“How’s school?” Liam asked his niece.
“All good.” Even glued to her phone, he noticed her expression change slightly.
“Is it?” He made sure the kitchen door swung shut. “I won’t tell your dad.”
“There’s just these popular girls. They like to say mean stuff.”
Mean girls. Some things never changed. Liam didn’t know them, but he hated them.
“What kind of mean stuff?”
“About my hair.” Franny touched her roots self-consciously. Her natural red hair was starting to grow back, giving her head an awkward two-toned look.
“I like your hair. Red, brown, you’re beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said, unmoved. “They also call me the farmer girl who lives in a barn. They all wear these designer clothes and shoes and live in nice houses in town.”
Some things really never did change. Even though they live on a farm, the school district is part of this posh suburb. When Liam went to school with those rich kids, he was also teased for being a farm boy, as were his four older brothers. Except they called him Sheepfucker.
“They’re stink girls. They wish they had this view.” Liam pointed to the flowing fields and cresting mountains just outside their window. “Bullies like to get a reaction out of their targets. Don’t give them that satisfaction. Just ignore them.”
“Nah yeah,” Franny said with a flash of hope before returning to her phone.
Liam wished he could tell her to beat the shit out of them, but that was not proper uncle advice.
Mark stepped out of the kitchen with a piping hot tray of fajitas. “Who’s ready for dinner?”
* * *
After dinner,Liam washed the dishes. He looked forward to the quiet of his shed and his bed, except for the occasional sounds from his sheep, though he slept through those now.
When he left the kitchen, he glanced around the room. Mark had done big renovations and redecorating after he moved in, but Liam still noticed tiny parts that reminded him of his childhood. A black mark just above the door from when his brother Callum threw a marble at him. The creaky step on the stairs that alerted him when someone was coming.
“Going home?” Mark asked. He wiped down the dining table. The kids were upstairs doing homework.
“Another day awaits.”
“Have you begun lambing season yet?”
“Soon. My ewes are about ready to burst.” Whenever one of them sat down, he worried that they would start giving birth right then and there. Ewes couldn’t be moved once their water broke. If a farmer tried to move them, the ewe would risk her life to return to that original spot. Liam had had to deliver lambs last year in pouring rain, in mud puddles, and at the top of hills. Lambing seemed like a chain reaction. Once one ewe gave birth, others followed.
“Have you given anymore thought to hiring a new farmhand?” Mark asked.
“I don’t need one. It’s a small farm. I can manage the season on my own.”
Mark gave him a look chocka block full of doubt. “You’re still new at this. You can’t do it alone. And I would help if I wasn’t a single dad with a full-time job.”
“What about all those years helping Mum and Dad on the farm? Last year was rough, but I can handle this.”
“It can’t hurt to bring on a farmhand for lambing season.”
“Yeah nah.” Liam said in acquiescence. He didn’t know where he would find a farmhand this late in the season. Most of the good ones were snatched up, or they wanted too much money.
“Just looking out for you. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to talk to who can talk back.”
“Here we go again.” Liam took the sponge from Mark and continued cleaning off the dining table. “It’s eight-thirty. Almost my bedtime. So I’ll finish the rest of this conversation for you. ‘Liam, you should really think about dating again.’” Liam made sure to use a high-pitched voice for his brother, just to annoy him. “‘Mark, I don’t feel like dating anyone. I want to focus on building up the farm.’ ‘Liam, that’s just an excuse. Not all girls are evil bitches like Kelly.’ ‘Mark, I told you not to use such coarse language.’”
“I never used that word.” Mark swiped the sponge out of his hand. Liam remembered the days when Mark used to have a dirty mouth. Until he had kids.
