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Six months later.
“Well so much for that.” Looking towards the gray afternoon sky, I curse myself for this latest foolish predicament.
This morning when I woke up, I had an overwhelming urge to work—to actually get my hands dirty. I’ve spent too long wallowing, neglecting my birthright. My plan to spend the day tending seedlings in the greenhouse made sense, but I became sidetracked along the way.
The workers were hedging and knowing that there were hundreds of trees that needed it, I had to lend a hand. But then I got out the ladder—I shouldn’t have gotten out the ladder. Moving from tree to tree and climbing a ladder to really inspect the branches is one of my favorite things. Unfortunately, it’s a world I become lost in.
So stupid...
Gazing out across the peanut fields that border the Carson property, I note the nastiness moving in. There’s calmness in the air, quiet, the kind that precedes the opening of the sky before a storm. It literally lasts a second or two and then water shoots from the clouds like someone dumped a giant bucket from the sky.
I leap from the ladder, ducking beneath the pecan tree. What a joke. The tree’s lush leaves are no match for the torrential downpour that mercilessly soaks everything in sight. Sputtering from the monsoon invading my mouth, I accept my drenched fate.
In Alabama, you can never count on the weather. I know this. Everyone does. The weather can change with the blink of an eye, and if rain is in the forecast, it’s usually torrential or flash flood material. Hell, I’m lucky there isn’t a tornado heading my way.
I should have been paying attention to it, should have noticed the black clouds rolling in, but I became engrossed in my work—lost among the leaves, oblivious to the world around me.
So stupid...
It’s difficult to see through the sheet of water pouring down, but as I glance around, I notice the workers have left, taking the hedgers and vehicles with them. I swear they were here, just minutes ago. Weren’t they? Even Rigel ditched me.
How long was I up there?
I can’t believe they left me stranded.
No. I can believe it.
Gritting my chattering teeth, I scoff in disgust. “Of course, they left me behind—they’re probably laughing it up back in their cabins.” They have no respect for woman, but one working her own fields, garners less respect.
Before I married Branson, I never had a problem. I know it’s hypocritical for me to judge them as I myself have fallen victim to old school social conventions—my marriage will never be anything other than a business transaction.
Something changed in me when I lost our baby. Something changed in our marriage, and although we married in haste because I was pregnant, we haven’t recovered from the loss. Branson is still there for the farm, tirelessly ensuring everything moves along—he took care of everything while I sunk into the deep pit of depression.
It took me six months to claw my way out of the dark, but while I was lost in grief, things changed. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, and worst of all, I don’t know how to regain their respect, but I’m not going down without a fight. If I survive this storm, I’m going to raise holy hell with my disrespectful workers.
Women of my position don’t get their hands dirty. It’s simply unheard of. Even though times have changed, old school mentality remains cleverly veiled behind the guise of progression. Still, this marriage is about as regressed as I will ever be. No way will I play the role of obedient wife and homemaker. This is my land, my orchard, my home. Generations of Reilly women have loved and worked this land, determined to make it flourish, and I will continue the tradition.
I’ll work these trees and soil until my fingers bleed if it means ensuring they thrive.
I will not lose any more.
Standing here, whining and cursing, isn’t going to get me out of the storm. The nearest shelter would be my house, so I guess, I’m just going to have to walk in this nightmare.
I inch out into the open, trying to assess what is coming. Rain burns my eyes, pelting my cheeks with force. The storm clouds appear to stretch for miles with no immediate end in sight. This storm has just gotten started and won’t relent anytime soon.
Taking off, I sprint, dodging under each tree along the way in hopes that they will provide some shelter from the rain that is slapping against my skin.
A tumultuous crack of thunder rumbles through the sky. My body jolts, and I squeal as a bolt of lightning zips past my head, striking the next tree in my path, less than ten feet away.
Stunned, I stop running and stand frozen, gaping at the giant pecan tree that had been split in two and now sizzles as the rain drowns out the fire. Just like that, one of my most productive trees, and one of the oldest is destroyed.
That could have been me.
Another crack of thunder startles me back to attention. Screaming, I race for cover in a zigzag pattern, not really sure where to go or what to do but praying to Jesus that I don’t get fried on my way back to the house.
