by Sosie Frost
Cassi was the only one in the family who could survive asking the question. “How?”
Hell if I knew. “Rem’s helping with the construction.”
“But what about the materials?”
I’d figure it out. Just like I’d figure out how to pay next year’s taxes, how to settle Dad’s old medical bills, how to scrape up enough money for seed and equipment. Wasn’t I always the one who managed the estate? Kept the farm solvent? Took care of a family who refused to take care of themselves?
I was done talking about it. “The only thing that matters is building the barn.”
And Tidus had to twist the knife. “Are you kidding? What about that developer? What did he offer?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I flung the pie into the oven. “The decision to sell had to be unanimous, and it wasn’t. So don’t worry about what that jackass said.”
“How much money did he offer, Jules?”
“Doesn’t fucking matter.”
“It does to me,” Tidus said.
“It was a shitty deal.” Wasn’t a lie. “We’d make more if we worked together and got the farm operational again.”
“Bullshit.” Tidus pitched his beer into the trash. It shattered on impact. “That is such bullshit. You know damn well it’ll take years before the farm makes a decent profit.”
And it didn’t matter. Any of it. “I’m looking out for our best interests. The deal was bad, and I wasn’t agreeing to sell for that price.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Then blame Dad’s will. We’re either all in or all out.”
“Well, I want out.”
“And I don’t.” It was hard to fight with an apron on. “Look, it’s going to be tough around here—”
Tidus swore. “Tough? That’s your excuse? We’re forced to come home, share this damn space, take care of the fucking farm—”
“And what exactly have you done?” My temper flared, a quick spike of frustration. “What have any of you done?”
Cassi shrugged. “Don’t you take that tone with me. I was the one who stayed here. I was the one who took care of Dad during those last months—without any of you.”
Exactly my point. “And you want to see the farm running again, don’t you? You won’t sell.”
She hesitated, biting her lip. “There’s no harm in talking about it. That’s a lot of money, Jules.”
“But this is our farm,” I said. “Our home.”
“No. This was my home, and all you of left me to take care of it and Dad by myself. You can’t just waltz back here and pick up where we left off. The farm is more than some crops and a barn and a three-legged goat…” Her voice broke. “Don’t you get it? Dad left us the farm, but he wasn’t trying to keep it together…he wanted us together. And now? I don’t think it’ll ever happen.”
I sighed. “Cas—”
“I gotta go get Rem’s nieces,” she said. “I’m staying at his cabin tonight.”
“Cassi, wait.”
She ignored me, shooing Marius back to the living room and his exercises before slamming her way out the door.
Fucking great.
Tidus stayed behind, entirely too sober for this conversation. “It’s not worth the hassle, Jules. You can’t force us all to hold hands and forgive the past and get along.”
Bullshit. “This farm is worth it. I think it’s worth it.”
“And why is that?” Tidus had a bad habit of saying the first shit that popped into his head and hoping it hurt. “Do you really think you make this farm a success, or are you looking for a way to sleep at night, and you think growing an ear of corn will shed the guilt?”
I took a breath. It didn’t help. “I’m doing this for the family.”
“You’re doing it for yourself. Because you fucked it all up. Because you weren’t here when everything fell apart. Because you got hurt and had to quit the game. It’s not about the fucking farm, Jules. It’s about shame.”
He was lucky he was my brother, and luckier that my fists were buried in dough and not aiming for his nose.
Tidus was lucky that he was right, and the only person I really wanted to punish was myself.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said.
“Your pies are burning, chef.” Tidus tossed an oven mitt at me. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your only chance at a barn.”
Tidus grabbed another beer and headed to the door. I took only a little pleasure as it swung open and smacked him in the head before he could dodge. Tidus stumbled backwards while Micah tumbled inside.
“Cowboy!” Micah took one look at the pies, made a face, and nearly bolted outside. She regained her composure and stared only at the ceiling. “We have a problem.”
Tidus scowled. “More than one.”
The door slammed behind him. Micah flinched.
“What’s wrong now?” I asked.
“Clyde got another. We didn’t notice.”
I was out of pie pans, sugar, and patience. “Jesus Christ.”
“It was strawberry rhubarb. Can you make it?”
“I don’t have rhubarb.”
Micah panicked, but she was good in a crisis. A little problem solver who wielded duct tape and the Park Fund checkbook like a pro.
“Celery!” She clapped her hands. “Do you have celery?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I promise, no one will know the difference.”
I smirked. “Corruption, thy name is Micah Robinson.”
“Jules, please.”
“So, all that bullshit about rules and regulations and ordinances was all for show?”
Her voice darkened, her expression hardened, but the hormones swung from her from anger to despair in the time it took me to dig the celery out of the crisper drawer.
“You think I like promoting anarchy? I’m defrauding the tax payers!” Micah groaned. “At least Marie Antoinette let her citizens eat cake—I’m tearing apart the fabric of society with fraudulent pie!”
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
“No?” Micah covered her face. “You might as well fill that pan with strawberry sham.”
“Okay, I really need to get you away from this fair.”
