at my birthday party, remember?”
He doesn’t smile. “I thought he left.”
“I came back today.” I step forward and offer my hand. “I heard you’re having some cow difficulties and came to help.”
Lottie presses her palm to her mouth, but nothing can suppress her amused smile.
“What? Am I speaking like a lawyer again?”
A laugh explodes from her mouth. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know which is worse. You saying ‘cow difficulties’ or you offering to help looking straight from the attorney’s office.” She nudges her brother. “You have some boots he can borrow? I promised him the real Iowa experience.”
Easton looks resigned, and I’m already regretting my insistence on coming. What am I trying to prove? Yes, I missed Lottie like all get out, but nothing has changed in either of our circumstances. We would never work out.
“Here.” Easton slaps down a pair of boots in front of me. “I don’t know what good these will do you, but if you get dirty or injured, I need to know you’re not going to sue me. I can’t afford that, okay?”
I hold my hands up at his dark look. “I’m not the suing type.”
He holds my gaze, seeming to check my sincerity, then suddenly smiles, a mirror of Lottie. “Alright, then, Lots. Let’s teach this man how to chase cows.”
Lottie’s mother joins us then, and she is by far the happiest of the group to see me. The other sister—Blaine, I think—is already out in the fields, Easton says, and Amelia is staying behind with Felicity.
“Convenient,” Lottie quips, throwing her sister a knowing look. I like the way this family communicates without many words, as if they know each other that well. What’s it like to have a big family that always has your back and holds your heart?
Before my thoughts take me in a dangerous direction, Easton slaps my back so hard I stumble.
“You’re riding with me, Fancy Pants.” I look around for a truck or tractor. I only see three parked four-wheeled ATVs. Lottie is climbing onto one already, her mom on the one beside her. Lottie gives a little finger wave, her lips pressed together in a wavy line that tells me she’s still laughing inside.
Glad I can give you so much entertainment, Charlotte Alden, I fume as I follow her brother to the last ATV. Have I ever ridden one of these things in my life? I have not. Do I want to now? Nope. Not one iota.
“Climb on behind me and hold on,” Easton says before straddling the instrument of death. Death to my dignity, that is. Before I know it, I’m clutching Lottie’s brother like a damsel in distress. I feel his back shaking against my chest before he throws a grin over his shoulder.
“There’s grip bars on either side of your seat. I meant hold on to those. Not to me.”
My face is hot enough to compete with the sun beating down on us. “Oh. My bad.”
His chuckle is sucked away by the sound of the engine turning over, and then away we go. My heart scrambles up my esophagus and settles into my throat as we race over bumpy, rutted terrain. Mud flies around us in every direction. It pelts my boots, my clothes, the skin on my face. My rear end is never going to be the same again, and my hands burn as I grip the metal bars for dear life. My knuckles are white, my thighs aching from trying to keep myself seated when we finally slow down by the edge of a field. I sag back with relief as Easton parks the machine and jumps off like this is everyday business. And for him, it probably is.
I watch as he lumbers off, crossing over a section of fence with low, mangled barbed wire. The mooing sound nearby has to be a good thing, right? The end of cow difficulties. What was so wrong with my word choice? I harrumph and slide off this wretched four-wheeler, crossing my arms, feeling every bit the grump people peg me for.
The moo sounds closer, and I turn my head, expecting to see Easton with a lead rope in hand, a cow at his heels. No Easton. Just a cow, directly on the other side of the four-wheeler.
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, leaving me breathless. The behemoth of a creature is less than two feet from my face, gazing at me with dark, liquidy eyes.
Mooooo!it bellows, right in my face, and I leap backward with a most unmanly yelp. Where the heck is Easton?
“Easton?” I yell, louder than the cow, backing slowly away from the sanctuary of the four-wheeler. “I found one of your cows.”
Said cow takes plodding steps around the four-wheeler—straight at me.
Crap. What do I do? Are cows dangerous? I wrack my brain but come up empty. Nothing in law school prepared me for a showdown with a cow on the loose.
“Hey there…cow. How ya’ doing?”
And now I’m talking to a bovine. I have sunk low in this Iowa life.
Still mooing, the cow takes another step toward me.
No. I do not choose death by cow hoof. Not yet.
Turning on my heel, I take a deep breath, strike my runner’s stance, and then I’m gone, sprinting as fast as these clunky boots will allow me to go across the muddy, fallow field. I vault over a row of last’s year cornstalks, presumably, and keep going. The moo follows me, and I don’t even check to see how close the cow’s pursuit is.
I run—and run and run—until suddenly my feet fly out from under me. I waver, my arms flailing—and then I’m face-down in the mud. I lie there prostrate, waiting for hoofs to trample my back and put me out of my misery. Instead, the sound of an engine grows louder until it stops beside me.
“Anthony? You good, man?”
Easton pries me out of the mud, and I gasp for air. I jerk muddy glasses off my face. One wild look around me tells me the blasted cow isn’t anywhere nearby.
“The cow,” I pant, gesturing vaguely. “It was after me.”
Easton is trying—unsuccessfully—to look serious. “Bella wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wasn’t even chasing you. Besides, I left the key in the ignition. Why didn’t you drive the four-wheeler?”
I sink back into the mud on my haunches, leaning my head back against the four-wheeler tire. I’ve never been this dirty in my entire life. “Can this be between you and me? Don’t tell Lottie. If she asks how I got so dirty, tell her I fell into the mud.” Which is true. It just doesn’t explain why I fell into the mud.
