by L. B. Dunbar
As I continue down the gravel drive to Bull’s house, my thoughts race. What will I do? Rita is my first thought. Bull will not want me at his place, and I’ll need to call my best friend once again for support.
“Scarlett, hold up.” A deep male tenor behind me stops me in my tracks, and I turn to find Bull’s father coming down the lane.
“Harland?” I walk toward him, wondering if something else happened after one of the most humiliating moments of my life.
“Hang on,” he says, drawing closer to me, moving faster at sixty-something than I am.
“Harland, are you okay?” He’s my first concern as he’s breathing fast when we catch up to one another. He reaches for my hand extended toward him.
“Let’s walk a bit,” he says to me, waving out an arm, turning us back in the direction of Bull’s home. We begin in silence, and the anticipation of what he has to say rattles my weary bones. The evening is warm, and I’m suddenly exhausted. With the tension between us, I break first.
“I’m so sorry, Harland. I never meant any harm to your family or the farm.” I wish I could explain myself better. Saying it was my job feels like a weak and unworthy excuse. I don’t have a good reason for what I’ve done or what the network did.
“Darlin’, I’ve never met a person without regrets, and anyone who says he doesn’t have any is lying.” He softly chuckles. “Everyone makes mistakes. Bull’s made at least three, named Jennifer, Sabrina, and Gisela. Might even be a few more in there I don’t know about.”
I offer a weak smile, recalling my own major mistake named Dr. Shelton Blake. Somehow, my error seems so much bigger than anything Bull could have ever done. He deserves someone better than me. Better than Jennifer, Sabrina, Gisela, and now Scarlett on his list of women who have scorned him.
“It's what you do about a misstep once taken that’s the real lesson. Once you learn the wrong you’ve done, what matters is the next steps you take to make it right.”
I nod to agree as I look up at the dirt path before us. In some ways, I’ve just learned a valuable lesson. Reports such as the one the network made have consequences. It’s a lesson taught to a child but not necessarily understood until you’re standing in the middle of a poor decision. It occurs to me that Harland is patient and calm as he speaks to me. He isn’t scolding me or accusing me of wrongdoing as my parents would.
“I don’t know how I’ll make this right.” My eyes scan the lane and the pasture fenced in beside it. Somewhere off in the distance is that romantic tree, and Bull could have lost all this because of the network’s false reporting.
“Things happen on farms. Sometimes, it’s misinterpreted. Typically, it doesn’t make the news, but . . .” Harland shrugs.
I find little comfort in what he’s said as the initial story wasn’t really about the farm but a man who’d headed to the altar more than his fair share of times.
“I’ve hurt him,” I whisper. “I’ve hurt all of you.”
Harland sighs heavily. “That happens too, darlin’. It won’t be the last time, but hurt comes in waves.” He swipes his hand up and down like the rolling hills around us. “So does forgiveness.”
“I don’t think he’ll forgive me,” I whisper.
“First, you’ll need to forgive yourself.” Harland’s squinting, his gaze focused somewhere off in the distance. “You’ll need to accept what you did, realize what’s done is done, and then take steps to do right by it.”
While I understand what he’s saying, I don’t know how and say as much. “I don’t know what to do.” Apologizing will never be enough.
“I think it’s about time you learn more about this land and how we operate, seeing as it holds our future, and so do you.”
He continues to gaze forward when I turn to look at him. “I might be old, but I’m not blind. I know a pregnant woman when I see one. With life churning inside her, she has a certain glow about her. You have that same dazed, dreamy look my Rose had when she was carrying the boys.”
“The girls I work with call that dopey look pregnancy brain as I’m a bit forgetful at times.”
“The girls at work know you’re pregnant before the family?” Harland chides another slap of hurt in his tone.
“I had morning sickness at work. It was difficult to disguise as Audrey and Zara have both had babies.”
Harland nods. “You and Bull keeping it a secret for some reason?”
