He snorts, likely having expected this. His gray eyes travel over me slowly, taking in and judging every inch of me, as if he’s not sure I can be trusted with his precious cherry trees.
I’m lucky he doesn’t know I’ve rubbed his son off in a parking lot.
“At least you look strong,” he comments, and I grow a full inch, pushing my shoulders back as I raise my chin.
“I can work hard, sir.”
“We’ll see about that, son. Now, none of this ‘sir’-bullshit. I already told you, name’s Brandon.”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry!” I nod, clearing my throat several times. The inch I just grew deflates right out of me again as I squirm in my sneakers. As if alerted by the movement, Mr. Woodrow—no,Brandon—drops his gaze to my shoes.
“You’ll need proper work boots,” he informs me before continuing his slow walk down the barn. I’m not sure of the purpose behind this late-night check, but I follow him quietly, carefully holding out a hand when one of the cows stretches her head in my direction.
“I don’t have anything for you,” I let her know apologetically. She doesn’t seem satisfied with that, her pink tongue darting out to lick my hand. It’s wet and slimy, yet rough like sandpaper.
“That’s Buttercup,” Brandon explains, and I blink in surprise, tilting my head to look for a special sign or pattern that could have given that away.
“Do all of them have names?” I ask, which must have been a dumb question, because he laughs, shaking his head at me.
“With two hundred cows? Don’t be ridiculous, boy.”
We find the orange cat in one of the stalls, happily rolling in the hay. The short stems stick to its fur, making it looklike a small hedgehog. The moment it lays eyes on Brandon, it ducks out of the stall and climbs his pant leg like a tree. Oak, the German Shepherd, observes quietly, then bumps his head against Brandon’s thigh, causing the cat to hiss and bat at him. I chuckle at the way they fight over his attention until the fur devil decides to leap, flying right at me.
“Shit!” I gasp, catching it against my chest where claws dig into the thin material of my shirt. Its fur is soft, the little body radiating warmth.
My fingers tremble as I scratch behind its ears.
“You can’t work on a farm if you’re scared of animals,” Brandon comments.
I bite the inside of my cheek, willing my hand to stop shaking. The cat rumbles with purrs, demanding more affection by pushing its head into my palm. I think of the box of small kittens in the Nook, the way they climbed all over Linden when he inspected and fed them with a plastic syringe, the way they made even Seb melt into the carpet with a soft meow. I think about how selfishly I hoped they’d be gone once we’re back, so I won’t get tempted to…do this.
“Linden rescued a bunch of kittens. He hand-fed them,” I tell Brandon, who has started to sweep some of the dirt into a small pile. I don’t understand why any of this has to be done in the middle of the night, but I don't dare ask another ridiculous city boy question.
“Figures,” he huffs, then nods his chin over at the orange cat. “His mother picked this one up. Just followed her home a few weeks ago and never left.”
“What’s its name?” I ask, awkwardly tilting my head. It started climbing higher, pressing its furry face against my cheek.
“Never picked one since we figured it would leave eventually. You can name it.”
I blink at the offhand way he says this, like it’s an everyday occurrence. And on a farm, that’s probably true. Naming a living creature still feels like a decision that shouldn’t be made lightly. Shouldn’t be made by me at all! I’ll be leaving this place in a month, and that poor cat will be stuck with my name choice then. If it stays here at all. As he said, it could vanish as surprisingly as it popped up.
“I’ll think of something,” I promise when his gray eyes stay trained on me. He gives a nod, then goes back to sweeping.
“Animals and acres come first on a farm. No matter if you’re tired or hungry.”
It’s past one a.m. when we finally make our way back to the house. The cat is perched on my shoulders by now, clawing up my neck. I rub my itchy eyes, trying to stifle a yawn.
“I understand,” I say, even though I don’t. It’s not like he did anything other than sweep a bit of dirt together, which seems futile in a barn.
We part ways in the mudroom, and I head inside the house. Oak still eyes me suspiciously as he pads over the floorboards, then flops down in front of the main entrance, and I quietly have to admit that he probably works better than three deadbolts.
I try to set the nameless cat down next to him, but it hisses in protest, clinging to me like the floor is lava.
“Ouch, ouch, it’s okay,” I reassure it, holding it close to my chest again until it eases up.
Linden stirs when I pull back the duvet to slip underneath. The cat has jumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under its weight.
“Where’ve you been?” Linden murmurs with his eyes closed. He seems unbothered by the way the cat climbs over him in search of a place to rest.
