Page 9 of Till The Cows Come Home
“Miles. Miles Carver,” I said, partially sticking out a hand before realizing they were entirely too full to grasp hers.
“Miles Carver,” she repeated. “But I don’t need you to buygroceries for me. I don’t need you to do anything for me; in fact I’d prefer you didn’t. We may coexist within the county lines of Lox, but that doesn’t make us friends.”
“Gotcha,” I sighed, “Well, I just wanted to say I was sorry for whatever ill feelings I provoked, and I also wanted to assure you that your place is being well taken care of. If you ever have questions about what I’m doing or even if you want to stop by and see the girls, you’re more than welcome.”
I looked down at her, searching her eyes for any indication of how the conversation would end, and the furrowing of her brows mixed with the single tear that’d escaped each eye told me she was also trying to figure it out too.
My heart broke at not only the hurt I caused, but at the fact that the mere mention of her old companions caused her this much heartache and anger.
“I’m sorry, I gotta go,” she muttered, before weaving her way out of the market, leaving me standing alone, again.
I lowered the bags in frustration, their mere presence a reminder of my repeated failure to crack the code that was this devastated woman.
Beth rounded the table, approaching me with soft eyes. “I warned you, baby. That girl has been through it and you’re just a reminder of everything she’s lost.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding, exhaling deeply as I realized the challenge that had just walked away from me. Sage’s trauma ran deeper than anything I’d experienced.
“Could you still drop these off, please?”
Her pitied nod of agreement was all I needed, allowing me to dismiss myself with long strides through the park before hopping in my truck. I needed to get away and I could feel my breaths evening the closer I got to the farm. I pulled into the driveway, and once the truck was in park, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel.
What was I doing?
I had enough to worry about, and I was spending my time terrorizing a woman with a past she was adamant to leave behind.
I gained my composure before opening the door, and as I stepped out of the truck, I heard the familiar bellowing of a cow getting ready to give birth. Before I left for the market, I made my rounds and saw that Buttercup was showing the telltale signs of freshening. Excitement coursed through me as I picked up pace towards the barn, welcoming the familiar distraction, but as I crossed the threshold, I began jogging, feeling in my bones that something wasn’t right. I followed the calls of labor until I found her lying down, surrounded by the concerned herd.
“Hi sweetheart. Having a bit of a hard time?” I asked, relieved that she just seemed to be loudly expressing her discomfort.
After shooing away the unwanted spectators, I guided her to her feet, leading her to a bedded stall I’d prepared for her earlier. Cows could deliver in the field alone, and they sometimes did, but I always attempted to make the experience more comfortable if I could. She promptly laid back down and I backed off, giving her some privacy. I learned early on that a good rule of thumb was to only intervene when needed, so I’d check on her for about an hour and if she was still struggling, I’d step in. Luckily, besides a small tug on a calf here and there, the girls had all been successfully birthing without me.
After about an hour passed, I circled back for another check, and a tinge of concern coursed through me when I saw Buttercup was no longer actively pushing. This would usually mean she was done laboring, but the calf was nowhere to be found. When I gloved up to examine her, I could feel it wasstill stuck in the birth canal, but when I tried to grip its legs, Buttercup would sway away from me, forcing me to lose my grip. Anxiety built knowing the calf likely had already been in the birthing canal too long, but I hadn’t made enough profit to hire staff, meaning no one was around to help.
In a slight panic, I sprinted to the house, calling one of the nearby farmers, but the line just rang and rang, and as I continued down the list of people who could possibly lend a hand, I was met with voicemail after voicemail.
It was chore time, which meant if I wanted to get a hold of someone, I’d probably have to drive to them, and I wasn’t sure I had that kind of time. Desperate for help, I swiped through the piles of cluttered papers on my desk, locating the manila envelope that Gale Baker had left me, and I silently celebrated when I located the number I’d been searching for. It rang far too many times, and I let out a sigh of relief when I finally heard the line pick up.
“Hello?”
“Sage, it’s Miles. Please don’t hang up. I need your help.”
Chapter Six
Sage
After the market, I got home and promptly climbed into my bed, emerging only to address the odd tempo knocking coming from my entryway about an hour later. I contemplated ignoring the noise, but as the pounds continued to deliver against the wood, I figured I had no choice but to address it. My feet dragged across the carpet, a swirling cocktail of unresolved grief and newfound anxiety acting as weights around my ankles, and as I opened the door, Beth quickly came into my view, out of breath and red faced, balancing the bags I’d abandoned earlier.
Guilt coursed through me, and I cursed myself for dismissing the knocking as long as I did. I immediately took my things from her and when her hands were freed, she leaned against my counter, letting out a frustrated sigh, before inhaling deeply, as if she needed as much air as possible for the scolding I was about to receive. When she looked at me, though, her eyes immediately softened, and the harsh inhale she’d drawn in escaped her like a deflated balloon.
Her gaze was undoubtedly met with a ratty hoodie, bloodshot eyes, and unruly ponytail trying its damndest to holdback my curls. I knew this because the same image reflected back to me moments ago, haunting me as I passed my mirror on the way to answer the door. But I’d shrugged it off then, just as I shrugged it off now, unable to muster the care.
“Oh, baby,” she cooed before pulling me into a tight embrace. “Why didn’t you call? I would have been here. No woman deserves to be sad in solidarity.”
“I know you would have. That’s exactly why I didn’t call. I texted Ruby, but Asher isn’t feeling great, and I know you’re busy after the market. Turns out when you push everyone away, solidarity becomes less of an option and more of an involuntary reality.”
Uncomfortable with the attention, I thumbed through the bags, surprised to unearth many of my favorites hiding in their depths.
“Did he make you bring this stuff? I told him I didn’t want his pity groceries.”