“No, sir, but there are some . . . complications surrounding my pregnancy, and I think we just wanted to be certain of a few things before we shared with everyone.”
“You feeling alright? Taking your vitamins and such?” His concern comforts me. His simple questions are more than my own parents have asked. Then again, they don’t know I’m pregnant yet unless Shelton told them, which I doubt he did.
“It’s nothing physical. Sprout is doing great.”
Harland makes a funny face, scrunching up his nose and forcing the crow’s feet near his eyes to fold. “Hope Sprout isn’t really the name you’re giving my grandbaby. It was difficult enough when Rose wanted to name Blade after a piece of grass.” He chuckles, and my smile grows.
“Bull’s been around the block some. Is the complication his reckless desire for love? Are you questioning your relationship status?” The question surprises me and sounds rather social media-ish. Does Harland know something I don’t? Is Bull unhappy with me? If he wasn’t before, he certainly is now. I have no doubt he’ll want nothing to do with me after this mess. He’ll decide he doesn’t want the baby after all if we learn it’s not his.
“I’m not certain what Bull and I were, but after this, I have no doubt he’ll want me to leave.” My chest aches. We had something. Two people cannot come together the way we did and not have something building between them. I can’t be alone in how I feel about him, but maybe I am. I certainly was alone in what I thought of my marriage. Maybe I’m just a bad judge of character. Maybe I can’t interpret people like I think I can.
“Bull’s angry,” Harland interjects. “He just needs time to cool off. My boys are lovers. They got that soft spot from their mother. I’ve seen him fall in and out of love so many times that it’s like watching a child on a seesaw. Eventually, the ride gets old, though, and a man wants to stop playing around. He needs to figure out what he really wants. I’ll say this, his eyes never followed a woman around a room the way his follow you. I’m not certain he’s ever smiled the way he does when he sees you. He was too young in his first marriage. Desperate to prove himself with his second attempt. Not certain about that third bird, but you, Scarlett, you’re the four-leaf clover he’s been looking for. Don’t give up on him yet.”
Harland must be confused because it will be Bull who walks away from me and not the other way around. Not only is this breaking his heart but it’s also hurting his family’s livelihood. Inspections? Lawyer fees? Loss of business? Our little story went too far, and I need to make amends. I need to make things right.
The next morning, I’m up when the cows rise, or at least I think that’s what a dairy farmer might say. Harland walked me the remainder of the way to Bull’s place, and I returned to the guest room for the night, so I didn’t hear Bull if he came in. However, when I climb down the stairs, groggy from a restless night of sleep, I find the under-cabinet lights on in the kitchen. The coffee pot is full with a mug next to it. Bull’s been leaving a mug by the machine every morning as I can’t reach where he places them on the highest shelf in his cupboard. The gesture hits me like an arrow in the chest. He’s still such a sweet man.
After slipping into a pair of old Wellies near the side door, I strut down the lane, ready to swallow my pride and learn more about this farm I’m living on. In the dark quiet of the early morning, it’s peaceful, and I take a deep breath of fresh air despite the hint of cow manure. I enter the large white structure housing the Eaton herd and hold back a wave of nausea at the animal smell.
“What are you doing here?” Blade says.
“I’m here to help milk the cows,” I state, putting on a brave face while having no idea what I’m getting myself into. If I had visions of hand milking some hundred-plus cows, Bull quickly dispelled the fantasy a while back, giving me a tour of the place where a complicated-looking machine rivaling the coffee maker at the Busy Bean actually does the milking. Bull and his family still need to do plenty of other things to move the process along, like steering the animals into position, sanitizing their udders, or teats as I’ve been corrected, and then hooking the machines up to milk.
“What the hell?” Bull says from behind me, and I spin to face him, feeling small compared to his booming voice and large presence, but my breath also hitches as it’s so good to see him, even if it’s been less than twelve hours. He looks as tired as I feel.
