“You need something?” Freya wipes her hands on her apron.
“Sorry, just came to let you know Deacon and I are headed into the hardware store,” he says. “You want anything from town?”
“No, I’m good,” Freya says. “Tell him to be back by dinner.”
“Will do. Y’all be careful now.”
He leaves, and my ears are burning. God, I could have handled that better, but I panicked. Freya gives me a curious look, forehead creased.
“Sorry, I don’t know him,” I manage.
“That’s my brother…Bittern,” she says. “He’s been around the ranch for a while now.”
“Right, sorry,” I say casually. “I’ve been kind of distracted. I’m sure Mom told you I went through a breakup, and I’ve just been…all over the place. I don’t even know what I’m doing at home. I should be at the office.”
“It’s probably better you’re here,” Freya says, tone softening. “I’ve never had a breakup, but I imagine it’s rough. You need space.”
“Really?” I’m grateful to change the subject. “Never been broken up with? Or broke up with anyone?”
She shakes her head. “Deacon’s my first serious relationship.”
“Wow,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, he’s an intense first relationship to have, but I don’t have any complaints. He does whatever I want, treats me well.”
“He does. Deacon’s always been good, just rough around the edges.”
“You could say that again.”
We both laugh, and I’m glad she’s around. Her soft, strong presence balances out Deacon’s and turns this house into a home. Ranch life can be rough, isolating work, and it’s good to have friends out here.
The time etches on as we talk. It takes a while, but I manage to push my Bittern sighting out of sight, out of mind. It’s just hard when he’s…well, he’s got a strong presence, despite not saying much. After Shane, I find I’m preferring quieter men. The steadiness of him is magnetic.
“You take some of this back with you,” says Freya as the clock hits dinnertime.
“You know I won’t turn any fresh food down,” I say.
“What do you want?”
“Tomatoes, pickles.”
Freya packs them into a basket, wrapping the glass in hand towels. She puts some bread and butter in there too, pushing it across the table. I hand Slate over, giving him a goodbye kiss on his head, and she walks me to the door.
“Let me know if you need help again,” I say.
“Will do,” she says, bouncing Slate.
I give Slate a squeeze on his chubby foot, and he gurgles, drooling all down the front of his onesie. “See you later.”
Pickle jars wrapped in their basket, I head down the porch and up the hill towards the house. The yard is full of wranglers putting their horses in, stopping to talk about how damn hot it is. I skirt around them, catching sight of Dad standing in the driveway, talking. Maybe I’ll take the long way around the barn and ask him if he wants me to make dinner tonight.
I walk along the fence, dry grass crunching beneath my feet. The sun is setting over the fields. It’s vibrant red tonight, casting stark shadows. I love evenings like this, when everybody is worn out from honest work and ready to crash on their porches with some iced tea. It’s so familiar, I can predict what they’ll say.Gotdamn, it’s hot as all fuck. Better hope it cools tonight, or we’ll be burnt to a crisp by the end of the week. Animals will need to be in the lower pasture if it don’t break.
Circling around the back of the barn, I stop short.
There he is—Bittern Hatfield, standing by the running watering trough. He’s halfway in silhouette, halfway bathed in orange light. My breath hitches as he leans in, splashing water all over his face and head, soaking his shirt, sending a glittering spray into the air.
Oh God, I shouldn’t be watching.
