I mutter something about chicken mutiny and storm back to the barn, my pride bruised, my jeans filthy, and my hair a wild mess of hay and frustration.
But I don’t quit.
Because this isn’t just about surviving, it’s about proving I belong here. Even if the chickens disagree.
After lunch, when my muscles are officially protesting every step, I peek into the house to find Harper knee-deep in bleach and elbow grease. She's got a bandana tied around her head, a spray bottle in one hand and a scrub brush in the other, muttering something about "dust older than sin" as she attacks a shelf.
Emmy is helping, sort of, mostly by singing made-up songs while polishing the wooden banister with one of Harper’s old T-shirts. Harper shoots me a look andwaves me off. “Go breathe some fresh air, I’ve got this war zone handled. Besides, I have to get back on my computer soon to get some work done."
So I sneak away with Emmy and a worn plaid blanket Harper found tucked in the back of a linen closet. We decided to let Harper catch up on work. We spread it under the shade of a gnarled oak tree near the pasture fence. Emmy lies flat on her back, giggling at the shapes the clouds make.
“That one’s a dinosaur,” she declares. “Or maybe a bunny. A dino-bunny.”
I smile, brushing a curl off her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, her denim overalls smudged with dirt, and she looks like she belongs here more than I ever did.
The horses graze nearby, their ears flicking lazily. One of them, a coppery mare with a white blaze, wanders close, sniffing curiously. Emmy gasps and holds out her hand like I taught her, slow and careful.
“She’s so pretty,” Emmy whispers. "What’s her name, Mommy?"
“Sugar,” I say, reading the faint scrawl on her halter. I run a palm down the mare’s neck, feeling the solid warmth and quiet breath of her. “Looks like Sugar approves of you.”
Emmy’s face lights up like Christmas. "Can I feed her a carrot?"
I pull one from the tote bag beside us, I'd brought snacks, and thank God, Emmy hadn't devoured them all yet, and hand it to her. "Remember what I showed you, fingers flat like a plate."
She nods seriously, biting her bottom lip as she holds the carrot out. Sugar lips it from her hand with surprising gentleness, her velvety nose brushing Emmy’s palm.
Emmy gasps. "It tickled!"
I chuckle. "That means she likes you."
"Can we keep her?"
I laugh. “She already lives here, sweetie.”
She nods solemnly, reaching out to gently stroke Sugar’s soft muzzle. “Then we’ll keep each other.”
Something squeezes in my chest. That small, innocent sentence lodges itself right beneath my ribs.
For the next hour, we sit like that, her leaning against me, babbling about horses and burrito-stick adventures, while I pet Sugar and soak in the peace of it. I tell her stories about when I was a little girl on this land, the few good memories I have of my dad before things got complicated.
Like the time he lifted me onto the back of a pony and let me ride in lazy circles, his hands steadying me. Emmy listens wide-eyed, one hand still tangled in Sugar’s mane, and asks if Grandpa liked horses too. I hesitate, then nod. "He loved them," I say softly. "Even if he didn't always know how to show it."
The warmth of the sun, the distant whinny of another horse, the scratch of dry grass beneath our blanket. Another horse sounds off a whinny and Emmy looks at me with her questioning eyes asking "why do they make that sound?" So, I explain, " the horses talk to each other that way, it usually means they are happy, they have another whinny for when they are in danger." She is satisfied with that answer and goes on about talking horses. This all begins to feel like something real.
It all begins to feel like something we could have. Something we could love.
Not just survive here. Maybe… thrive.
I watch Emmy stretch out, her eyes fluttering closed in a lazy blink.
And I think, for the first time since I arrived, that maybe this isn’t the worst place to be.
After Emmy and I finish our lunch break, I head back to work. Back at the barn, I find Cash tightening the screws on the hayloft ladder. His brow lifts slightly when he sees me walking in with Sugar calmly trailing behind, Emmy skipping beside me.
"Didn’t think you’d last past lunch," he mutters, turning back to his task.
"Sorry to disappoint," I shoot back, trying to ignore the subtle spark of satisfaction that flickers in my chest.