With each thunderous bang, my eyes scan the sky, mesmerized yet terrified by the sheet lightning sailing across the sky in every direction. If I don’t find shelter, I’m going to get fried. Another bolt passes overhead, and I snap, screaming as my body shuts down. Fear grips my senses, forcing me to crouch into a ball, covering my head with my arms—as if that would save me, but I’m literally too petrified to move.
Huddled on the ground and trembling with fear, my mind races to come up with a plan that doesn’t involve me getting zapped, but with each crack of thunder I shrink that much more into myself—all reason is gone.
If I survive this, it will be a miracle.
How could I have been so stupid, careless?
I might actually die today, get fried into oblivion. I really don’t want to die, not yet. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to die. I want to live. Oh, what a perfect time to have such a revelation.
Suddenly an arm rounds my shoulders, encouraging me to stand while forcing me to run. Looking up, I catch the eyes of Nick. Stunned, I swipe the water from my eyes, unsure of what I am seeing. He drags me along, my feet stumbling while trying to keep up with his pace.
“This way!” Nick’s voice is barely audible over the raucous of thunder and rain. He holds me against him, guiding me to a pickup parked off to the side.
Overjoyed with gratitude, I whip open the door and climb into the passenger seat. Breathless, I force myself to recover as Nick jumps in, fires up the pickup, and starts towards the main house.
Turning to him, I eye him, and it must look as though I’m questioning my sanity because he throws me a couple of looks, like he thinks I’m insane—I think I might be, some days.
“I was out making sure my men had taken cover when I saw you running,” he says, focusing on the road. “What the devil were you doing that far out from shelter by yourself?” It wasn’t a question, more like a comedic observation. I can laugh now, I suppose, but this man’s sudden presence forbids it.
I’m not sure this is real. Did I get zapped? It’s like I’ve entered an alternate reality.
The awkwardness of it forces me to babble—anything to avoid the larger question. “I know it was stupid, I got side-tracked on the way to the greenhouse and then...I don’t know...I just...lost track of time...” Shaking my head, the question blaring between us bursts from my lips. “What are you doing here?”
“I guess, you didn’t know.” He sounds surprised by my question, but I really have no idea what he’s referring to. “I’ve been working for Old Man Carson, helping him get his property in order before the sale—there’s still seeding to take care of—I thought Branson would have mentioned all this—I’ve been promised a job here, as Clive’s assistant, once the sale goes through.”
Wait. What? He’s been hired to work here? How can Nick want to work for me after what passed or didn’t pass between us?
He probably just needed a job. It’s his dream and in this economy, you gotta take what you can get...Still, it’s awkward. He could go to any number of orchards. My stomach twirls with hope—did he come back for me?
I’m married, and he knows it.
Like a caged animal, I start to fidget, contemplating an escape, but I don’t like my chances out there. Trying to act casual, I nod and stare out the window.
Branson and Clive take care of the business end of things. It’s not hard to imagine I didn’t see Nick around—I haven’t been on the Carson property in months. I’ve been lost, distracted, and trapped within the hard walls of grief. I’ve only recently started leaving the house and involving myself in the business again. Branson’s taken care of everything, and he and Clive do all the hiring. They wouldn’t know about my history with Nick—I never said a word.
This can’t be happening. I’ve accepted my losses and have been trying to move on. Nick’s presence is welcome and unwelcome all at once. I’m not sure I can handle it.
Nick slows down, trying to see through the windshield. The wipers are useless against the thick stream of water. “We have to stop for a few minutes. I can’t see a thing.”
My head nods, but the words won’t come out for fear they’ll be followed by tears. If Nick hadn’t come by...I...
Ugh.
Nick sits silent as I rant inside my head. He must think I’m beyond ridiculous. Despite the rain, the air inside the truck thickens; it’s stuffy and beyond awkward, but at the same time, it’s absolutely freezing. My drenched body trembles, my teeth chatter. The AC in the cab blasts my flesh—the trembling and chattering intensify to the point of convulsion.
Nick reaches behind the seat and retrieves a blanket, passing it to me. It’s warm, not having been chilled from the AC. Wrapping it around my body, I snuggle in, grateful for him, once again. I shouldn’t be grateful. Not really. I want to scream and yell and tantrum.
None of this is funny. None of this is fair.
“Mrs. Reilly.” Nick clears his throat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why do you putter about the orchard like a farmhand?”
