by L. B. Dunbar
“I don’t know that I’ll be good at being just a mom,” I whisper. I consider my own mother and her lack of involvement in my life while placing overwhelming pressure on me. I haven’t spoken to my parents since their betraying phone call. If my own mother could not be happy for me and support me, I didn’t feel the need to include them in my future child’s life. I’d heard stories of poor parents being excellent grandparents, but I wasn’t taking the risk with mine. I had faith Harland would be all the grandparent Sprout would need. Plus, Sprout wouldn’t lack love from uncles and a cousin who has already offered babysitting services.
“Honey, you’ll be the wonderful person I know you to be. It’s just a change. Change is difficult, but sometimes it’s also for the best.” Rita knows. She’s having her own midlife crisis as she calls it. “Your life is never going to be the same again, though. So, I’d get used to constant change, my friend.”
She’s right in many ways. Every day will no longer be my own but the development of my child. The thought brings new tears, but this time they are a mix of fear and elation.
I’m going to be a mom soon.
It’s a job I never knew I wanted until suddenly it was mine.
24
Birthday Wishes
Bull
As fall blooms into a kaleidoscope of colors, I point out the Engagement Tree to Scarlett one afternoon in October. We are two months out from her due date. The brilliant red color isn’t lost among the autumn spectacular. The heart of this land beats bright as does my heart for Scarlett.
“We should have a picnic up there one afternoon,” Scarlett suggests, but I shrug off the idea. It isn’t that I don’t want to eat under the tree and spend a lazy day with her, but I don’t trust myself near that tree. Each passing day with Scarlett digs deeper into my feelings for her. I want to marry her. I want the statement of making her mine, but it’s the last thing I can ask of her, and Scarlett’s made no hint of marrying again.
After her ex-husband's adultery and the disloyalty added to the wound with her parents, marriage seems like the furthest thing from Scarlett’s mind. She’s grappling enough with motherhood—a job she’s determined to do well now that she’s left the Busy Bean. She’s also taken a more vested interest in the dairy.
“So what’s on the docket today?” she asks.
“Insemination,” I reply without a thought. Scarlett sputters her coffee as we stand near the counter. I try to ignore how she looks barefoot in my kitchen. The suggestion of her being here all the time would toss me back in the 1950s, but she does look good, all sleepy and hair mussed up in another pair of flannel pajamas tucked under her belly and one of my T-shirts covering her. She wasn’t wearing more than that shirt this morning in the bed we share, but it’s chilly down here first thing.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes rapidly blink as she lowers her coffee mug. “Are we talking cow sex?”
“Sort of. We have an insemination technician coming today to impregnate a few of those ready to birth again.”
“What is an insemination technician? Like a superhero bull?”
I laugh at Scarlett’s imagination. “Well, technically speaking, an excited bull could perform up to twenty times a day, which does seem like superhero status.”
Her mouth falls open. “I don’t know whether to applaud him or cringe. How does he even get it up twenty times a day?”
“Stroke up the inside of his thigh.” Her eyes narrow in disbelief, and I reach forward, stroking my hand along the inside of her leg. Those dark eyes of hers widen, and I see I’ve made my point. “Ideally, we’d put a bull out to pasture and let him go at it, but we need to be selective and organized with a schedule, so the technician comes and injects those ready with semen instead.”
“Uhm, and how exactly do you collect bull semen? Giant paper cups?” Scarlett laughs at her own joke, and I chuckle with her.
“No, it’s like a giant cow condom used as he mounts a cow or an old bull.”
“Gay cow sex?” Her brow lifts.
“It’s a thing.” I chuckle as she still doesn’t believe me. “You can actually order a variety of semen specimens from a catalog. It gets expensive, like up to fifty dollars a tube.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Her face is incredulous, doubting everything I say. “That’s like golden semen.”
“Yep.”
Scarlett’s thoughtful a second. “So if I came up behind you—” She circles around me and places her hand between my legs. “And stroke up like this.” Her fingers drag up the inside of my thigh, but the added pressure does the trick. “Does that get you ready?”