“I’d like to learn more about the farm,” I admit, trying to stay strong, but my voice cracks. He glances away from me for a second before turning back with a shield over those midnight blue eyes.
“It’s not safe in here for you.”
“Why not?’ Blade comes to my defense. I’m ready for Bull to tell his brother about toxoplasma or animal infection concerns while I’m pregnant, but he and I already learned cows make the safe list. Although we’ve both assumed his family doesn’t know I’m pregnant, his dad clearly does, leaving me to wonder if the others have their suspicions.
“She’s . . . it just isn’t,” Bull catches himself. “We don’t need help.”
“We can always use help,” Blade interjects again.
“Not from Scarlett.” The words are a sucker punch to the gut. Bull has written me off as unacceptable to be near his precious herd.
“Blade, could you give us a minute?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
“I’ve got work to do,” Bull mutters, turning for the door, but Blade’s circling me, glaring at his brother.
He mumbles to his eldest brother, “Be nice.” Then he slips through the door, leaving Bull and me alone.
“I’ve got to get to work, and you should still be sleeping.” He isn’t looking at me as he speaks but staring toward the door as if he’s longing to make a break for it. He can’t get away from me fast enough.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” I admit, missing him behind me, his arms around me. Shelton and I never slept close to one another, and I’ve grown accustomed to the warmth of Bull.
He huffs in response.
“Harland knows I’m pregnant,” I say, and Bull turns back to me.
“Did you tell him?” His voice rings incredulous as though I’ve betrayed him once again. It hurts that he thinks such a thing of me, but it’s not without reason. I shake my head.
“He said he just knew.” I recall his kind words about glowing. “He also mentioned it might be a good time to start learning about this place on a deeper level as I’m carrying its future.” My hand covers my lower belly. Does Bull still want this? I’m wearing knit leggings with some stretch and one of Bull’s T-shirts that fits almost like a dress. I’m warm, but I didn’t know what to wear.
“You might not be.” The strike hits its mark as Bull glares at me. After all his professions of wanting to be Sprout’s daddy no matter what, the words hurt. I should have known. My gut told me to wait. Don’t get involved with him. Stick to roommates.
Before I speak, I take a deep breath, fighting the pain in my chest. “Maybe we should find out sooner rather than later.” Bull has pushed for us to wait until the baby is born before taking a paternity test. While I want him to be Sprout’s daddy in every way, I also want to know the truth. I don’t want to feel like I’m still holding onto a piece of Shelton. After all that has happened, it’s time to learn the truth because I’m the one suddenly wading in muck, stuck up to my knees in love with a man who hates me.
“How?” Bull snaps.
“I’m sixteen weeks along, and I can have an amniocentesis.” I should really wait until I’m twenty weeks when I have another ultrasound, but I don’t want to put this test off any longer.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a genetic test. As I’m considered at risk due to my age, the test detects possible birth defects like Down syndrome and spinal bifida, but it can also determine paternity. We just need to swab the inside of your cheek for your DNA.”
“Birth defects?” Bull questions. “But you’re healthy.”
“Healthy as a cow.” The saying is healthy as a horse, but Bull doesn’t even crack a smile at my cow-comparison joke, and I swallow. “Anyway . . .”
“What about the baby?” Bull huffs, crossing his arms. “You can’t just draw blood from him.”
“The amnio uses a large needle to extract cells from around the baby. The sample holds Sprout’s DNA.”
Bull’s arms fall apart, fists forming at his sides. “Is that even safe?”
“Women have them all the time. There’s a risk, just like with everything else, but we need this.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. “We need the truth so we can move on from the unknown.”
“The truth,” Bull huffs. “I didn’t think you dabbled in truth.”
I take the sting of his words, understanding he’s still angry.
Bull stands taller, his expression hardening. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, though? To know the truth means you can move on.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to fight the words ready to lash back at him. I don’t want to move anywhere. I don’t want to be anywhere but here with him, but I understand he can’t accept I made a mistake. A horrible, horrendous, ridiculous mistake.
