I watched him go with his long, lanky stride. A wounded warrior who had somehow found the courage to accept his failures—his shit, he called it—and go on living.
He wasn’t going to fight for me or fix me or rescue me. I had to do it myself.
And I wasn’t strong enough.
CHAPTER 24
Abby
My daddy never ate cheese from a goat. Never went to a restaurant where they would serve such a thing. My parents were homesteaders, subsistence farmers who left me the house and the land and a tolerance for dirt and hard work. But it wasn’t until they died and Ash went to Iraq, leaving me to raise four girls on a captain’s pay, that I figured on goats as a way to make money.
I taught myself from books, experimenting in gallon glass jars in the kitchen, converting the old mule barn into a dairy, selling what I made at the farmers’ market. Our neighbor Hannah Mullett, who taught science at the middle school, gave me a hand in the cheese room. But back then I did most everything myself.
Not like now. I had Dan now, to help with the farm, and Meg, to help with the books. Two part-time employees for wrapping and labeling, and a handful of volunteers from the 4-H club and the ag program at the community college. But I still liked working alone in the quiet creamery, only the hum of the lights and the quiet agitation of the vat pasteurizer to keep me company.
The air was moist and rich with whey. I turned out the drained curd from the perforated molds, placing the small rounds on racks. When the racks were full, I salted and dusted them.
“What’s that?”
My heart gave an unwelcome flip. He stood at the creamery door, tall and lean, with a sensitive mouth and cool eyes. A good-looking man, my husband. When I was laid up in the hospital, every single woman for miles around—and some married ones, too—had been to our back door with a casserole.
“Ash.”
“Yes?”
I smiled. “No, I meant... I’m using ash. Oak charcoal powder.”
He came closer to see. “What does it do?”
Like Jo, he’d always been a good student. Valedictorian of our high school class. Doctor of divinity from Duke. “Better with a book than a shovel,” my daddy said. It hadn’t been a compliment.
“Neutralizes the surface acid so the mold can grow.” I’d had only two years of community college before I got pregnant with Meg, but I’d read plenty since taking over the farm. I slid the rack of seasoned cheeses on to the rolling shelves. “Develops the rind.”
“Interesting.”
I picked up the salt shaker. “You’ve never been interested in the farm before, Ash. What do you want?”
“I’m going to the rehab center. I thought I’d see if Beth wants to come along.”
“She’s up at the house.” Working on her music, I hoped. A light had gone out in my little girl, and I didn’t know how to bring it back. Music, I thought, would help.
“It must be lonely for her with Amy gone,” Ash observed.
I shot him a glance. He’d never been particularly interested in our daughters, either. Seemed that was changing. “Maybe. She won’t talk to me.”
He stepped forward, taking the other side of the rack as I transferred it to the shelves.
“Thanks,” I said, surprised.
He straightened, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Must be lonely for you, too.”
“They’re not children anymore. It’s been over three years since the girls left home. Time for all of us to move on.”
He met my gaze. “Are you asking me to move out?”
I busied myself with the salt. “You can’t live in that trailer forever.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “You’ve been generous, letting me stay this long.”