“Are you comparing me to a cow?” I tease of her insistence that she’s compared to one often. I’m also struggling with how well her touching me like that worked.
“The name does fit,” she teases.
“Technically, it’s Bull, so I’m not a cow.”
“Hmm…yes, you are. All bull.” Her hand continues working up and down the inside of my thigh as she stands behind me.
“Scarlett, don’t be starting something we can’t finish,” I warn her as I need to go soon. Before the technician arrives in the afternoon, I need to get to a final cut of our feed pastures, which will get us through winter.
“Who says we can’t finish?” Her hand slips farther between my thighs, and she cups me, gripping my balls through my jeans.
“Jesus,” I hiss.
“Maybe you could make a deposit in me?” Something is so wrong about what she’s said, but her sultry voice is turning me on just as much as her hands massaging me through the denim.
“I already did that, sweetheart.” Seven months ago, again last night, and all the days ending in day between, but Scarlett is insatiable, and I’m not complaining. Spinning around her, I switch positions with her and lift Scarlett’s hands, securing them to the edge of the kitchen counter. “Want to know what it would be like in the pasture?”
“Now you are comparing me to a cow,” she says, but when I hastily tug down her flannels to find her not wearing underwear beneath them, her laughter stops. My hand skims up her inner thigh as I stand behind her. “Are you ready for me?”
She doesn’t disappoint as my fingers meet wetness. She’s practically dripping. “God, I love how quickly you respond to me.” Two fingers dive into her, pressing forward on a rush before pulling back in retreat. Scarlett chases my fingers, eager to keep me inside her. Her fingers clutch at the counter as her backside stretches toward me. Thrusting my fingers inward again, Scarlett grunts. Her back arches, and her arms stiffen.
“Bull,” she hums, but I’m already working on opening my jeans. Button undone. Zipper down. I shove at the sides of my pants, lowering them enough to spring free.
“This is how it happens,” I say to her, lining myself up, coating the tip through her slick folds. “One of the most natural acts in nature.”
“If you’re comparing us to farm animals . . .” Her breath catches as I surge forward, filling her. Her elbows bend, but her hands keep her from colliding with the cabinets. She’s bent over and braced while I pull back and rush forward again.
“We are animals, Scarlett. Wild and reckless and crazy about each other.”
“Crazy,” she mutters, adding that little noise she makes that lets me know how thrilled she is with what I’m doing to her. I wish I could make a sound to let her know how happy she makes me. As our skin slaps and the suction sound slurps, I realize this is our harmony, our rhythm, and our music. This is the song that Scarlett and I sing, and I want to belt it from the mountains around us. I want the world to know how I feel about her.
“God, Scarlett, I love . . . being with you.” Scarlett dips forward, her head lower between her outstretched arms as she groans and stills. Her knees give, and the telltale signs of her breaking around me occur. My fingers dig into her hips, slamming into her two more times before I find my own release. Sated, I slip my hands up her back and along her arms, entwining my fingers with hers. With erra
tic breaths, my forehead lowers to her back.
“Got nineteen more rounds in you to live up to that namesake?” she teases of me. At least, I hope she’s teasing me.
“Any day that ends in day, I’m good to go.”
Scarlett laughs. Slowly, I stand and slip out of her, reaching for the towel draped over the sink before bringing it between her legs. With a hand on one hip, I guide her to stand.
“I don’t think I need it twenty times in a day,” she says. “But I’m happy to do it every day ending in day with you. Especially on your birthday.”
Scarlett turns to face me, her flannel pants still down at her ankles. “And I love . . . being with you, too.” She smiles up at me, and I’m curious if the repetition, and pause of my words, was intentional. Could she mean something more? Could she want something else with me? It’s more than sex once a day with Scarlett. It’s everything about her that I love. As archaic as it sounds, I love the way she looks in my kitchen. The scent of her lingering in the bed we share. The eagerness with which she faces each day on this farm. Admittedly, this is one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, and I’d do it every day, ending in day, as long as we could do it forever.
