Buck Me Cowboy

“Who do you usually sell your harvest to?”

Tyler’s face tightens as the topic changes, mood darkening. I step back to look at him intently, but the man is all business. So I tell him, honestly and simply.

“The Morgans, from the next town over, used to buy all the corn we could produce. They’re strictly in cattle, so they use half as feed and the other half as re-sale,” I confide.

If there’s one thing farmers don’t casually discuss it’s who they buy and sell from. This is top secret business information that you don’t just throw out there in the wind. But with Tyler, I feel safe and confident.

“Why the Morgans? They must be making a killing reselling,” he grinds out. “You could sell this directly to market and make twice the money,” comes a low rumble, and I take a deep breath.

“Tyler, I don’t deal with all of that stuff. Pa set it up and I’m just doing what he used to do. Besides, Mr. Morgan called me right after Pa died and promised to buy my crop, so I know I can make money if I get a good harvest for him,” my words come tumbling out, trying to explain. God, please let him accept my answer. We’re already too far along, I couldn’t change direction even if I wanted to.

And after giving me a long look, Tyler lets it go.

“Okay, baby, come here,” he extends his arms and I happily walk into them, ecstatic to end this conversation. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he adds and I can hear him inhale deeply, nose buried in my hair.

“I don’t know much about that stuff, Tyler. It makes me anxious even talking about it. I just need to get through my first harvest,” I explain and he rubs my back in a silent gesture of understanding before tilting my head upwards to kiss my pouting lips.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he kisses me once more and I move to make our plates while he sits at the dining table.

I’ve made two sandwiches on this fancy loaf Tyler brought in from the market yesterday. He called it shibotta, or something like that, but after seeing the price tag I just called it expensive. My vegetable garden is flourishing, so I took a few of my ripe potatoes and made a fresh batch of crispy chips, which Pa used to love.

“You made these?” Tyler asks while examining a chip with a skeptical eye.

“Who else?” I quip with all the sassiness I can manage.

“Most people just buy them in a bag, you know,” he raises an eyebrow, teasing me right back.

“Yeah, well is that bagged nonsense better than this?” I counter, holding up one of the paper-thin slices of fried potato.

“No, ma’am,” he smiles before popping another chip into his mouth.

After lunch Tyler goes back to the field once he’s updated me on the status of the crop. Somehow he works five times as fast as me, so he’s already managed to harvest a ton of corn, plus bale some hay, plus move a ton of equipment to the barn. All that would have taken me months on my own, and I thank my lucky stars again for this man.

Happy and content, the rest of my afternoon flies by as I move between cleaning the house and prepping for my GED test. The amount of information I already know shocks me. Tyler’s quizzed me a few times and I can tell my perfect scores impress him. Sometimes I wonder about him, because I caught him skimming the book early one morning when he thought I was still asleep. He said it was just out of curiosity, but when I later asked him about his education, his answers were unclear again, shrouded in secrecy.

“You talk like you went to school,” I teased him one night over dinner. When he didn’t respond at all I decided to pry further. “Did anyone in your family go to college?”

His answer was slow and reluctant, like the words were being dragged from his chest.

“I’m not too big on school,” that deep voice rumbled. “I always hated it,” he’d said reluctantly. Okay, but this was the vaguest answer ever. Did he graduate? Where did he go? Why did he hate it?

But I let it go because there’s no reason to poke the bear. Besides, I never feel like he’s hiding anything, just that he’s uncomfortable talking about himself. Lucky for him, I can talk about Pa and me all day, and so I do. Tyler listens to my stories while nodding and running his fingers through my hair, stopping to comment occasionally.

“But you said the Morgans paid everyone a generous amount for their land,” he questioned after hearing me complain.

“Yeah, but they didn’t want to sell. Don’t you see?”

“Why’d they sell then?” he asked quizzically.