Micah kept wad of rubber bands, a schedule of events, and now a packet of tissues in her pocket. She raged and wept at the same time, dabbing at the tears.
“It’s only day one and everything is falling apart,” she said.
The Sawyer County Princess was also the Butterpond Municipal Drama Queen. I snapped off two ribs of celery and gave her a smile.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
She thumbed through her cellphone and checked off items on the list. “Once I get the pies, I can head back to the fairgrounds and take care of the tables for the elementary art exhibit.”
“What’s wrong with the tables?”
“There are none.” She scrolled through the rest of the list. “Then I’ll head to the printer and get the new programs.”
“What happened to the old ones?”
“Big Brit’s Salon.”
“What?”
“Was printed as Big Tits Salon, and the town considers it false advertising.” Micah rattled off the rest of the list. “I need to get the checks printed and signed for the bands.”
“Easy enough.”
“Buy condiments for the concession stand.” She glanced up. “Poor Alice is so hard of hearing.”
“Optimistic in her old age, isn’t she?”
“And I need to pitch a few more tents.”
I smirked. “I do that every day with you—”
“Save it, cowboy. You’re already sleeping with me,” she said. “I need chairs for the hall, hay for the horses, first-aid kits for the bees, and extra help setting up the food vendors.”
I batted the flour off my jeans. “Are you sure you can handle all this?”
“Yeah.” Micah checked her watch. “It’s only…ten th
irty. I can do all of that in…four hours. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait.” I tugged her back, amazed at how easily she fell into my arms. Wasn’t expecting the hug, but I wouldn’t miss the chance. “This is too much stress for you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Like hell. You’re pregnant. You’re going to the fairground, but you’re going to sit in the shade, and you’re only going to deal with the vendors.”
“But—”
“I’ll go get the tables and chairs and condoms.”
She wagged a finger at me. “Condiments. We’re doing fine without the other things.”
“That an invitation?” I asked.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
She glanced at the pies and sighed. “On how convincing those are.”
“Don’t worry about the dessert.” I kissed her, somehow suppressing that animalistic need to slam her on the counter, force her legs apart, and take my fill of something far sweeter than the pies. “You want a successful fair. I want my barn. I made a promise, and I’m gonna see it through.”
Micah stroked my chest with soft hands. “I know. It’s important to you.”
“You don’t know how important.”
I rubbed my face, but the exhaustion remained. Nothing new. Fatigue and money problems came with the farm, especially in the wake of Dad’s medical bills. Only made the family’s dysfunction worse. We’d been broken for so long that any compassion or compromise felt foreign.
But it hadn’t always been that way. Ten years ago, we’d lived for the farm. Chores sucked, and the house was cramped, but we’d been a family.
I could solve the money problems, but I had no idea how to fix the family. Especially when no one else cared about each other or their own misery.
Including my own.
It didn’t matter why we fought or how often we blamed each other. I knew the truth. The farm, our home, and our lives had fallen apart, and it was my fault.
I had to be the one to make it right.
Micah’s eyebrow arched. “You okay, cowboy?”
No, but I’d deal with it on my own. Why complicate something so perfect? Micah had set the rules herself—sex only. And if she wanted me to be her stress relief and cure for her morning sickness, who was I to argue? No sense fucking up a good fuck.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Head back. I’ll bring the pies up and start on the list.”
The kiss to my cheek wasn’t what either of us wanted, but Micah was only honest inside the privacy of her own home. In the field, we were enemies. In bed, she belonged to me. But everywhere in between, she tore at my sanity, my heart, and my soul.
I knew what I had to do. And I knew how much she’d fight it. But for the first time in years, I had a life plan of my own.
First, I’d deal with the fair.
Then, I’d get my barn.
And finally, when Micah had no place left to hide and no reason to fight…
I’d get the girl.
Chapter Fourteen
Micah
An eternity in Hell had nothing on the second day of a failing county fair.
The feral cats had taken the concession stand.
Rationing was in place, but it’d done nothing to alleviate the strain on our nacho cheese supply.
The ground bees had claimed one victim, and with it, the last of our insect sting relief ointment.
It was the hottest day of the year, and the rib cookoff nearly set the field ablaze. What wasn’t consumed by flames had been evacuated due to a broken mason jar of Gil Louis’s secret ingredient. Sheriff Samson confirmed the chef had cooked with pure capsaicin.
By mid-afternoon the natives were restless.
And I was exhausted. And nauseous. And convinced I’d lose my job. The pregnancy tango.
So when Gretchen burst into the tent I’d commandeered as my home-away-from-home-disturb-under-penalty-of-I’ll-eat-you, I’d feared the worst.
“We have a…situation.” Gretchen nibbled on her pinky nail, eyes as big as the puffball pigtails on the top of her head. “You better come with me.”
“Food, games, rides, or animals?” I asked.
Gretchen winced. “Riding animals?”
“What?”
She tugged me from the puddle of sweat and melting plastic chair I’d decided would be my final resting place. Mine would be a revealing eulogy—It wasn’t the pregnancy that got her, but the senior citizen uprising after learning the admission discount didn’t apply until the weekend.