“Happy Birthday, honey,” she says. Tipping up on her toes, she kisses me long and lazily as if we have the rest of the day to celebrate, which we don’t.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I promise her.
“I’ll be here waiting on you.”
I love the thought. I love that she stuck around—staying power, as she called it.
“You never told me what you’d like for your birthday,” she teases, wrapping her arms around my neck, making me linger just a little longer. Can I tell her the truth? The thing I want most is for her to marry me. I want her to be my wife, yet even thinking about it makes me edgy. Proposing to her would ruin everything we have that’s going so well.
“You don’t have to get me anything, sweetheart. I already have all I ever wanted.” My hand falls to her belly before I lean down for a kiss on her covered skin. The baby kicks back as if it felt my touch.
“Sprout can hear you,” she whispers as I stand upright but still cover her swollen stomach.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Say something to my belly.”
Lowering again, I lift her shirt to make contact with her extended stomach. Pressing my lips to her skin, I feel a little silly, but I speak. “Hey, baby. I can’t wait for your birthday. I’m gonna love you like crazy.”
A little nudge at my face against her tummy has me standing quickly again. Scarlett laughs at my widened eyes. “He knows you’re his daddy and you’re waiting on him.”
Jesus. My eyes burn. My nose prickles. Every birthday wish I’ve ever had is standing right in this kitchen, and I love it. I love them both, but I’ll keep that sentiment on lockdown. I won’t risk giving it up.
“So birthday,” she interrupts my thoughts. We’ll just be having a family dinner at the main house and then return here.
“Maybe you can be my cake?” I tease, and Scarlett laughs.
“You like cake?” she teases, slipping her arms down to my chest.
“I love Scarlett cake.”
Her breath catches, and I realize how close I came to slipping up.
“If I say I love Bull cake, that just sounds wrong somehow.” She chuckles, dismissing the panic I’m certain has spread across my face.
“Well, it’s better than liking Bull’s stick,” I state.
“Is that something related back to the insemination expert? Because if it is, I’m definitely liking Bull’s stick.”
“Scarlett, you’re crazy.” I laugh.
“And that’s what you love about me.” Her eyes sparkle, waiting me out to confirm or deny her words. Instead, I just kiss her again to distract her from the fact that as much as I want to confirm my emotions, I’ll deny them in order to keep her here.
That night at the family dinner, a discussion about the Bottom farm next door comes up.
“So let me get this straight. They are sheep farmers, but they want to share the land,” Scarlett asks.
“Our back pastures butts up against theirs, and they want to expand. They thought we could share the space,” Dad explains.
“Well, Redd wanted to share the field,” I remind my family.
“Was this the same field that . . .” Scarlett’s voice drifts, leaving the implication clear. It’s the same field that flooded, where I was captured on film. Her face grimaces.
“Anyway, Redd’s father, Harry, passed away years ago and—”
“Wait?” Scarlett holds up a hand, a chuckle already filling her voice. “His name was not really Harry.” She pauses for clarification. “Harry Bottom?”
“Yes,” Dad answers in all seriousness, but Scarlett’s already giggling, and Blade’s grin begins to grow.
“Harry Bottom,” Scarlett repeats, looking at my father, who doesn’t crack a smile. He only nods. “Harry Bottom had a son named Redd Bottom.”
Scarlett snorts, and it finally registers with Dad. “After years of working to keep a straight face over that name, I get it, but Harry was a good man. His son, I cannot say the same of.”
“Because Redd Bottom is an ass,” Canyon mutters, and Scarlett loses all control. She’s laughing so hard tears fill her eyes. She’s holding her belly, and the sound coming from her is infectious. Blade starts laughing next.
“Okay, settle down,” Dad says, finally giving in to the smile curling his lips.
