She shook her head. “Nope. Virgin cider for you Tractor One.”
When I took it from her and our hands brushed, my body fizzled with the contact, regardless of the gloves. “Thank you, Tractor Command.”
With a bright smile, she headed for the next group of riders, redirecting anxious kids and anticipating issues. She adjusted the blankets and pulled out the stepstool to help people into the wagon. She moved with purpose, threading through the chaos and managing the mayhem with calm and kindness.
She had to be one hell of a teacher.
“You missed your calling,” I told her when she stepped away from the group.
She looked at me over her clipboard. “What? festival planning?”
I shook my head. “No. Command. Logistics. You’re great at being in charge.”
Her face flushed, a tell I was beginning to both recognize and enjoy. Quickly, she looked away, busying herself with wristbands.
“Josh,” a voice called, snagging my attention.
Logan was waiting in line, beanie askew and his Carhartt jacket zipped all the way up to his chin suspiciously. His five-year-old niece stood next to him, arms crossed and unimpressed.
“Hey, Rosie.”
In greeting, she said, “My uncle brought a raccoon.”
More than one person nearby gasped and Logan glared at her.
“No wildlife on the hayride,” I said.
He sighed, like he really thought he’d get away with it. Next to him, Rosie caught sight of Celine and waved frantically, making me wonder if she was in her class at school.
“Please tell me you didn’t bring a raccoon,” I said.
Logan slowly unzipped his jacket, and a tiny masked face poked out.
“Ew, gross,” Celine said, suddenly beside us, her clipboard still at the ready. “Absolutely not. No. Get that thing out of here. It probably has rabies.”
He gasped and covered the raccoon’s ears, his brow furrowing. “How dare you. He can hear you, you know?”
“Miss LeBlanc,” Rosie said primly, hands clasped. “This is my Uncle Logan. He always carries animals around. My mom says that’s why he can’t get a girlfriend.”
With his head tipped back, my buddy groaned.
“Can we please just ride?” she pleaded. “We’ve been waiting forever.”
Celine looked at me, indecision in her expression, likely fighting the instincts that came with being a teacher, the organizer of this activity, and just a plain old responsible adult.
With a shrug, I wandered to the tractor. I was cold and tired, and honestly, a raccoon on a hayride was fairly tame by Maplewood standards.
“Fine,” Celine muttered. “But if he bites anyone, I’m calling animal control.”
Logan beamed.
“It’s okay,” Rosie said solemnly. “Uncle Logan almost never bites.”
As I climbed up into the tractor, a laugh burst out of me with so much force I nearly lost my footing and tumbled to the ground.
The night wound down a little after nine. Most of the families had gone home, so with any luck, we could call it a night. Getting the equipment home and put away would take hours.
“One more ride,” Celine said, gesturing to a group waiting.
