Jonas stops working to watch me split the wood, tucking his jacket tighter around his neck. “Auntie Blair told me I should do it.”
The axe hits the log, splitting it in half, and I look over at Jonas. This kid bitched relentlessly at the start of the summerabout having to muck stalls—gagging and plugging his nose the entire time he shoveled horse crap. And I can’t help but smile at the thought of him becoming a 4-H kid now.
“I think you’d have a lot of fun, and you’ll make some new friends.”Not like those assholes you play video games with even though they treat you like shit at school.
Jonas nods, tilting his head to study me as I rearrange the split wood so my next swing creates smaller chunks.
Bending to grab the firewood to toss it closer to the woodshed, I say, “You wanna give this a try? I can teach you.”
“Mom’s going to kill you if she finds out you let me use an axe.”
Since the first time I looked into Whit’s cheerless, moss-green eyes, all I’ve wanted is to bear her burdens. If she wanted to kill me—if I thought for even a second it would make her life easier—I’d hand her the axe.
I spin the tool in my hand and jut the handle toward him. “Give it a try.”
Taking the full weight of the axe, his shoulder drops, and he lets out a muffled groan. I grip an imaginary axe for a slow-motion example of what to do, giving him time to follow along with a couple practice swings.
“Don’t watch the axe,” I say gently.
“But how am I supposed to stop it from hitting my legs or something when I swing it?”
Wrapping my hands around his, I guide the cutting edge down to the block of wood, and when Jonas lifts it back up, there’s a small indent.
“Watch that line there.” I point to it. “If you swing just like I showed you, it’ll hit in the exact same spot. Focus on where you want the axe to go, not what it’s doing up in the air.”
He gulps, eyes trained. And when he swings, it lands exactly where I told him it would. Not with enough force to do any damage, but he exhales a sigh of relief and there’s new confidence in his next attempt.
Sure, it takes three times as long for him to split the wood as it would me, but I don’t mind. When two freshly cut pieces fall to the ground, I’m standing there with a bottle of water for the kid. Pride beams through me the way it always seems to when Jonas learns something new on the ranch.
“Nice job, dude.” My hand claps against his back. “You do that a few hundred more times, and you’ll be the most jacked kid in the sixth grade.”
He tightens the lid on his water bottle before letting it fall with a clink on the gravel at our feet. And he gets right back to it, splitting another log.
So I grab another axe and set up next to him. Our swinging arms fall in unison, creating drumming thuds of metal on wood. The rippling crackles when it breaks through, splintering logs and leaving them scattered below us. A formation of geese honk loudly overhead, and the cold no longer stands a chance against the burn of working muscles.
We both have shit to work through. The kind of heartache that’s only going to be resolved by taking out our pain on a cord of logs.
When we stop for another water break, Jonas runs a hand through his hair, making the golden strands stand on end—the closest thing to sunlight on an overcast day. I chug my water and crane my neck to stare up at the clouds, trying to picture a son of my own to do this kind of thing with, though every imaginary kid ends up looking and sounding like Jonas.
“Theo’s going to raise pigs in the spring,” he mumbles into his water bottle. “If…if I wanted to do that, would you help me?”
“Hell yes. I’m your guy.” My brain instantly whirs to life, forgetting about silly baby daydreams and churning out ideas of where we can keep the animal and who we should buy the piglet from. “I raised both swine and sheep when I was a teenager. You’re gonna have the best damn pig around.”
Jonas laughs. If he’s at all put off by my eagerness to help, he’s getting better at hiding his embarrassment.
“Can we give it a ridiculous name?” He quirks his lip. “Like Baconator or Pork Chop?”
“Piggie Smalls?” I suggest and am met with pure confusion. “Your mom needs to teach you more about music than just the punk bands she listens to. Baconator’s a good one, though.”
“You’re sure you can help?” He eyes me up, waiting for the other shoe to drop. This kid is so used to being let down, he doesn’t even look like he’d be upset. Exactly like Whit—keeping that hand close to the detonator so nobody can hurt his feelings but himself.
“Absolutely I can.”
“Mom said you might be too busy with work.”
“For you? Never.”
Colt
