Page 8 of A Bittersweet Summer

“Fine,” she concedes, and I find myself wishing she wouldn’t.

Keep talking, I think. It’s often quiet around the farm. I like her brightness—her chattiness. It keeps the noise in my head at bay.

There’s a pause as I duck under the top of the golf cart and pluck the key from the cupholder. I get the thing turned on and realize I left my coffee in the barn.

“What aboutHe Who Shall Not Be Named?”

When I turn to step toward her, she inches back, just slightly, her eyes wide. I tower over her, reigning in the threat of a smirk, and tilting my head to the side. “Too wordy,” I offer. “Don’t you think?”

She straightens, gaining confidence. “I’ll think of something with fewer words.” Cass lifts a hand to her forehead and salutes.She actually salutesme. “That’s a promise, Boss Man Miller.”

I chuckle, shaking my head before planting myself in the driver’s seat of the cart. I pat the passenger’s side, encouraging her to sit down.

The sun sits fully above the horizon now, a golden haze covering the dew-slick grass. “We’ve got horses to feed,” I mutter, feeling the golf cart shift when Cass gets in, her presence making itself known.

She’s tucked into the seat as far away from me as possible, and with the way I’ve lost my grip on the reins of my thoughts, it’s probably better that way.

“Now,” I start, refocusing and lettingBoss Man Millertake over. “You’ll want to pay attention. That map is helpful, but it won’t help you learn the horses, and we’ve got quite a few.” I gesture to the frame of the golf cart. “Hold on,” I say. “Spring rains have the ground pretty muddy and uneven. Hopefully, we don’t get stuck.”

Four

Cassidy

Every muscle in my body screams out for relief, but I know the second I stop, I might not be able to get up.

That’s why when the golf cart rounds the bend, planting me in front of the colts’ gate, I hop out with unwarranted enthusiasm, and heave the bucket of grain from the back of the cart.

With another protest from my biceps, or possibly my triceps, I set the bucket near my mud-caked boots. Relief that Wesley trusted me enough to part ways sometime around noon feeds my soul the way a trip to the sea cures an old widow.

My hair has since migrated from a sleek ponytail at the back of my head to a frizzy mess piled atop my head.

Wind whips wild strands around my face when I grab the twine wrapped around the bale of hay. I force all my strength into lifting it from the back of the cart as the alfalfa pokes at my skin, leaving faint scratches up and down my forearms.

Cutting the bale with scissors, I separate the flakes and throw them over the fence as far as I can get them, then I trudge through the mud to an eager mass of young horses with a bucket in hand.

Thankfully, I met this group earlier today, so I know a little about their personalities.

What I don’t know is why Wesley chose to place the feed troughs so far from the gate where we get the horses.

My sock is wet, making a very obscene fart noise with every step I take, but if I’m being honest, these boots have been doing that all day. It’s just getting progressively worse.

The cheap rain boots were no replacement for the sturdier pair of muck boots that were supposed to arrive this morning, but once again, my package got delayed, and I was left with shoes that quake at the slightest scratch of a tree branch.

Needless to say, one wrong step, and my left boot was no longer waterproof.

Thus, the farting sock.

I scoop the feed into buckets, check each of the horses over, and turn to leave the field, knowing my last task was successfully completed.

All I can think about is my bed—soft with fresh sheets and a plush mattress cover I am so thankful I purchased while wallowing two months ago over how unfulfilled I’d felt at my job.

When I’d first gotten the job at the bar, it had been an urgent need to establish myself after moving back. The dimly lit room felt suffocating, especially considering it’s where I first met Chad. That place held memories of that which I’d rather forget, and while it served me for a time, I’d long outgrown its confines.

I’m much more suited to a job with more space—more room to grow. So even though I find myself longing for a good rest as soon as these horses eat, and I get the smell of hay out of my hair, I find that I like it out here.

Gentle wind rustles the grass as it snakes its way in my direction. I pause, keeping hold of the empty grain bucket and breathing deeply, as if I could fill my lungs with whatever stillness exists out here. Less noise and more purpose.

Trees run along the fenceline at the far end of the field, new leaves just beginning as spring touches the earth. Vibrant green ripples around horses as they happily eat their grain.