“Branches got jammed in the culvert,” I shout over to Dustin and Greyson.
Grey nods, grabbing the pike poles and Halligan so we can pry the branches loose. We work for ten or fifteen minutes, ending with rakes and shovels until the pipeline is clear. Meanwhile, Jerry and his crew cut the branches with chainsaws and dump the debris up the bank above the high water line.
“I could be snuggled up with my girl right now,” Dustin whines.
“Isn’t she working?” I ask, wiping the Halligan with a towel and putting it back in the truck.
“Yeah, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
I chuckle. It must be nice to have that option always floating somewhere in your mind as a man—someone to cuddle on your days off, a woman who fills in the lonely spaces, a partner to share life with.
“You’ll live,” Grey says to Dustin. His face is dead serious, but his eyes are smiling. You have to know him to see it.
“I might not. I could die from lack of Emberleigh.” Dustin laughs at his own pathetic attempt at humor. “Like lack of oxygen.”
“The woman is your oxygen?” Grey asks.
“Darn straight, she is. You’ll see. Both of you will one day.”
Something tugs low in my belly. Greyson turns away. I try to imagine a day when a woman could be my oxygen. I’ve certainly known one to take my breath away. But she’s not mine.
Mr. Calhoun shows up on the landlocked side of the crossing. He hops out of his old truck. Greyson and Dustin hang back while I meet Mr. Calhoun at the spot where we’ve already cleared the culvert and poured gravel into the dirt. I glance at my crew—allowing me to take point on this job.
“Looks good,” he says. “Sorry I couldn’t be out here helpin’ y’all. I’m afraid I’m not of as much use as I used to be. I need to get over to the other pasture across the way as soon as you’re finished up here.”
“We just need to finish this fill up so it’s passable and then I’ll help you get that hay to wherever you need it to go,” I tell him.
I glance at Grey and he nods his assent. Sure, we could call it a day and clock out. And I won’t be officially on the clock while I’m helping Mr. Calhoun, but I can’t just leave an old farmer to tend to the aftermath of a storm in good conscience.
We assist while Jerry and his crew dig out the divot in the road to prep for the gravel, then we help tamp it with hand tampers after they go over it with a plate compactor. Mr. Calhoun stands by like a supervisor, watching us work, and occasionally talking to someone on the crew.
Once the repair is secure, I hop into the brush truck and roll carefully over the repair to ensure it’s passable. Then I wave out the window, giving Mr. Calhoun the okay. Grey and Dustin get in the truck and we drive down the road to the property across the way where the rest of Mr. Calhoun’s cattle graze. An older barn sits toward the front of the property.
Mr. Calhoun steps out of his truck and the cows all bawl like children who missed their mom. They crowd the fence, pushing at one another. A few pace in the background. One of them stares pointedly at the feeder as if to say,Did you forget something?
“These are my old girls,” Mr. Calhoun says as if he’s introducing us to his family. “They’re out to pasture, but don’t tell them that.”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Dustin says.
“Sorry, ladies,” Mr. Calhoun says. “I got stuck on the other side of the creek.”
He might be charming them with his voice, but his eyes are roving over the herd like a seasoned dairyman. I’m doing the same—looking for any sign of distress or injury besides the obvious hunger they’re all not-so-subtly complaining about.
We all pitch in, grabbing bales off the back of the truck and hoisting them into the raised feeder. They’ve got water access and it’s been just about a day and a half since the road washed out, so they’re okay.
“They ate yesterday,” Mr. Calhoun tells us. “I called over to Smitty and asked him to pop in on ’em. By the way they’re going on, you’d think it had been a week of neglect.”
Dustin laughs. He’s the least used to rural life of all of us, but to his credit, he’s taken to it like a local.
The cows gather round the feeder, taking big mouthfuls of hay. Their lowing noises settle, replaced by the rhythmic sounds of slowed breathing and steady chewing.
“You can’t neglect a woman,” Dustin says.
“Got that right,” Mr. Calhoun agrees, a wistful expression pulling his wrinkles into deeper grooves across his brow. “And you shouldn’t. One day they’re with you. The next … well … they’re not. Can’t treat a woman like she’ll be around forever.” His gaze drifts out across the pasture. “Of course, every man’s guilty of neglect.”
We all nod. What do you say to a man who lost the love of his life? He lives all the way out here, mostly alone. I take a step toward Mr. Calhoun, but falter, shoving my hands into my pockets and staying right where I am.
“You boys think you’ll be young forever. Life’s at your fingertips. The future stretches longer than a Tennessee highway out in front of you. But old age comes more quickly than you expect.” He smiles warmly. “It happens to the best of us.”
