by Reid, Penny
* * *
“We don't have any place to put twenty dairy cows.” I tried not to twist my fingers, but I couldn’t help it.
After dressing in a rush—and mostly in the dark, unfortunately—we were now on the way to Miller Farm. Not much had been said between us about anything other than the current predicament.
"But you could probably use one." Cletus stroked his beard, his elbow on the windowsill of the . . . truck?
Honestly, I didn’t know what this thing was.
Usually, he took one of his Buicks whenever we drove together—he owned two identical 1971 Buick Rivieras—but preferred his tiny Geo when it was just him. However, on the way, we’d dropped off Cletus’s Buick Riviera at the Winston Brothers Auto Shop in favor of this new-to-me army green colored classic Ford of some sort. It kinda looked like a truck, but it also looked like an SUV.
“What kind of car is this?” I ran my hand along the bench seat, certain the new looking tan leather interior wasn’t original to the vehicle.
“It’s a 1969 Ford Bronco wagon, V8, 302.”
“It’s a station wagon?”
“No. It’s a precursor to the modern-day SUV.”
“What was wrong with the Buick?”
“The Bronco is a four-by-four, takes the turns better than the Buicks,” he muttered absentmindedly, answering each of my questions as though on autopilot.
The only way to Miller Farm required taking back roads, up and down the mountains, a long and twisty ride I knew by heart, seeing as how I’d been stopping by Miller Farm every Saturday afternoon for over a month.
“You don't have anyone to milk it though,” he said, still stroking his beard.
“Please. Do not let my mother buy even one of those cows.”
His attention flicked to me, and then back to the road. “I doubt Diane Donner would care to hear my opinion about the weather, let alone how she should spend her own money. Who do we know with an unused barn?”
"Nancy Danvish." I laughed my reply. "She just got rid of almost all her livestock in the fall.”
“Retired.”
“That’s what I thought. But my momma said something this morning about her going into business with my father.”
“Doing what?”
“Something about a farming experience bed and breakfast. I didn’t ask her any questions, I was so tired.”
“And now your father, after disappearing for weeks, returns this week to attend a livestock auction at Miller Farm.”
“I don’t understand it. Farmer Miller never said anything to me about selling his cows, and I was just there last week when I picked up our order.” I rubbed my forehead.
“Did you talk to him last Saturday? That would’ve been New Year’s Eve.”
“No. One of the other guys helped me load up the order. They said the Millers had company over, on account of it being . . .” I trailed off, not finishing my sentence, and lowered my gaze to my lap.
I was still sore for having to miss New Year’s Eve with Cletus.
I’d had a choice: keep my promise to Cletus and spend the evening with him, or stay with my sobbing mother who I’d found drunk on the floor of the kitchen in my parents’—I mean, my momma’s house. Shortly after phoning Cletus and breaking the bad news, she’d confessed that she’d had a one-night stand with an Iron Wraith, at the Dragon Biker Bar, at Christmas, when I’d left her alone to have dinner with the Winstons!
What could I do? I couldn’t leave her, and I knew she’d never forgive me if I’d invited Cletus over. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her in such a state. I never did ask if she’d seen Isaac while she was at the bar, but I suspected not. Actually, after ascertaining that she hadn’t been hurt, I never asked her anything about it, and she hadn’t brought it up since.
Point was, she’d been fragile, apt to make crazy choices, and needed supervision.
“Now I have to find a new dairy,” I said, mostly to change the subject away from the disappointment of New Year’s Eve.
“If your mother carries through on her threat to buy even one of those cows, you’ll be swimming in milk,” Cletus said suddenly, giving me the impression he’d come to a decision about something. "I wonder if we could use the Quonset hut, for a time. Or maybe I could talk Jethro into building a barn."
"No. Don't do that. We're going to talk my mother out of this crazy scheme, not enable it. She doesn't really want those poor animals, she just wants to win against my father."
Cletus made a noncommittal sound, his thumb rubbing the tan leather of the steering wheel in a slow circle, which made me jealous of the steering wheel. I covered my face. We desperately needed time. Together. Alone. Not driving to another livestock emergency.
We needed hours to touch and talk, to figure things out and make plans for the future. That is, if he still wants a future with you.
Oh dear Lord, I was suffering from a chronic and acute case of the doubts. Huffing at myself, I did my best to push the doubts from my mind, but they wouldn’t be pushed. In fact, they pushed back and suddenly I was awash with worries I’d been painstakingly ignoring.
It’s not that I didn’t trust Cletus with my heart, I absolutely did . . . as of Thanksgiving. But we’d been apart for so long, me letting my mother and work come between us, I wouldn’t blame him if he no longer intended to uphold his hasty proposal. He hadn’t mentioned our engagement since, and he hadn’t corrected me when I introduced him as my boyfriend.
What if he doesn’t want to get married? Or he was only proposing because I might’ve been pregnant? What if he’s having second thoughts about being with you at all? WHAT IF HE’S MET SOMEONE ELSE?
I peeked through my fingers and examined his profile. He seemed deep in thought. Meanwhile, my heart was racing with the doubts.
“Cletus.” I tried to keep my voice light. I failed.
