McKenna extends her hand toward Luke. “Give me that.”
He places the wire stretcher in her hand. She squats low and ratchets the wire.
“Fencing pliers,” she orders, her open palm extended like a surgeon to her team of operating room staff.
I chuckle and hand them over.
McKenna lines up the staple. “Hammer.”
Luke supplies the next tool, his proud smile on full display.
McKenna taps four times, each whack embedding thestaple more deeply into the post. Then she stands, handing me the hammer and pliers and brushing her hands off.
“Hollywood, my patootie. I’m still a Tennessee cowgirl.”
“As evidenced by your grit and spirit,” I admit.
More than anything, I wanted to remind her of her roots. She’s about to marry this guy from California. I know they’re in love. But they’re from such different worlds. Although, Mac’s always been one to put herself in front of the camera—willingly. Still, she needs to remember the goodness of ranching life and what it means to her.
“Okay, enough trying to pass your responsibilities off on me,” McKenna says with a playful smile. She pulls the bag of sandwiches out of the UTV and hands one to each of us. “Now, eat up and get back to work so I can talk to my best friend about boys.”
McKenna loops her arm around Carli’s and walks back to the UTV.
“See you, Carli,” Luke says in a falsetto.
“See you, Lukey,” she says in an even higher voice.
“Later, Chuck,” I say with a smile.
“Cody,” she says with a shy grin. Her eyes flick to mine, but then she follows my sister back to the UTV and they drive away as quickly as they came.
I watch them drive off and shove my sandwich in my mouth so Luke won’t read my emotions.
It seems I’m destined to watch Carli come and go—always just out of reach.
Chapter 7
Carli
If you always do what you've always done,
you'll always get what you've always got.
~ Tony Robbins
My mud bootssquelch in the soggy ground between my truck and the barn. The morning is cool. Last night’s storm slowed to a drizzle. The chill air stings my cheeks—making me wish for a fire and a blanket.
“Morning,” I shout into the barn.
“Morning,” Dad and Chet, our hired hand, shout back in unison.
Dad’s already walking the pens, checking the feeders and waterers. Chet passes me on his way to check the feed level in the bulk bin. He tips his hat to me, not saying a word, but smiling in his shy, efficient way.
I join my dad, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around him in a hug. In the barn, we’re at work. His eyes have a slight puffiness under them and he’s moving just a little more slowlythan usual. Maybe I’m just being extra. It’s the end of winter and he’s a middle-aged farmer. He’s adamant that he feels fine. I should take his word for it.
A restless ache spreads up my spine. I close my eyes for a beat and take a breath.
“How did you sleep?” I ask, knowing the question crosses an invisible line.