“I think we both deserve an answer,” I say, glancing down at my feet, wiggling my toes in the large rubber boots. Whose are these anyway?
“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.” Bull turns for the door, tugging it open and leaving me in someone else’s shoes. I’m not liking the feel of them.
My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from more tears by the time I get to the café. There’s work to be done, so I keep my head down, but I’m not fooling Roderick or Zara once she comes in. The morning rush is steady as it always is, and I’m more a bumbling barista than ever, especially when a customer makes a comment.
“Aren’t you that woman reporter from that television program?” Glancing over at Zara, I don’t know how to respond. My bosses know the truth as I’d put it on my application, but I’d assured them it wouldn’t ever be an issue. Who would recognize me?
“Would you like anything else?” I ask, ignoring the gray-haired woman’s question.
“You were on that show last night.” Her friend snaps her fingers to help her think faster. “The one reporting on our sweet Bull.” Her eyes narrow as full recognition takes over.
“That will be ten thirty-two,” Zara interjects, attempting to move these ladies along as there is a line.
“He had such a rough go of it. No lady luck,” the second woman tsks while the first nods to agree.
“But that wasn’t nice of you to report on him when he was stuck in the mud,” the first adds. For a moment, I wonder if Rita and I will be like this one day, admonishing salesclerks and berating baristas like two grouchy old women. I nod to agree with their assessment—it wasn’t nice of me—hoping it will appease them and force them to move on.
“Bovine Bridegroom? Who came up with such a name?” the second asks. I did. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow back the distasteful memory.
“Rude,” lady one states.
“Rude,” lady two adds, nodding at me with a scowl on her face. At any second, she’s going to tell me I should be ashamed of myself, and I’ll continue to agree with her. I’m deeply ashamed. Thankfully, they turn away with coffees in hand but continue grumbling as they take a table together.
“Need a break?” Zara mutters beside me, but I shake my head. I need to face what comes my way because I did this to myself, and I did this to Bull.
My breaking point comes when Louisa enters. She’s on another coffee date, and her head
pops up in recognition when she sees me behind the counter.
“You,” she mutters, slipping her arm into the elbow of the man standing next to her. She smiles falsely at me, her grin too large.
“Louisa,” I state, recalling her name.
“Poor Bull,” she whispers through a false smile. Her date ignores her, placing their orders, which thankfully Zara pours. I ring them up, addressing him with the total. After he pays, he picks up both mugs and turns away from the counter. Louisa’s hand slips from his arm, and she leans forward over the countertop.
“He would have been better off with me,” she whispers. “No one wants to be second best.” Her eyes roam my body. “Or even fourth in line.”
I grit my teeth as she walks away and then I turn for the coffee machine, grabbing a towel to clean off the nozzles Zara just used. Funny how Louisa would have been in that exact position had she dated Bull.
“Break. Now.” Zara gently pushes me aside and points at the kitchen where I enter to assist Roderick in his baking. I don’t need a break. I need to keep working. What is that old saying about idle hands? Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. We need that on our chalkboard beams.
Silently, I walk up next to Roderick. It’s summertime, and a favorite of mine is a good old-fashioned blueberry muffin, but our resident baker can never do simple. Instead, he’s making berry burst muffins, which is a delicious blend of berries in the batter, making the classic muffin explode like a firework in your mouth. The seasonal pastry is appropriately named.
“I heard about the report,” Roderick says, stating the obvious without naming the program. He’s working beside me as I scoop the muffin batter into the cups for baking. “I typically avoid that kind of sensational stuff because of Brian. I didn’t know you were famous.”
“I’m not,” I snap, too sharply. I might have won some awards, but in hindsight, they feel superficial. What have I done with my life? Reported on rumors about other people, while the good people around me worked hard, producing things like the treats in this café or, in the case of Bull and his family, milk, an American staple with a multitude of health benefits.