“Yes?” He sounded distracted.
Clearing my throat, I asked calmly, “What are you thinking about?”
"I’d sure like to get my hands on one of those Guernsey heifers.”
“You want what?” I reared back.
“I mean the Miller cows.” He glanced at me, the side of his mouth twitching up. “They’re Guernsey, not Holstein. Very few Guernsey remain in the USA, just about 4000 I reckon.”
“Oh.” I let my hands drop from my face, feeling silly. That’s what you get, Jennifer, for entertaining doubts.
“What did you think I meant?” he asked.
I wasn’t going to answer that question.
Instead I asked, “What’s the difference? Between Holstein and Guernsey?”
“Holstein cows produce this protein, they call it A1, in their milk, and it’s been linked to all kinds of digestive issues. There’s a theory that most folks in the US who think they’re lactose intolerant actually just have difficulty with the A1 protein.”
“And Guernsey heifers don’t make A1 protein in their milk?”
“About ninety percent of Guernsey don’t. They produce the easier to digest A2 protein, which some people believe is better for you.”
“Do you think so?”
“I honestly don’t care whether it’s good for me or not, I just think Guernsey milk tastes superior, as does the cream and butter.”
"If A1 causes lactose intolerance and digestive problems, and the Guernsey milk tastes better, then why do we use Holstein cows at all?"
"Higher milk production."
I waited for more, for him to continue with additional reasons. When he didn’t, I asked, "That's it?"
"As far as I know. But I'm not a dairy farmer.” He flexed his legs as though stretching them and added what sounded like, “Yet," under his breath.
"That's crazy."
"Quantity or quality, that's the choice."
"Well, it shouldn't even be a question. Quality should always win."
He shrugged.
"Don't shrug like that. When you shrug like that, it makes me sad."
"Like what?"
>
"Like it—something, whatever it is—is futile."
"Here we are." A small, sad looking smile on his face, he flicked on the blinker, slowed, but didn’t pull into the gravel driveway as it was packed with cars, trucks, and trailers.
I gaped at the cars spilling out of the driveway and parked on the side of the road. "This is crazy.”
Cletus lifted his chin to a real estate sign. "Looks like he already sold the farm, now he's just selling everything else."
“That sign wasn’t there last week. I didn’t even know it was for sale.” I sat up straighter in my seat. "This is weird. Something is off. Farms don’t list and sell in a matter of days."
"Agree."
We fell into silence, and Cletus crept along until he found an empty spot. Cutting the engine, he grabbed his phone from the middle console and tucked it in his pocket before exiting.
Meanwhile, I glanced mournfully around the landscape. I loved this stretch of property. Not only did it have a gorgeous view and its own little lake, but it was high up in the hills rather than down in the valley with the rest of the farms. A rare, high prairie where the cows and goats and sheep ate their grass and lived peaceful lives.
I wonder if he’s selling the goats?
Farmer Miller kept pygmy goats, just three of them. He raised them for milk, and his wife offered goat cheese making classes over the summer for tourists, which was how I knew about the dairy. After meeting the cute, friendly little ladies in the fall, I’d frequently entertained thoughts of buying my own pygmy goat.
Cletus opened the passenger door and pulled me from my covetous reflections. He offered a hand, which I accepted, and helped me out of the car. Once the door was shut, he kept hold of my hand, leading us along the tall northern Ligustrum hedge toward the footpath entrance to the farm.
"I wish I'd known this place was for sale," I said and thought.
"Why?"
"Uh, just because."
I sensed his attention on me, scrutinizing, before it moved to the gate. He unlatched it, scanning the front of the property as we walked through the overgrown arch formed by the hedgerow. I wondered what Cletus saw as he looked around, what assessments and conclusions he was making.
In front of us was a field of unkept grass and wildflowers, at least an acre square, sloping up to the house. Farmer Miller didn’t pasture his cows out here, they were tucked safely behind the house and an electric fence. It was obvious he didn’t mow the field either, the whole acre remained open and wild. I imagined it would be full of green and flowers in the spring, fireflies on summer nights, and honeybees on blossoms in the fall, protected from the road and prying eyes by the thick hedgerow. But right now, the field was a sea of brown and gray, cold and sparse.
“The house is in disrepair.” Cletus was squinting at the sad little cinder block ranch house in the distance, which used to be white but now looked as gray as the field.
"Yes. It is." And it didn’t fit the rest of the place. I’d thought as much the first time I’d seen it.
But the barn was well taken care of, as were all the other outbuildings, and ideally situated for a homestead. A big vegetable garden, and goats and chickens and turkeys, maybe even a sheep or two. And here, where we were walking now, one could plant a hedge maze with a rose garden at the center . . . not that I'd given it much thought.
"You look like you're having a lot of feelings. Care to share any?"
"Just—” I sucked in a breath, looking beyond the roof of the sad, short house to the blue sky and pasture, the mountains and valleys. If the house was replaced, if something new was built, a two-story craftsman with a deck on the roof and a big porch on the second floor, then the view wouldn’t be lost on cows and goats.
“Jenn?” He squeezed my hand, my name soft on his lips, grabbing and arresting my attention.
