"Hey!" Brook calls out, waving me toward where she's talking to an old man beside a beat-up Chevy pickup. "Come help Mr. Jenkins load his truck."
I recognize Frank immediately—eighty if he's a day, stubborn as a mule, and possessed of the kind of dry wit that can cut a man down to size or build him up depending on his mood. He's been buying hay from us forever, always paying cash, always complaining about the price, always coming back because he knows quality when he sees it.
"Well, I'll be darned," Frank says as I approach, his weathered face breaking into what passes for a smile.
"Mr. Jenkins," I say, extending my hand for his surprisingly firm grip. "How's that old mare of yours?"
"Ornery as ever. Just like her owner." His eyes twinkle with mischief. "Brook tells me you're gonna help load mytruck. Figured I earned the young man's labor by driving all the way out here myself."
I laugh, remembering how Frank has always worked this system—Brook gives him a discount on hay if he "helps" with the work by driving his truck to the field instead of having it delivered. It's charity wrapped in dignity, and I've always respected the old man for accepting it on those terms.
"Consider it an honor," I tell him, already moving toward the neat stack of bales Brook has set aside for him. "These should see you through the winter if you're not feeding half the county."
"Just the horses that need it," Frank says gruffly, but I know he's fed every hard-luck case in the valley for as long as anyone can remember. "Can't let good animals go hungry just because their owners hit rough times."
Frank's stories flow like grain out of a bucket passing the time it takes to load his truck. He talks about everything under the sun including horses he's known, trails he’s ridden, changes he's seen in the valley over eight decades of living here. It's the kind of oral history that disappears when old-timers pass on, and I find myself listening with attention I never had as a kid.
He climbs into his truck as if his body doesn’t know how to bend that way anymore. "That girl of yours fits this place. Be a shame to lose something that good because you're running away from something."
I nod, not sure what to say to him.
The truck rattles away in a cloud of dust, leaving me standing in the hay field with Frank's words echoing in my head.
All afternoon I keep finding excuses tocheck on Kinsley—bringing her water, making sure she's got something to eat, asking if she needs anything. Can't seem to help myself.
Dad works beside me for a while. When he does talk, it's about practical things—which fields will be ready for cutting next, how the weather's shaping up for the rest of harvest, the logistics of getting product to market.
"Good to have extra hands," he says at one point, adjusting his hat as I wave Kinsley back. She needs to go a little to the right and I point. She makes the correction and ends up spot on. I cut my hand through the air, and she hits the brakes.
"She's incredible." I can't help but stare at the way the sun hit her hair.
"Kinsley's great. But I wasn't talking about her." Dad nods once, like something's been settled between us that doesn't need words.
Kinsley hops out as I help load the last trailer. Hay leaves cling to her hair, and there's a smudge of dirt on her cheek that makes her look downright kissable.
"You've got a little something," I tell her, reaching out to brush the dirt away. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm and I can't wait to have her all to myself for a while.
"Better?" she asks, her voice soft and a little breathless.
"Perfect," I murmur. "Though you look pretty good with a little dirt on you, too."
Her laugh is pure music. "Flatterer."
"I could get used to coming home to you working my family's land."
Something shifts in her expression at that—surprise, maybe, or hope. "You could?”
"Yeah." The admission comes easier than I expected. "Looks like it suits you."
"It does," she says simply, and the certainty in her voice makes my heart pound.
"Meet me on your porch swing in half an hour?" I ask.
"Deal." Her eyes sparkle and I know she's as excited to just sit with me at the end of a long day as I am to be with her.
The hay operation winds down with the satisfied exhaustion of a job well done. Trailers roll toward town and neighboring ranches, carrying the fruit of our labor to feed animals through the coming winter.
I walk the field one more time as the equipment gets loaded and the hands head home, breathing in air that tastes of dust and grass. This land is in my blood—I can feel it in the way my boots know every dip and rise, in the way my eyes automatically assess the soil conditions, in the way my heart settles into peace when I'm standing on dirt that's been Halloway ground for five generations.