Page 81 of Always Meant for You
She wipes the rain from her face and looks up at me. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”
Why does she have to get prettier every time I look at her?
“Do you have something to say?” she asks.
There’s a loaded question.
The Garver brothers appear, taking the pressure off me to speak. Kenny carries the wicker basket. Abe has the quilt.
“We’ve got what you asked for, Mabel,” Kenny says as they set the items on a bale of hay.
The brothers linger for a beat, soaking in Mabel’s movements, clearly respecting her actions.
It’s hard not to watch.
She’s calm, focused, and undeniably capable. And they’re responding to that. I can’t blame them.
It’s a scene I didn’t think I’d see again—Mabel Muldowney in a barn, barefoot.
“Sounds like you’re going to save the town,” Kenny says, offering Mabel a shy grin.
Mabel save the town?
I fight the twitch in my jaw. For half a second, my scowl turns into full-blown indignation.
I’ve worked my ass off for this place. I’m the one who pushed us through the hoops to get the certified organic co-op designation. I’ve poured every ounce of myself into these farms, into this town. She shows up and makes one speech about social media, and boom, we’re saved.
My expression must give me away, because Kenny stops grinning.
Dammit, I have to let that go and give credit where it’s due. She’s giving this town something I couldn’t. Hope. Just like Jamie did. The question is—will it hold?
“We think it’s great that you’re helping Elverna get some publicity,” Abe says, sheepishly, taking a half step back.
“I’ll do my best,” Mabel replies and gifts the twins with a nod and the whisper of a grin.
The Garvers offer their good nights and slip out into the rain, leaving behind a pocket of quiet that feels heavier than before.
The barn creaks with the wind, the rain still drumming steadily on the roof.
She adjusts the goat in her arms. “Are you planning to help, Mr. Broody Farmer? Or are you going to stare while I do this one-handed?”
“I’m conserving energy,” I say, moving beside her. “It takes effort to appear this broody.”
She rolls her eyes, but I keep my focus steady. “And I know you know what you’re doing. You used to have ribbons hanging over your bed—4-H, County Fair. Then they disappeared andwere replaced with travel posters and pictures of Paris.” I shift my stance. “Is that something you still want?”
“Paris?” she asks, glancing up.
“Yeah.”
“Yes, I want to go to Paris. That hasn’t changed.”
“But you haven’t yet, right? You haven’t made it anywhere.”
Heat creeps up my neck. Damn, I sound petty as hell.
“I made it to New York, Cal. I lived there on my own for four years.” Her tone is clipped. I’m walking a fine line.
I want to tell her that it terrified me knowing she was there, knowing what a city can do to a vulnerable girl from farm country.