I took another breath, wanting to say so much but knowing now wasn’t the time. Not with my mother minutes away from buying heifers just to spite my father. Plus, Miller Farm was sold. Even if I wanted it, that ship had sailed.
“Just that, we should talk soon.” I felt like shrugging one of Cletus’s futility shrugs.
"Agree." He nodded, a frown forming behind his eyes.
He turned, keeping hold of my hand, and we walked for a while. The crunch of frozen grass and dead flower stalks gave way to the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes.
My mind was all over the place, and I blurted, "About us," when we were just about a hundred feet from the house. Which, again, wasn’t the right time to be starting any conversation on the topic, but maybe there would never be a right time?
His steps faltered and he seemed to take a bracing breath before saying, “Agree.”
"Cletus, I miss you."
He stopped, turned, and locked eyes with mine. Just like in the Bronco, his usually vivid blue gaze appeared stormy, ill at ease. Restrained.
"I miss you too,” he said.
This terse echoing of my admission felt like a single drop of water when I was dying of thirst. Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as having this talk right now. Whole farms could be bought and sold in a week! Time was leaving us in the dust.
"I know the reason we miss each other is my fault. I know that. I take full responsibility, and I’m sorry."
He turned, shaking his head, pulling us toward the house and the voices of the crowd, presumably gathered for the auction.
"I'm so sorry. But I want to let you know, I spoke to my momma this morning and things are really going to change."
He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the gravel path in front of us, but I could see by sneaking a peek at his profile that his mouth was curved downward. More than that, I could feel his unhappiness and frustration.
"I'm so sorry."
"Please stop apologizing."
"Then what can I do?"
"Keep your word."
Chapter Eight
“To love a woman for her virtues is meaningless. She's earned it, it's a payment, not a gift. But to love her for her vices is a real gift, unearned and undeserved.”
― Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
*Jenn*
Ouch.
I winced, my free hand lifting and stalling at my middle instead of pressing to my heart, where the pain originated.
He made a grumbly, unhappy sound, shoving his free hand in his pocket, and then pulling it out to push through his unruly hair. It looked like he hadn't had a haircut in months, and his curly locks were poking every which way, wild.
Abruptly, he faced me, released my hand, slid it to my elbow, and brought us to a stop. "First and foremost, I don't want you to be sorry. I understand that sometimes you'll need to break your word to me, out of necessity, depending on the situation, when things happen beyond your control. I understand that. But when every promise is broken because everything is out of your control, I will be concerned." His tone careful, his gaze shuttered, as though he were actively wringing every ounce of chaos and feeling from them as he spoke.
“Everything isn’t out of my control.”
He let go of my elbow, breaking the physical contact between us. “And yet, you’ve broken every promise.”
Ouch.
This time, I did rub my chest as his words hit their mark.
"This isn’t about me, or us, not really.” He lowered his voice, but it still lacked any heat or emotion. “Keep your word to yourself, Jenn. You promised yourself you'd set boundaries—for yourself—with the bakery and your mother. And, yes, I benefit from those boundaries. Selfishly, I'd like for you to hold firm. But also unselfishly too. I worry about you. You’re killing yourself, working seventy, eighty or more hours a week.”
“I know.” I stepped closer, nodding. “And I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. Please.” He closed his eyes, an edge of real anger sharpening his words.
I stifled the urge to apologize again, clamping my mouth shut.
He continued without opening his eyes, his voice
devoid of sentiment. “I'd like to say I've learned my lesson, to let folks fight their own battles—you in particular—but I’m not sure about that anymore. I’ve done nothing, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been tempted to interfere. Watching you cede those boundaries every week while I sit on my hands hasn’t been easy. It feels unnatural.”
Indignation and irritation warred with reason and before I could sort through which of my feelings was more valid, I was already speaking, “I understand your frustration, but you need to let me handle things my way. Don’t you think I miss you? Don’t you think I’m frustrated too?”
He swallowed around some thickness, saying nothing, but when he opened his eyes, he didn’t give them to me. They remained firmly planted on the gravel between us.
“Like I said, I spoke to my mother this morning. She’s hiring another baker so I can have weekends off starting in—in March.” I’d made her promise February, and I would hold her to February, but promising March to Cletus right now felt safer, just in case. “And I’ll have Mondays and Tuesdays completely off starting immediately. Uh, or—I mean next week. I have to prep and submit for the first round of the state fair judging this week, but after this week, things should be so much better.”
He continued staring at the ground, motionless and immovable like a boulder, except for the subtle ticking of his jaw at his temple. Mere inches were between us, yet what presently separated us felt wider than Farmer Miller’s wild acre.
I tried adding, “I'm no longer running these supply errands—well, just for the bananas, ’cause you know how particular I am about bananas—but that's why my mother is here right now. She came to Miller Farm to pick up the milk instead of me. Please. Trust me. I’m trying to make things better.”
I stepped forward, he stepped back, and my heart sunk to my feet.
Cletus lifted his attention from the rocks, his eyes on the path behind me, yet I had the sense his focus was inward. “I trust you. I believe in you. I know you’re strong, wise, capable. I know you are. I trust you.”