I gape at him, stunned: A, that he called me Mrs. Reilly, and B, that he literally just said that. “What?” I scoff, glaring at him with disbelief. “This land is my father’s legacy—I need to know it’s being looked after.”
“You have workers...and Branson.” There’s a hint of something in his words: spite, bitterness?
“I love this land and the feel of its red earth beneath my fingernails—you know this. Besides, I feel bad when I see the others working hard, when I can easily lend a hand... Sitting around while everyone else does the work drives me nuts.”
“Yes, but pruning trees? The hands are paid to do the grunt work. You don’t have to, and it ain’t safe for a woman...” He stops and grins, knowing he sounds ridiculous, I’m sure.
My eyes blink rapidly, not believing that he just went there.
Ain’t safe for a woman.
He grins, nodding as if chiding himself. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that...well, you don’t have to is all.”
Chewing the inside of my lip, I seethe, frustrated with the same old stereotype and still miffed with my workers for bailing on me. I’m not about to put up with any more crap today, that’s for sure. “Since when did you become sexist? I’m kind of embarrassed for you, right now.”
Nick laughs, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter any to me what you do, but I know the other workers have a problem with it...I hear them talking...” He abruptly stops himself. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair.”
“I know what people say—my own husband says the same, but I don’t care. I love working my land, and I will continue to do so until the day I die.” I stick my nose slightly in the air, defiant and pleased as punch that I got the husband-dig in, because quite frankly he’s making madder than a wet hen. No one will ever dictate to me what I should and shouldn’t do with my land, and I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. He knows this about me—it’s as if he’s forgotten—and that knocks the wind out of me.
Nick chuckles. “Well, okay then. It looks to be calming down a bit out there. Let’s try to get you home, to your husband.” Ouch. I want to vomit, lay down on the ground and die. That literally felt like a knife to my heart.
The playful way he says it sends chills down my spine. It’s been months since our short-lived and barely acquaintance, but I remember his arms around me, his kiss. I remember longing for him. I remember the final phone call.
“I thought you hated me.” It blasts from my lips before I can stop myself. But it must be said—we can’t just pretend that nothing passed between us.
He’s silent for a beat and then sighs. “I did at first, but then...I know you did what you had to do.”
“Why come back? Why here?” My question comes off as snippy, but I’m confused by all of this.
“Well, I finished college, and I need to work...so...Old Man Carson laid the offer on the table before I returned to school.” He’s grinning, and it’s cheeky.
“You know what I mean, Nick.”
He sobers. “You’re a happily married woman, now. What we had—well, it’s ancient history.”
It doesn’t feel so ancient and hearing him refer to what was the most fulfilling time in my life, until it went to hell, as ancient history, makes me kind of want to cry. Ancient history—I’m dying on the inside.
Lost in thought, I can’t find the words to continue this conversation. I want to tell him everything, but I don’t like saying the words. Even now, after all this time, it’s like a knife across my heart. He’s right, I’m married, and that’s that.
By the time we reach the main house, the rain has slowed considerably but is still pouring. Turning to Nick, I place a hand on his arm, surprised by the heat of his flesh. A familiar tingle flashes through my body, followed by a rush of heat that I pray isn’t blushing my cheeks. Nick turns to meet my gaze; our eyes remain locked for several silent seconds.
Feeling slightly unnerved by him, I mask my reaction by plastering a fake smile on my face and casually switching the direction of my gaze.
“Thank you.” My eyes meet his again, and I smile, releasing a short giggle. “If you hadn’t rescued me, I would have been fried. Really, I owe you one.”
“No worries at all, ma’am.” Nick nods goodbye as a casual grin curls his lips.
My skin crawls.
Ma’am?
I hate that word, I’m far too young to be addressed with it. Too much has passed between us for him to address me so courteously.
But he will soon be my employee, so...
Tearing my gaze from his, my hand swipes across his arm as I remove it from his flesh, but the caress causes another rush of excitement to pass through me. My heart quickens and suddenly, the words are lost to me.
What is wrong with me?
I need to get out of this truck.
ASAP.
Before I flail myself at him like a flaming torpedo of desire.
In a flash, I wrench the door open, toss it shut, and race up the stairs to the porch where Rigel sits, waiting. He’s obviously much smarter than his mistress because by the looks of him, he’s bone dry.