Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 47222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
But now, I wonder if we’ve made a mistake by not selling. There were a few bad seasons in a row, with unexpected frosts and broiling summers. Slowly, our neighbors moved on one by one, accepting generous buy-outs, and now, ours is the only homestead left, surrounded on all sides by one of the wealthiest Big Ag families in the business: the McLaughlins.
I shudder involuntarily as I think about that bunch of hooligans. They’re idiots, not to mention cruel and aggressive, but then I stop myself because the water in the pail is overflowing. Dummy, don’t waste resources, I scold myself. I turn off the spigot and lug the heavy bucket back to the porch, where it’ll sit until I’ve taken care of the milking.
Then, I grab the milking pail and make my way toward the barn, still ruminating on how large corporate farms seem to gobble up any property they can get their hands on. For years, the McLaughlins have been itching to get their greedy paws on my land, but we’ve evaded them time and time again. Assholes.
Miss Bethy moos again, and I can’t ignore her plaintive cry. “I’m coming, hold your horses,” I call out toward the barn. Gypsy the mare looks up at my voice, clearly not amused with my attempt at a joke.
Groaning, I square my shoulders and pull hard on the heavy barn doors that have gone rusty with age. “Oil barn doors. Add it to the list,” I mutter to myself.
Light pours into the barn, illuminating Miss Bethy and the various farmyard tools that Pa treasured. Some of them I’ve made use of, but many of the implements have gone rusty with lack of use. Others have just broken over the years, whether from age or my own poor mishandling. Try as I might, I have little to no skill when it comes to repairs.
I pick up the old axe and fiddle with its sharp edges, remembering how Pa used to use it to cut the old spruce logs for our fireplace. That simple act kept our living room cozy on the coldest of nights, a sensation I missed desperately this past winter.
Crazy to think about winter when it’s a hundred degrees outside.
I heave a deep sigh, and I hear Miss Bethy echo my sorrowful sound. I glance at the old cow, her form nice and fat, and her coat shiny. She looks back at me innocently, her mouth full of hay.
Wait a minute, if Bethy’s eating, then that sound didn’t come from her, I realize, startled. I freeze, straining my ears against the silence of the big empty barn. I hear a shuffling sound followed by another groan, coming from the back of the barn. I squint my eyes, trying to see into the gloomy interior.
“Hello?” I call out timidly. “Hello?” I repeat, more firmly this time. Grabbing the old axe to use as a weapon if needed, I inch my way toward the dark recesses of the barn. It’s probably just a critter, Darcy. Don’t freak yourself out for no reason.
Finally, I reach the last stall and my mouth drops open.
“Sweet lord have mercy!” The familiar phrase slips out of my mouth before I can contain it because in the stall, lying in the dirt and hay and slop, is a man. Not just any man, but the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
A shock of pitch-black hair falls around his face, clean but disheveled. His sharp jaw looks like it could cut glass, while his aquiline nose sits above perfectly bowed lips. Beneath his blue flannel shirt, the man’s muscles bulge: strong, prominent and masculine. His shoulders are broad and daunting, while his defined arms indicate that he’s obviously known hard work throughout his life. His exposed skin appears to glisten with sweat, although I can’t tell if it’s from the stifling heat or something else.
When I finally recover from my shock, I take stock of the situation. From his drooping lids and slumped position against the stall door, I can tell something is wrong with him. Letting my gaze drift lower, I see a huge gash in his lower thigh. Oh shit! There’s blood all over his jeans, and as I watch, new blood continues to ooze from the wound. Immediately, I spring into action.
“I’ll be right back!” I tell the handsome stranger, but he merely groans again. Quickly, I run back to the front porch for the bucket of water I’d been intending to use for the garden. Holding it carefully so as not to spill its contents, I lug the heavy pail back to the barn. Once inside, I also grab a pair of shears and a clean horse blanket from the stack at the front. I dash back to the injured stranger.
My urgency is warranted though, because when I get back to the stall, a thick pool of dark blood is enlarging on the floor.