“Harland, if you tell me he has another son named Prickly or Round or something like that, I’m going to have to excuse myself.” Scarlett’s already told me the baby presses on her bladder, and some days, she embarrassingly can’t hold it all back if she coughs or laughs. Explaining this fun fact, which was more than I needed to know about her, sent her into tears.
“He actually has a daughter,” Harland explains. “Her name is Cherry.”
“No,” Scarlett says, dragging out the word.
“Kid you not,” Dad says again, and Scarlett’s laughing uncontrollably once more, but Blade isn’t catching on.
“What’s so funny about that? Cherry is sweet,” Blade defends, and Scarlett can’t even breathe.
“I bet she is,” Canyon adds, narrowing his eyes at Blade. Scarlett presses off the table, excusing herself as she holds her belly.
“Anyway,” Dad says, still smiling at the laughter following Scarlett like a comet tail. “We need to shore up those fences so his damn sheep don’t escape onto our land again. They’ll tear up that field with their hooves. And loose sheep just beg for predators to come hunting on our property.”
Dad doesn’t need to remind me. Scarlett returns within seconds, still wiping at her eyes.
“Oh my. I needed that laugh.” She snorts once more, and Canyon shakes his head at my . . . girl. It seems silly to call a grown woman my girl but calling her my woman sounds a bit harsh. Girlfriend seems like we’re teens, and woman-friend sounds worse. There’s only one label I want for Scarlett, but she won’t be getting it.
“Okay, boys. Carly. Joey. I have a special cake for Bull back at the house, so we should be heading out,” Scarlett says in her take-charge voice. Her face gives nothing away, but we both know the cake she’s referencing is her own body.
“You baked?” Carly teases.
“Of course not. I stopped at a bakery in Colebury.” Scarlett winks at me, and I stand to thank the family for the presents they’d given me. A new belt from my father. A gift card from Canyon and Joey. A book about the moon from Blade. Carly makes good food, and that’s all I’ve ever needed from her.
“What’s this?” I ask Scarlett the following evening. Holding out her phone, I glance up at her. The screen lit up while she was in the bathroom, and I caught a glance of the notification.
“What’s what?” she snaps, matching my sharp tone. She’s defensive somedays and then quick to apologize, explaining the pregnancy weighs on her. She’s been coope
d up since leaving the Busy Bean back in August, and while she’s adjusting to farm life as a city girl, some days are a struggle.
She’s only seven weeks from her due date and growing incredibly uncomfortable. Relegated to more rest than play, she’s coming out of her skin.
As she steps up to me, I turn her phone so the screen faces her. Reaching out for it, she tugs the device from my hands and stares at the portion of a notification presented on the home page
Call me about the opportunity to . . . The partial message is from her former boss, Lex.
“What does this mean?” My tone is harsh, although I don’t mean it to be. I’m on edge myself lately. It’s getting harder and harder to fight my feelings, especially after a wild night like last night where we celebrated my birthday in our own manner, and then Scarlett presented me with a telescope to see the moon.
It’s a Celestron brand PowerSeeker worth almost four hundred dollars.
“I had a telescope as I kid, but I haven’t used it in ages,” I’d told her.
“Well, it’s time to start moon gazing again. You’ll need to teach Sprout everything,” she’d said. I explain to her how the moon dictates almost as much as the sun for farming, and as Sprout is the future of this land, she wants him to know everything.
“It means you should ask for more information before snooping on my phone,” she sasses back, and while most days I love it, I don’t appreciate it today.
“I thought that’s what I was doing. I’m asking what does this mean?” Anger fills my voice. “Are you looking for another job?” The thought hits me like a whack-a-mole machine.
How could she do this to us? Isn’t what we have enough? I thought we’d gotten to a point where we were settled into who we are and who we will be as Sprout’s parents. We’d come to an agreement that Scarlett would stay home and mother our child. It’s a big change for her, I understand, but she won’t be alone. It takes a village, and she’ll have the entire family helping her with our baby. How could I be so stupid? Of course, she wouldn’t be happy just being a mother. The farm would never be enough for her.