“Impossible.” Rayna barely looks at us as she picks at her red sweater set. “Besides, it’s how we keep Penny company on what would be a date night now that she no longer has a fiancé.”
My sister is unable to hide her wince. She might say she doesn’t care about douchebag Dick, but it’s obvious that she’s not taking the breakup as well as I thought. I loop my elbow in hers and tug her closer. “Well, now she’ll have busy Saturdays as well. The farm is a family affair, after all.”
“Hmm, I thought your mother hired Walker’s sister to help with the weddings,” Rayna says. “She’s such a sweet girl, raising that boy all by herself.”
I glance at my sister, who shrugs.
“Oh!” When Rayna’s hawk eyes dance between Penny and me, I know I’m going to hate what she says next. “If we switch to Monday nights, then your mother can come, too. What do we think, ladies? Monday nights for the season?”
“Works for us,” Babs says, her red lips lifting excitedly. “The salon is closed Mondays.”
“Great,” I say through gritted teeth as the women bid us goodbye and remind Penny to give me the name of this week’s book.
“It’sThe Alien Baby Daddy,” Penny says, not even trying to hide her amusement.
Though it’s at my expense, I’m glad Penny’s smiling. “Alien?”
“Don’t knock it ’til you try it. Two alien penises might just be better than none.”
I chuckle. Well, she’s got a point there.
CHAPTER 7
Walker
“Morning, Walker.” A chorus of voices greets me as I walk through the meadow Wednesday morning.
I’ve spent two nights with Tally Darling one room over from me, which means I’ve barely slept and I certainly can’t say it’s a good morning, but I nod toward the Liberty Ladies, who are out for their early morning walk. They never miss a day to gossip and circle the farm; they’re heartier than our winter daffodils, and the cold weather has yet to stop them from showing up.
I check on the bulbs, where our first tulips are set to bloom, hopefully any day now. The first wedding is in three weeks, and the bride expects a refined yet organically colorful display—her words, not mine.
We could use a few more days of rain. Then, if I had my way, a slew of sunny days so these girls could strut their pretty petals and sun themselves until they’re the perfect shade of magenta.
Digging my hands into my jean pockets to keep them warm, I march toward the west field where the floating row covers still blanket our late bloomers. I put blankets over the tulip bulbs in early January and won’t take them off until mid-April. Not only will it bring up the tulips faster, but protecting them from the frost should hopefully extend their life, too.
I drop to the cool ground and army-crawl under the covering to check on the bulbs’ progress. It was one hell of a project filling all these sandbags to weigh down the blankets through winter, but it was worth the work.
This was only one suggestion I made to Peter for how to extend the season. Another has been protecting the meadows from deer. They love eating the early bulbs, but with the new protection, they can’t destroy them. It’s a tactic used in Holland that I’d read about in a study two years ago. I’m excited to see how it turns out.
I crawl back and kneel in the dirt, looking up as the sun peeks through the clouds. An osprey, native to the area, soars overhead. She was here last spring when I started working with Peter. I close my eyes. It’s crazy how only one year ago Peter was teaching me all about his farm, and now he’s not here to see the fruits of our labor.
I miss him more than seems reasonable, but in the short time we knew each other, he gave me more attention than my father ever did, and more opportunities, too. He took an interest in me as a person. And fuck do I miss his loud laugh and optimistic attitude. The man saw the best in everyone and was never faced with a problem he couldn’t solve.
Earlier this week, I’d spread out all of his papers on the dining table, hoping to make sense of the farm’s bank accounts. It’s clear we need more money, which means we need to refinance the loan Peter took out against the house. Soil, flowers, chemicals—I can make sense of those. My degree in agriculture prepared me for that. But the bills and loan paperwork aren’t so easy.
Unfortunately, the loan has a balloon payment due on June first. If we don’t make enough to pay that, all of my hardwork this year will be for nothing. We’ll have to sell the farm before I ever have a chance to own it.
I never imagined I’d have my own farm. Dreamed of it, sure, but thought of it as an actual possibility? No.
My whole life my father grumbled about how this land should’ve been ours, but I never thought it would be. The most I hoped for was a warm bed and a soft woman beside me. Maybe a few kids one day.
I blow out a long breath. Dreams change. I might have lost the woman, and it’s likely the only kid I’ll ever have is my nephew, but God, does the earth beneath my fingers feel good.
My thoughts are interrupted as Tally Darling rounds the path that the Liberty Ladies just passed by on. In a pair of yellow leggings that mold to her curves and a matching yellow sports bra, I bet I could see the swell of her breasts if I was closer. Maybe even the peaks of her nipples, too, and the drips of sweat meandering their way down between those beautiful tits. What is she thinking wearing something like that in this weather?
Or better question—what is she thinking wearing something like that in front of me?
I watch as she folds her lithe frame and stretches out her legs. Fortunately, I can’t see her ass right now because if I did, I’d probably be hard.
