Page 67 of The Farmer Has a Wife

Danni exhaled. “Nothing.”

He snorted. “Try again.”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. He was going to find out sooner or later, she supposed. She still had to take a deep breath before she could speak the words out loud. “Fine. Eleanor left. She’s gone back to the big house.”

He didn’t look surprised. “And?”

Danni gave him a flat look. “And what? That’s it. She left. Sent separation papers and the whole kit and caboodle. It’s over.”

Hector turned around and made tea for them both. “That was the deal though, wasn’t it?” he said, his back to her. When he turned around again, he placed a cup in front of her. “Are you alright with it?”

She let out a bitter laugh. “No, I’m not alright with it. But what choice do I have? You’re right, that was the deal. And she made it perfectly clear that that’s all this ever was, a deal. It was never real, it was always about the money.”

He sat down, wrapping his hands around his mug. “But that’s not true, is it?”

She clenched her jaw. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

A long silence stretched between them before Hector finally sipped his tea and sniffed. “So, what are you going to do?”

She stared at the table, coming to the conclusion that she knew she had to come to, not wanting everyone else to be right, but what if they were? Everyone had been right about Eleanor, after all, hadn’t they? “I don’t know,” she said eventually. “Maybe you’re all right. Maybe I should take the offer and sell the farm while it’s still on the table.”

Hector’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re serious?”

Danni shrugged. “What’s keeping me here? The land? The sheep? The backbreaking work? My own damn stubbornness?”

“You love this farm,” Hector said carefully. “You worked your arse off to get it and keep it, so you keep telling me.”

“And look where that got me,” she shot back. “I’m broke, I’m exhausted, and now I’m alone as well.”

For a second, the kitchen clock ticked into the silent room. Then Hector reached across and awkwardly patted her hand. “You’re not alone, Dan. I’m here. We’re all here. And you know that there’s nothing we’d all like better than to have you back at home with us. You can help run the big farm, just like you always did. You know as well as I do that big farming is how things are going. Running a wee place like this is practically impossible to make a living out of.”

Danni let out a breath, shaking her head. “No, Hec. No. If I sell up, then I’m leaving. I don’t know where, but I’m going. I need a fresh start. Something new, something else, something that doesn’t leave me feeling like I’ve failed.”

For the first time, realization dawned on Hector’s face. “You’re not talking about moving back home?”

“No,” she said quietly. “No, I’m not coming home, Hec.”

He watched her for a long, long moment, then sighed and stood up. He crossed the kitchen and, without a word, pulled Danni up from her chair and into a tight hug, holding her close so that she smelled the scent of his jacket, their father’s jacket, the smell of home and farm and dad.

Danni stiffened at first, then, after a moment, she let herselflean into it.

She was tired of fighting, tired of pretending. And tired of missing someone who clearly didn’t miss her back.

And after Hector left, with promises to check on her the next day, the rest of the night stretched on long and heavy. Danni sat by the kitchen window, staring out into the darkened fields, seeing the barn, the stables, and not crying.

She’d spent so long imagining a future here. A future where she’d run her own farm and prove to everyone that she could do it. Then a future where she and Eleanor laughed over their morning coffee and argued over paint colors for the kitchen. A future where that damn marriage certificate they’d got actually meant something.

But that future wasn’t real, because Eleanor had left.

And Danni had no idea how to let her go.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Eleanor was perfectly aware that the wall she was painting did not, in fact, require a fourth coat of paint. It had been perfectly acceptable after the first, excellent after the second, and borderline obsessive by the third. But yet here she was, paintbrush in hand, methodically covering the same stretch of plaster for the fourth time, because otherwise, she might have to sit down and think.

Thinking was dangerous.

Thinking led to regret.

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