Page 23 of Where It All Began
The stinging of his knuckles firmed up his decision, and John considered the debate settled. There would be no fling, no affair, just two adults sharing a kitchen table. They could be professional, maybe even tentative friends. In fact, if he got to know her a little better, he imagined their differences would build a bigger gap between them. That would help his physical reaction to her.
Keep things simple, uncomplicated. Just the way he liked them.
Bolstered by that thought, he went back to work whistling.
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He was still sweating and swearing over the sprayer when Phoebe bopped back into the barn with an empty spray tank.
She tossed out a snappy salute. “Private Allen reporting for duty.”
He turned her way, and her eyes widened as they zeroed in on his shirt.
“What the hell did you do to yourself?” she demanded, rushing over with the tank bouncing wildly on her back.
She was pawing at his shirt trying to pull it up. Her frantic touch was doing nothing to cool his overheated blood that was once again plunging south. He slapped her hands away and pushed her back a step. Manhandling him was not helping him convince his body that it was best to leave her the hell alone.
“I’m fine.” He held up his hand with the sloppy bandage on his knuckles.
“Geez, I thought you punctured something and were oozing liver blood,” Phoebe sighed out in relief.
He wasn’t quite ready to forgive her for occupying so many of his thoughts this morning and responded with a noncommittal grunt.
“Did you get the old girl working?” Phoebe asked, patting the sprayer.
“Looks that way. You finish the wheat?” He wiped his hands clean on a fresh rag and helped her out of the tank’s harness, careful not to let his hands linger.
“Boundaries have been officially eradicated of weeds,” she reported. “By the way, what is in that spray? It smells like flowers and garbage.”
“It’s a special Blue Moon blend weed killer. We try to keep the chemical use low for both cost and potential environmental impact. It works. Not as well as some of the commercial weed killers. But enough that we can justify continuing to use it.”
“Good answer,” she said, rewarding him with a wink. “Does any farm in Blue Moon use commercial weed killer?” Phoebe asked, slipping into interrogation mode.
John pulled up the hem of his t-shirt and used it to mop his forehead. “We Blue Moon farmers are a little skeptical of the miracles of modern chemistry,” he admitted. “It just seems like meddling with Mother Nature isn’t the best idea.”
Phoebe frowned like she was committing his words to memory. “Interesting. What about technology? For instance, you’ve got a small, ancient sprayer here. If you were to upgrade to the twenty-foot boom sprayer you’d cut down on your labor hours for production.”
“Chicken. Egg,” John said. “New equipment requires income. In order for a farmer to have an income, he—or she—” he said, eyeing her up. “Must have a product to sell.”
“Mmm, I get it. So, you chose to use available, albeit elderly, equipment rather than going into debt to acquire newer equipment. Valuing your money over your time, essentially.”
“Yeah. Can we talk about this later?” John grumbled.
“Sure,” Phoebe chirped. “What’s next?”
“Next I have to split myself in two so can I spray the corn fields today and haul the rest of the grain to the elevator in Cleary.”
“The curse of never enough time,” she said with sympathy. “You can’t hire more hands until you’ve made some money, and you can’t make any money without a harvest.”
“Bingo.”
“I’ll spray,” Phoebe volunteered.
“Phoebe, you want me to turn you loose on my fields in a piece of equipment that’s nearly as old as you are?” His tone made it clear that he couldn’t think of a worse idea.
“Why don’t you show me how it’s done and let me take a test pass or two on the field. Ride along, and if you’re satisfied I’m not going to mow over your entire crop, you haul the grain.”
“And if I’m not satisfied?”
