“I’d love to tell you to sleep in or skip out and leave Brutal to it today, but he’s gonna need you. I can’t fill in because I’ve gotta go to town. Shay needs me.”
That’s not exactly true, but also not exactly a lie. It’s more complicated than that.
Brody is the oldest of us all, and when Dad went off the deep end after Mom died, Brody took responsibility for us all, becoming a de facto dad in a lot of ways. He and Shay were the right and left hands of the family, leaving Brutal and me to our own devices, but somehow, we all worked together toward a common goal—keeping the family farm.
A goal we failed at meeting spectacularly, thanks to dear old Dad fucking us over, even from the grave. That’s how we got hooked up with the Bennetts. It’s been a while now, and we’ve all adjusted for the most part, though Brody has big dreams of saving up enough money to buy our land back. He says Mama Louise is just ‘holding’ it for us, but I think that’s wishful thinking.
Still, the bit of money Shay makes at the farmers market is split three ways—a bit to the Bennetts to buy supplies, like the plums from the trees, a bit to Shay as a salary for all her hard work, and a bit to the Tannen family account. We all donate to that, giving as much as we can, as often as we can, hoping that Brody will find a way to get that deed back. I think it’d be different now that we’re so dependent on the Bennetts and they’re so dependent on us, but it’d be nice to have the iron Tannen Farms sign above our gate mean something again.
But basically, we all need each other to play the roles we’re assigned, and mine is as a farmhand.
“I know. I wouldn’t ditch Brutal. We’ve got crops to check,” I tell Brody, having had zero illusions of taking the day off. That’s not what farming is about. There are no days off, only days you pay someone else to do what you were supposed to be doing in the first place.
I take another sip of coffee, praying that increasing the amount coursing through my bloodstream will also increase its effects. “So, what’d you think?”
He doesn’t need me to spell out the subject change. He knows I’m asking if he liked Willow. Another piece of his being the father figure for so long is that we don’t like to disappoint him. Shay and me, in particular, are sensitive to making Brody proud. Brutal does his own thing, and I don’t think he gives two rat shits about what Brody thinks, but luckily, they stand on the same side of the fence most of the time anyway.
He looks at me through narrowed eyes, though the sun’s barely up and he’s got on his camo cow hat, like always. He hums thoughtfully. “You don’t need to know what I think. You already picked her.”
I nod. “I know, but I trust your opinion. Always have.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and I think he’s not going to answer, but he finally says, “I like her.”
That’s it. Brody Tannen’s official stamp of approval.
“Thanks.”
He clears his throat and turns to head back into the house, leaving me alone with the early morning light. A few more sips of coffee and I’ll get going on the day. Brutal and I have two pastures to check for pests and problems, and walking their long rows sounds like a good way to think. It usually becomes slightly meditative, sometimes resulting in a song melody or lyrics and sometimes just letting me clear my head a bit.
I already know what I’ll be thinking about today . . . Willow.
Chapter 10
Willow
“Do not eat the doughnuts. Do not eat the doughnuts,” I tell myself aloud as I drive to Unc’s. “Not yet, at least.”
I stopped by the Main Street doughnut shop, where they greeted me by name, which surprised me, considering it’s only my second time being there, but I guess word spreads fast. At least the kind lady with the big smile behind the counter had called me ‘Hank’s niece’ and not ‘Bobby Tannen’s girl’. I might be both, but one feels like family. The other feels a bit like jealousy, at least from the women in town, though Doughnut Darla, as she told me she’s known, didn’t seem like the type to fawn over Bobby at sixty-plus and white-haired beneath her hair net.
Regardless, the sweet smell of doughnuts is calling my name from the big white box on my passenger seat. But I manage to hold strong, pulling into Unc’s driveway without so much as a crumb on my fingers or face.
Unc’s house is a cute ranch-style home, with blue-painted brick and white shutters. The flower beds are a bit overgrown, long shoots popping up through the line of shrubs, and the scalloped concrete barriers are a bit askew, even cracked here and there. I add yardwork to my list of things to help Unc with. It’s not urgent, but I’m sure he’d appreciate it being taken care of since he’s obviously not able.