Page 76 of Homestead

Plus he’s annoying me.

“What the hell?” he demands as he bursts back in a few minutes later.

Shit. I forgot he’d see the garden.

“What?” I ask, blinking up at him innocently.

He grimaces. “What the fuck did you do in the garden?”

“I finished it.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because you were worried about it and I was capable of doing it. What exactly is your problem?”

My bad-tempered question appears to stump him. He’s silent for a moment, still frowning at me. “You didn’t have to do that,” he finally says in a milder tone.

“I know I didn’t have to. But I did it anyway. Are you seriously mad at me about it?”

“No. Not mad.” He’s relaxed now into the kind of mumbling he does when he’s self-conscious. “But I coulda done it. You mighta hurt yourself out there.”

I gasp, half-amused and half-indignant. “Why would I hurt myself? I’m not totally inept, you know.”

“I know that. But you got enough to do in here.” He nods toward my baking. “You’re gonna get too tired. You’re not feelin’ good.”

“I’m feeling fine.” He has no way of knowing that I’ve not been feeling great today or that I threw up earlier, and I’m certainly not going to inform him of that fact. So I’m not sure what he’s basing his assumption on. “Everything’s fine, Jimmy. I did okay.”

“Looks like you did real good,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes.

The understated compliment makes me blush in pleasure.

Since I’m busy baking, I fix us sandwiches again for lunch. We eat them at the table with a glass of milk. Afterward, I expect Jimmy to return to bed, but he doesn’t. He walks around some more, insisting that stretching his muscles will help. Then he camps out in the kitchen as I work.

He wants to help me with the bread, but the mixing and the kneading and the leaning over into the oven would all put strain on his back, so I don’t let him. Instead, I give him a pile of mending to do, telling him if he insists on working, he can do that.

He chuckles but immediately starts on the project. He knows how. He had to make do on his own for a long time. His fingers are a lot bigger than mine and not as nimble, so his stitches aren’t as small and straight, but it doesn’t matter. We just need to get the clothes with fabric that’s still good but that have torn seams to be wearable again.

His mood improves as the afternoon progresses and so does mine even as I get more and more tired. When the final two loaves get put in the oven, I sink into my chair with a groan.

“You done too much today,” he says disapprovingly.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have. And you look kinda pale. You got a stomach bug or somethin’?”

“No! Why would you ask that?” Surely he doesn’t know I threw up earlier.

“You haven’t been eatin’ much. Somethin’s not right.”

“Everything is fine, but Iamtired. It’s more work than I usually do. I really have no idea how you do so much all the time.”

As I hoped, buttering him up like that works to divert his attention. He drops his eyes and mumbles something incomprehensible in response.

After I clean up, Jimmy insists I rest for a while. He’s moving better—still stiffly but not wincing with pain at every step—so he goes outside to check on the animals while I stretch out on the couch.

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