Chapter 23
Tad
Snow comes down like it has a grudge against the entire state of Vermont. This winter has been a real bitch. I’m honestly starting to wonder if the universe has decided she wants to bury us until spring.
It’s nearing four in the morning, and instead of being curled up in my bed with Breezy, I’m outside while she’s still sleeping, handling the responsibility that comes with being a sheep farmer.
I could’ve called Randy, but I decided to let him stay in bed.
The snow switches from big, fat flakes to the tiny, relentless kind that stings your cheeks and finds the gap between your collar and your neck, no matter how tight you pull the zipper of your coat.
And with the way it’s coming down now, by dawn, the world will be erased and redrawn in white. Which means every daily farm chore will be twice as fucking hard if I don’t lay some groundwork now.
The only reason I’m up in the first place is because my girl Mabel is due to go into labor any day now, and the camera in the barn had my phone pinging with notifications of her restlessness.
Once I saw it was snowing cats and dogs, I decided to get up and get some work done while I kept an eye on her.
I’m breaking ice on the troughs with the back of a shovel when the wind shifts and carries a thin, high bleat across the pasture.
“Shit.”
Instantly, I drop the shovel and start for the barn in the lower field.
My boots crunch through drifts that’ve swallowed the fence posts up to their bellies, and the rest of my herd is huddled like a gray cloud near the line of spruce trees.
They’re clearly too annoyed with the snow to try to escape, and their bodies are pressed so tight that steam comes off them in a faint cloud.
Another cry cuts the air as I’m rounding the last gate and heading into the barn.
And there she is, my poor girl Mabel, lying in the hay. Her sides are rippling, and her breath is fogging the air hard. Immediately, I see the problem—one slick lamb leg is already out and appears to be stuck.
“Easy there. I’m here.” I crouch near her and place my palm to her neck. She’s warm and trembling. “You had to pick a blizzard, huh?”
Mabel bleats in discomfort.
“Don’t worry, girl. I got you, okay?”
As I start to assess the situation, the sounds of quick footsteps crunching in the snow fill my ears. I glance over my shoulder to spot Breezy sliding across the front of the barn doors and literally slip on the ice, falling to her ass on an “Oof!”
She gets to her feet with ease, and I quickly realize she’s dressed in my biggest coat, my flannel underneath, my sweatpants covering her legs, and my wool hat slouched over her head.
The outfit and my boots damn near swallow her, and it shouldn’t work at all.
But somehow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so fucking beautiful.
“What are you doing up?” I ask as she steps into the barn.
“I saw the barn notifications on your phone and figured it was Mabel.” She holds up a roll of paper towels and a few bathroom towels like an offering to the gods.
“I tried to bring supplies, but I don’t really know what supplies you need.
Also, I almost died on your front steps, so we probably need to salt them. ”
“Noted.” I try not to smile. “You okay in that?” I nod at the coat that’s practically a sleeping bag.
“Um…pretty sure I look adorable,” she says, dead serious. “Extremely capable and adorable to help with bringing a new baby sheep into the world.”
Another contraction hits Mabel. She moans, long and low.
“Is she okay?” Breezy’s face changes on a dime. “What do you need?”
“Your small hands,” I say, and her brows jump. “Clean ones. You’re gonna help me.”
“I…okay.” There’s the briefest flicker of really? in her eyes, and then she’s kneeling beside me as I quickly shove the paper towels at her.
I slide my palm along Mabel’s belly, checking the angle of the leg. “We’ve got a shoulder hung up,” I tell Breezy. “If she pushes and it’s turned wrong, she could tear something. So we gotta stop that from happening.”
“And by we, you mean…?”
“Well, you, because your hands are smaller than mine.” I tug off a glove and guide Breezy’s smaller fingers where mine can’t go. “Just follow my hand. When she pushes, don’t fight. Just ride it. Assist her. Give some counterpressure so the lamb’s leg goes in the direction we need it.”
“O-okay.”
“And don’t forget to breathe.”
“Don’t forget to breathe, Mabel,” she encourages, and a short laugh escapes my lungs.
“You,” I say. “I meant you shouldn’t forget to breathe.”
“Oh.” She swallows, eyes fixed on Mabel, and nods. “Me. Breathe. Right.”
The wind hisses through the barn, and Mabel moans again.
Her body bows with the contraction, and Breezy does exactly what I need her to do.
She rides the push, giving counterpressure where Mabel needs it.