Easton shrugs. “Nobody has to tell Lottie. Because she was watching.”
Before I can respond, a hoot of laughter reaches me in the wind. Everything’s blurry without my glasses, but I vaguely make out the shape of a four-wheeler at the far end of the field. Lottie is standing on the seat, as if gaining vantage for a better view of the show.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. Easton chuckles and offers me a hand.
“If you came here today to impress her…you definitely made an impression, Fancy Pants.”
Lottie laughs the whole drive to town, and I don’t say a word. When we pull into her driveway, she wrinkles her nose at me.
“Go take a shower, Suits. You stink. And for me to be bothered, that’s something—because I grew up on a farm.”
Aunt Doris is scandalized when I walk through the front door. I offer no explanation and make my way straight to the shower. I will never take indoor plumbing for granted again. Or the meat and produce I eat. It’s made by the sweat and tears of the farmers of the world.
I sleep that night more soundly than I can remember. I don’t even dream. I wake up refreshed and energized. I can’t explain what compels me to head south in my new rental car after breakfast, but I find myself following the same trail that Lottie took yesterday. When I stop in front of the house, Lottie’s mother is coming down the steps.
“Is something wrong with Lottie?” she asks the minute I step out of my car, her hand at her throat.
“Not at all. I haven’t seen her this morning.” I look down at my clothes. Same slacks and shirt I wore yesterday, different color. I rinsed the mud out last night, but the stains aren’t going anywhere. I might as well get one more use out of these clothes before I toss them. “I just wanted to help Easton some more.” I cringe at her immediate smile, and I’m sure I was the topic at the supper table last night. “Not that I was any help yesterday, but…”
“Comedic relief is welcomed by anyone.” She winks. “Easton’s in the barn. He was about to make his farm rounds, check the progress of the crops. You might find that interesting.”
Easton doesn’t appear bothered by my presence. “Round two?”
I nod. “But no cows this time.”
A grin lights up the young man’s face. “Deal. Hop in.”
We take an older model Chevy Silverado, bumping along paths Easton calls roads. He shows me the soybeans and corn, pointing out how the growth is progressing.
“We have a saying, ‘knee high by the fourth of July,’ but it’s not accurate. If the corn is only knee-high by July fourth, I’m in trouble. This year’s looking to be a bountiful crop, and I am one happy man because the farm needs a good year.”
“Is it tough? Making a profit on the farm?”
He lets out a low whistle between his teeth. “Is it ever. I’ve applied for some government grants to help us through leaner years, but I’ve never been approved. Last year I took a loan, and this year I’m trying to pay it back. Any leftover after expenses goes directly to the loan.” He gives me a look. “Don’t tell Lottie. She thinks it’s her sworn duty to keep the farm afloat. She doesn’t even know about the loan.”
“Got it.” How on earth does she help the farm financially when she’s a single mom?
“She keeps giving me all this money from her ex-husband. I don’t want it when it’s not supposed to be for me, if you know what I mean.”
I totally get that. “Interesting. Lottie told me about her ex, but not about the money.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty tight-lipped about it. Worried he’ll find a way to cut the support if he knows she’s giving it to me.”
And he could, too. I’m not sure how I feel about this, but that’s on Lottie’s conscience.
I ask Easton how old he is.
“Twenty-four.”
“And you own this farm!”
“Been in the family four generations. Just because my dad ditched us for another woman when I was young doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t want it.” His voice is bitter. There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but before I can even consider a meaningful response, Easton exclaims, “Tarnation! I forgot I was going to fill the tank.” He smacks the dashboard as the engine sputters. “We have fuel in the barn, but I was distracted by you showing up.”
Now I feel guilty. “Want me to walk back?”
“Do you know which direction will take you to the barn?” His eyes laugh at me.
“Not a clue.”
He jumps out of the truck. “Hang tight. I’ll be a while.” Then he plunges into a row of corn, disappearing from sight.
I get out of the truck and look around, then climb into the bed and sit with my back against the cab. The wind rustles through the corn stalks on one side of me. In the field on the other side, row after row of soybeans waves in the breeze, rippling like an ocean of silver.
It’s peaceful out here in a way I’ve never felt before. I close my eyes, lifting my face to the sunshine and wind, barely noticing the scent that is ever-present in the air here.
“God, your creation is glorious,” I say, my voice barely a breath. “Thank you that my mom is recovering. Please continue to heal her.”
I don’t know why I’m talking out loud to God in the fields like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It feels totally natural.
“Thank You that I met Lottie. I don’t know what to do about her. I could use some guidance because I don’t want to hurt her.” I swallow. “Or me.”
There’s no answer, but I don’t feel alone.
“Thank You for bringing me here.”
Here is where you belong.
I jerk upright, searching on all sides for the voice that just thundered in my heart. It’s my heart that’s thundering now as I give up the search and sink down against the truck. And I know. After all of my searching and doubting and questioning…I finally found God.
I heard him in a cornfield. In Iowa.
I’m not the crying type, but moisture fills my eyes, and I don’t attempt to wipe it away. I sit without moving, basking in the sound of God that I hear in the wind, in the crops, in the growth all around me.
This farm isn’t the only thing growing. But God knew right where I needed to be in order to do some growing myself.