Gretchen shoo’ed away the few members of the staging committee guarding the festival barn. The door opened only a crack, and she shoved me inside with the hay and the poop and the general animal stench that clung to my throat and would inevitably reveal the pregnancy in one unceremonious gag.
“Over there…” She covered her eyes. “They’re still going at it.”
I glanced into the pen, gasped, then turned to give the two sheep their due privacy.
I pointed behind me. “They’re…”
“Yep,” she said.
“They’re not supposed to…”
“Nope.”
“I thought they were separated male and female?”
Gretchen picked up a piece of broken, temporary wooden fencing. “They were. But…I don’t think Mr. Ram quite respected the plywood barrier between him and his…fluffy lady.”
“And how long…”
She cleared her throat. “About twenty minutes. On and off. He’s…uh…he’s dedicated.”
Jesus. More than enough time for a prize-winning ewe to destroy their futures on the fair circuit. The owner would not be pleased to discover unauthorized breeding. Neither would the ewe’s father, I suspected, once he had to organize the little shotgun, fleecy wedding.
“Oh this is baaaad.” She peeked over the railing. “He’s all over her. Tore down fences too. This is his second break-in.”
“Yeah, they’re a regular Romeo and Juliet,” I said.
“Capulet and Monta-ewe.” Gretchen groaned. “Great. Now I’m jealous of a sheep.”
“What do we tell the owners?”
“The truth, I guess.” Fortunately, she had doodled a diagram. The more salacious bits would need to be erased—or neutered—before being presented to the farmers. “From what we’ve gathered through witness testimonials, Brody broke free of the pen around nine AM. After recapture, we provided additional security to his fence as he was a known flight-risk given the…urgency of the situation.”
“Of course.”
“And Fiona.” Gretchen tapped her notebook, circling the cartoon sheep with the bow between her ears and the blush on her cheeks. “We assume she was the prime target as she has the softest fleece in the competition. Blue-ribbon winner three years running. How could Brody resist?”
I couldn’t imagine the newspaper headline. Butterpond Zoning Officer Charged In Raid On Illegal Sheep Brothel. “Fiona and I have a lot in common.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting lucky too?”
“No. I’m just fucked.” Especially now that Julian, life, and my own existential dread were having their way with me. “This fair is a disaster. The pie conspiracy is out of control. They’ve got photos, Gretchen. On Facebook. They’re comparing the differences between the pies on the table and their own photo shoots in their home kitchen. Forensic freaking evidence! No one doubts Mrs. Cruthers winning, but Mr. Antolini is challenging Mrs. Mills for second place. They’re demanding recounts.”
“But you destroyed the pies.”
Technically Clyde destroyed the pies. “The point is, there is a growing resistance brewing within the baking community. I’ve already found a whisk shoved through my car’s window.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a hell of a lot more threatening than a spatula.” I covered my face. “And now the sheep are breeding. If I still have my job at the end of the week, I’ll be amazed.”
Gre
tchen tried to cheer me up, even letting Ambrose settle at my feet. Problem was, she was such a horrible liar, she didn’t even try.
“Yeah,” she said. “I heard those rumors too. The council isn’t happy.”
“They’re never happy.”
“But you know, I talked to a friend of mine in Ironfield. The civil engineers’ office has a spot opening up. You’d be perfect for it. They’d take you in a heartbeat, and it’d be a hell of a lot better than this job.”
“Really?”
“Torch this damn festival,” she said. “You’d make more money there and you won’t have to give lambchop a talk about the birds and the bees.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Good, cause this is the coupling that never ends.”
“Lucky lady.”
“Will you…” I gestured towards the humping. “Will you take care of this?”
“What do you want me to do? Offer them a cigarette?”
“Too late for a talk about safe sex?”
Gretchen surveyed the scene. It wasn’t pretty. “I’d say so.”
“I’ll go get Julian,” I said. “He might…know something about this.”
“About breeding?” Gretchen giggled. “Oh, I’d imagine a man like him is very skilled.”
The words she wanted were impossibly fertile. “Watch the sheep. Don’t let anyone inside…except Brody. I’ll be back.”
It wasn’t an appropriate time or event to Snapchat, but Gretchen smiled like she posed for a yearbook photo. “They’ve got Jules in the dunk tank.”
Oh Christ. “Mayor Desmond was supposed to be the dunkee this afternoon!”
“Chickened out. But I think we’re better off. Jules’ jeans are super tight when wet. You can see everything.”
That image had already been seared into my mind. He’d slept in my bed last night, naked, sweaty, and oh-so-deliciously spent. The stress of the fair made it hard to sleep, but it was nothing compared to the most gorgeous man in the world nibbling his intentions along my neck, my breasts, and every secret place that seemed entirely too naughty for words.
Great, now I needed a dunk in the water too.
I hurried to one of the fair’s more popular venues, pushing through the crowds of excited families, screaming children, and bored teenagers. A cluster of amused fairgoers formed a semi-circle around the dunk tank, including a wandering clown, cotton-candy cart, and a one-man band composed of a drum, accordion, and kazoo whose application to perform I was sure I’d declined.