The stuck shoulder turns a hair, then another hair, and I feel the moment it gives in the ewe’s body—a tiny click the world might miss if you weren’t touching it.
“There,” I say, and I don’t realize I’m actually holding my breath until I’m light-headed.
The lamb slides free into my hands, slick and steaming in the cold air, a beautiful little miracle covered in blood and fluid.
I clear its nose, rub hard with Breezy’s paper towels until a tremor runs through its body, and then the little thing gasps like it’s offended by the whole concept of oxygen.
“It’s breathing!” Breezy exclaims through a choked sob.
“Welcome to earth, kid,” I tell the lamb, which replies by sneezing on my chin. “Now, we need to get her under Mabel’s nose.”
Breezy and I work fast to position the little girl lamb near its mother. And once she’s under Mabel’s chin, she’s already lifting her head to her mama and licking with single-minded determination.
But when another contraction rolls through Mabel, I know we need to focus again.
“It’s time for the next one,” I say, and Breezy looks at me with teary-eyed confusion.
“The next one?”
“Twins.”
Breezy blinks but quickly jumps back into action with me as I give her clear instructions on how to assist Mabel.
We’re faster the second time. Breezy’s hands don’t shake. She doesn’t flinch at the steam or the blood or the way Mabel releases guttural sounds with each contraction. She just does the work, and she does so with the kind of bravery that makes me feel proud of her.
Ten minutes later, there are two little lambs blinking at the blizzard like it personally inconvenienced them, wobbling to their feet under a mother who looks outright exhausted.
Breezy helps me get them all tucked in straw to keep them insulated, and by the time we’re done, my body aches in a good way.
“You did amazing,” I tell Breezy, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and tucking her into my side as we watch Mabel with her lambs.
Her grin hits me square in the chest. “We did amazing. But also, I did amazing.”
“Yeah.” I grin. “You did.”
“But you were incredible too, Tad,” she says, her voice quiet. “If you hadn’t known what to do, I don’t like to think about what could have happened.”
I shrug. “I guess there are some aspects of sheep farming I’m good at.”
We trudge back toward the house, boots squeaking, and a red scarf Breezy grabbed at the last second flapping out of my coat that covers her body. For a second, the flash of red steals my breath. Red. Sirens. Heat. The—
No.
I blink hard, and it’s just a scarf again, just snow, just Breezy bumping her hip against mine and saying, “Admit it, Farmer Tad. You need me on staff.”
“And how much do I gotta pay ya?” I ask.
“I accept payment in pancakes, orgasms, and your mother’s marinara,” she says through a giggle.
Inside, the house fogs up with the sudden invasion of two people and a storm. I shuck my coat, take hers, and hang them both near the door. She toes out of boots that are five sizes too big and shivers dramatically, then beelines for the kettle like she owns the place.
Once we’ve got two mugs of hot water, I doctor hot chocolate with a finger of whiskey. She takes one sip, and a combination of a cough and laugh leaves her lungs. “You trying to get me drunk?”
“I’m trying to take the edge off,” I explain. “There’s not even a shot in each of our mugs, but I promise it’ll help take the shakes away.”
The last time I drank whiskey, drank any alcohol at all, was shortly after Breezy came strolling into town in a blizzard and I was so shit-faced I didn’t know if we slept together. I guess I haven’t had the need to reach for it to numb the pain.
Truthfully, I only put it in our hot chocolates because of the way Breezy’s hands have been shaking since we helped Mabel bring her lambs into the world.
“Oh, so the fact that I feel like my body is vibrating from the inside out is normal?”
“It’s the adrenaline.” I smile knowingly at her. “Happens whenever you find yourself in an emergent situation.”
“You find yourself in a lot of sheep emergencies?”
The mere thought of an emergency has the always-in-pain, masochistic side of my brain wanting to fold like a deck of cards. But I take a sip of my hot chocolate and refuse to give in. “Well, you know how Crosby can be.”
“I sure do.” Breezy laughs.
In this moment with her, it’s easy to forget the farm exists. To forget fences and sheep and the ghosts of my past and all the ways a life can go sideways. It’s easy to just be. With her.
We make our way into the living room, curling up together on the couch.
Her phone buzzes on my coffee table, which has both of us looking puzzled at someone texting her at such a late hour. But when she grabs it to check the screen, she lets out an exasperated groan. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”
“Who is it?”
