Page 1 of Till The Cows Come Home
Chapter One
Sage
Three Years Prior
My father was my rock, the strength that held our family together, but as he called for me from the porch, I knew something had fallen apart. It may have been the small crack in his voice, or the way my name sounded slightly unfamiliar rolling off his tongue, that differentiated this summon from all the rest, but as soon as it entered my ears, my gut knew it was significant. The hen in front of me was clearly unbothered as she nudged my hand, raking her feet across the ground, signaling she’d prefer me to flip more rocks rather than answer my father’s call.
“Sorry Peaches, we both know better than to keep him waiting.”
I ruffled her feathers before hoisting myself up, carefully stepping around the piles of rocks littering the field I’d taken solace in. I started this ritual in my late teens, mindlessly flipping rocks to unearth grubs for Peaches and her posse while I ruminated over my troubles. In my younger years, I’d complained to her about my parents or the kids at school, butas an adult, I found myself unloading much deeper troubles on her winged shoulders. Her support never wavered, though. She just stared back, head adorably cocked as she responded to the changing tones in my voice.
I’d lived on Baker Farm my entire twenty-five years of life, and the problems continued to grow as the years passed. Instead of complaining to Peaches about my parents, I was figuring out how to support them, desperate for an innovation to alleviate the growing financial pressures. My father knew dairy farming wasn’t exactly a gold mine when he founded the farm thirty years ago, but he’d never expected the economy to shift like it had, and he’d spent the last five or so years trying to play catch up. The value of milk continued to decrease even though demand remained steady, and the cost of fuel and land continued to rise. At the end of each year he’d crunch the numbers, subtracting our costs while hoping the profits would at least net out, and each year he’d be hunched over the calculator cursing at the pesky number adorned with a big fat negative in front.
I found myself in the field more and more, bouncing ideas off Peaches as I brainstormed new ways to spread the budget before the next milk check cleared. We currently sold our milk by the bottle at the farmer’s market and by the truckload to nearby factories, but it wasn’t enough. About a year ago I started making cheese, and in the last few weeks I tried my hand at yogurt, desperate to expand our portfolio. Emphasis on the word try, because I struggled to achieve the correct consistency, and my frustration was audible as I opened batch after batch of rancid milk concoctions. I refused to give up though, and a few days ago I’d finally crafted a batch that wasalmostedible.
I wiped my hands on my pants, knocking the stray dirt that lingered, before crouching back down to retrieve my bird bestie. She waddled towards me, allowing me to scoop her up,and when she was tucked securely under my arm, I turned to make my way in from the field. I didn’t trust the flock this far away from the coop, and if I took the ringleader with me, the rest would follow. Predators loomed on the property line, so I attempted to keep them near the barn where someone or something was around to protect them, whether that be the farm hands or the dogs. I checked over my shoulder periodically during my trek to the house, ensuring I was still being followed by the posse before continuing forward, and only when Peaches was comfortably settled at the bottom of the porch, did I ascend the steps, leaving the flock to safely forage close by while I answered my summons.
The frequency of sit-down conversations with my father had increased with his retirement approaching, and I could feel his confidence in me waver. I knew he occasionally second-guessed my ability to fill his shoes, but I loathed the palpable tension that arose each time we had one of these talks. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his stubbornness to give away control. Blame couldn’t be placed solely on my father though. He started our family farm from the ground up, and if I had created an empire, I’d be hesitant to hand it over until I was sure my successor was competent. This was an issue we often squabbled over, my mother routinely stepping in with smacks upside the head to silence us before things got too heated.
“You’ve raised her for this her entire life Stu, give the girl some credit.”
“I know, I know,” he’d grumble in agreement before kissing the side of my head, sending me back to the barn to do the chores I’d been completing alone since I was eight.
This routine was rinse and repeat until lately when money was the tightest it’s ever been. Raised voices replaced the usual mumble and grumbles that not even my mother could tamp down. I’d never seen my parents argue before now and it brokemy heart to see the thing that built our family was beginning to tear it apart.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I bowed, my heartbeat involuntarily quickening as I approached my parents who were sitting together at the patio table. A sourness peeked from behind the facade of calmness they desperately tried to obtain, as if they’d just silenced a tiff of their own before I arrived.
My mother motioned to the space next to her. “Have a seat, honey.”
“What is it?” I asked, panicking slightly in response to the painful grimace plastered across my father’s face.
“Sage, sit down,” he bellowed, momentarily wincing at the harshness of his own words as they left his mouth.
My parents waited as I complied, and once I was seated across from them, they stared at me, clearly reluctant for what was to come once they broke their silence.
“We’re selling the farm, Sage.” My mother exhaled loudly, finally dishing out the blow.
My head became fuzzy as I tried to grasp at the words she was speaking, my brain immediately overwhelmed as I tried to pinpoint the moment I missed that signaled we were past the point of no return.
“No, we’re not,” I challenged. “This is my farm too.”
“Not yet, it’s not,” my father countered, his expression slipping darker than I’d ever seen before.
“We still have a chance. I’ve seen the statements. We can last a few more months. I have a few ideas that I can have rolled out by the weekend. I can keep us afloat for a while longer. Please.”
“We’ve made our decision,” my mother murmured with a finality that chilled my bones. They’d made up their mind, not bothering to include me in the discussion, knowing damn well that this derailed everything my life was meant to be.
“How could you do this without me?” I whispered, letting the tears run freely down my cheeks. When neither responded, I stood, shoving my chair into the table, ignoring my mother’s pleas to stay as I stormed from the porch, desperately needing to be anywhere besides where I currently was.
I ended up in the calf pen, my second choice of refuge for when I was trying to be more elusive, my body settling comfortably amongst the newest members of the herd. My first choice would have been to seek out Peaches, but since I’d left her so close to my parents, she wasn’t exactly a viable option at the moment. Few things cured a broken heart like the sandpaper licks of a calf’s tongue, though, and the uneven gait of a newborn trying out their legs for the first time could mend even the most mangled of hearts.
I’d always taken care of the little ones, my father rationalizing that they were smaller and therefore less dangerous. His stance on the matter, mixed with my lack of complaints, had landed me the job for life. We both knew I’d end up here and it was only a matter of time before he found me. My habits were a direct byproduct of his own, and our similarities ruthlessly sabotaged me for as long as I could remember. Until then, though, I would sit here surrounded by innocence.
He arrived sooner than I expected, and I felt him approach before seeing him, catching the split-second that the calves averted their attention from me as he leaned against the fence behind us.
“You can’t run away from this.”
“How long?” I questioned.
