“Hi, Ernesto.” I pasted on what I hoped was a confident smile.
“Hola, Miss Emma.” He smiled and put down his shovel. He told the man he was standing with to meet him by the horse stables in Spanish before he turned to me. “How are the scratches on your arms?” he asked, and he seemed genuinely concerned.
“They’re better. Thank you for asking.” I smiled at him. “But I shouldn’t have that problem today.” I held out my well-covered arms.
“Yeah, you definitely look ready for something.” He chuckled, and I wondered if I’d gone overboard while getting dressed. I was sweating buckets, but I didn’t know if it was all the layers, the grueling walk from the house, or both.
“Well, I actually wasn’t sure what you’d need me to do today, so I wanted to be prepared.”
“Okay.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“I was actually wondering if you had anything for me to do, like chores or something.”
“Eh…” Ernesto looked around nervously and began to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t think there’s anything you can—”
“Look, I know yesterday was a bit of a disaster, but how am I ever going to learn how this place works if I don’t get experience?” Ernesto was still giving me a skeptical look. “Come on, there has to be something…”
“Well”—he let out a deep sigh with a chuckle—“I was going to repair the chicken fence and—”
“I can do it!”
“Have you ever repaired a chicken fence?”
“I haven’t, but how hard could it be?” I shrugged. “Just show me where the tools are, and I’ll get to work.”
Thirty minutes later, Ernesto and I were headed toward the chicken coop with a roll of chicken wire and a toolbox. I watched carefully as Ernesto repaired the first hole, and it seemed easy enough. I convinced him that I could handle things on my own while he continued to work around the farm, and he promised to come check on me later.
After waving to Ernesto, I pulled out my phone to put on a playlist that heavily featured Beyoncé, and everything quickly went downhill from there. The moment I pulled on my gloves, it seemed like everything Ernesto told me went right out the window. I measured the size of the hole that needed patching. Step one, done. Then, I grabbed the roll of chicken wire and the metal snips to cut the appropriate-size piece. My gloves were too bulky to get a good grip, so I removed them to make the tool easier to maneuver. After making one successful cut, the snips slipped out of my grasp and the newly cut and extremely sharp edge of the chicken wire dug into my exposed palm, making a deep and painful cut.
I screamed and swore. Looking down at my hand was a mistake. There was a large split across the center of my palm that was oozing thick, dark-red liquid. I screamed again. Cue the panicking. Thoroughly convinced I was bleeding to death, I jumped to my feet in an effort to run, though I was sure I’d pass out before I made it to the house. The idea of using my phone to call for help didn’t occur to me. I’d barely turned to go when I got caught in the chicken wire, which had snagged onto my coveralls, and fell onto my ass, holding my injured hand.
“This is it,” I mumbled to no one as I reclined onto the ground in defeat and closed my eyes, feeling the tears of pain and failure sting my eyes before rolling down my cheeks. “This was a mistake. I really don’t belong here, and now I’m gonna die.” I sniffled.
“This definitely looks worse than a stray tea leaf,” the last voice I wanted to hear in this moment called, “but I don’t think you’re going to die.” I felt a shadow block out the midday sun. I opened my eyes to find Dan standing over me, looking amused.
“Ugh, what are you doing here?” I moaned. He crouched down beside me and pulled me up to a sitting position, taking care with the hand I was cradling in my lap. Even in my sorry state, I couldn’t help but notice the delicious smell of Dan’s cologne and the firm but gentle pressure of his hands as he held me.
“Ernesto called me.” His beard and mustache were twitching. “He thought you might need some help.”
I opened my mouth to protest but closed it again. As much as I hated to admit it, I did need his help.
Dan lowered himself to the ground beside me and opened a first aid kit.
“Do you walk around with a giant first aid kit all the time?” I asked.
“No.” His mustache twitched again. “I had a feeling I might need it. Let me see your hand.”
I glared at him, cradled my hand closer to my chest, and tried to stand. It was bad enough that my second day on the farm had somehow gone worse than the first, from which I was still in pain, but to top it off, this asshole was teasing me.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Emma, Emma, stop,” he coaxed, wrapping his hand around my forearm to prevent me from leaving. Even through the many layers of clothing, his touch made my heart race. “I’m sorry. Please let me look at your hand and I’ll tell you about how I almost lost a thumb my third day here.” He showed me the back of the hand that wasn’t holding me in place. About half an inch below the thumb joint was a large, raised, almond-shaped scar.
“How the hell did you get that?” I gasped, momentarily forgetting about the pain in my hand and my anger at Dan.
“Hand first. Story later.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Fine.” I sighed and outstretched my arm. “But it better be a good-ass story… ow!” Dan uncurled my fingers and squirted a clear liquid into my palm. “That burns. What is that?”