Her mouth twists into a smile, but it’s more annoyed than amused. “Heyyy, so I was thinking of hosting a memorial party in Ibiza. Henry would’ve loved that. Do you want to help plan?” she reads the message aloud before turning the screen for me to see.
There’s a little champagne glass emoji. A sun. A palm tree. Three question marks. The kind of punctuation you’d expect from a teenage girl.
“That from Stepmother Dearest?”
“Yep,” she says, voice flat. “Twenty-seven going on fourteen.”
She laughs in a sharp burst, but it shatters on the second breath.
Her eyes go wet, and she tips her head back like she can stop emotional gravity.
“What an incredible idea, right? A memorial party…in Ibiza. I mean, we already had a funeral, and a will-reading where my father completely fucked me over, but sure, who needs grief or closure when you can have bottle service?” she says, but it’s to the ceiling.
“Breezy.” I set my mug down. “Hey.” I gently press my hand to her thigh, but she flinches a little.
“I’m fine, I swear.” She drags a sleeve over her eyes.
“It’s just, some days, it’s like… How am I almost forty, and I don’t know what I want?
I used to have a plan for everything. Now I’m—” she gestures around “—wearing your clothes and delivering lambs and making zero plans for my future because I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, and instead of telling anyone how I really feel, I ignore their stupid voice mails and calls and texts like a coward. ”
“Or like a person who has been betrayed. A person who has been hurt deeply,” I say. “A person who doesn’t deserve any of that bullshit, and despite all of it, somehow still manages to remain strong.”
“Strong?” She snorts. “That’s debatable.”
“No, it’s not, Breeze.” I reach out and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear before grazing my knuckles gently down her cheek.
“You’re incredible, Breezy. You’re strong and intelligent and brave.
You’re quite literally the opposite of a coward.
I mean, you didn’t have to come out there in that storm,” I remind her.
“You didn’t have to help me deliver those lambs, but you did.
Because you’re amazing. Because you’re an incredible person.
Because you’re the kind of fucking person we all strive to be. ”
Her eyes find mine, and something in them softens. “You always say the right thing.”
“I don’t think it’s so much that I say the right things, Breezy. I think it’s more that you’re simply one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known.”
“That’s really…sweet.”
“Well, it’s the truth,” I tell her and mean every fucking word. “Now, how about you ignore that text message, for tonight at least, and focus on the very important task you still need to do?”
She quirks a brow. “And what exactly would that task be?”
“You helped bring two baby lambs into the world. And that means you get naming rights.”
Her face brightens. “I get to name them?”
I nod.
“Holy moly…okay…no pressure, huh?” She thinks it over carefully before finally saying, “Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Uh-huh.” A big smile stretches across her face. “Tom.”
“And the other lamb?”
“Also Tom.”
I chuckle. “Breezy, the other one is a girl.”
“I’m just messing with you,” she says, and her voice is light and airy and happy in the way that makes me grin. “Obviously, her name is Betsy.”
“Tom and Betsy?”
“Yep.” She nods. “Tom and Betsy.”
Breezy sets down her mug and slides closer to me until her knee is propped up on my thigh and the hem of my flannel rides up her leg. Her hand rests on my sternum, just above where my heart is already starting to increase in rhythm inside my chest.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me. Really looks. The kind of look that feels like she might have the power to see past everything I’ve built to keep people out.
Her voice is soft when it finally comes. “You make it easy to forget what I came here to figure out.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” Because she does the exact same thing for me.
Her mouth curves up, but it’s not a smile; it’s something smaller and more fragile.
She responds by leaning in and kissing me.
It’s not the grab-and-burn of the hallway or the kitchen or every other place we’ve tried to outrun ourselves. It’s slower. Steadier. More intense in a way I can’t put my finger on.
Heat follows, because it always does. She tastes like chocolate and whiskey and the kind of trouble you choose on purpose, but underneath it all runs an undeniable current. One that I won’t let myself name.
The snowstorm continues to drum on the roof. Somewhere far off, a plow passes.
But inside the house, it’s just us.
Breezy smiles against my mouth, and I kiss her deeper as I rise to my feet and carry her into my bedroom.
I want and need to be with her tonight. And tomorrow night. And the next night after that.
Every time I’m with her, every time I touch her, every time I kiss her, the world feels lighter.
For a man who swore he’d never get too close to the sun again, I know I’m doing a piss-poor job of keeping that promise.
But it’s like I can’t fucking stop.