Page 12 of Catching Sparks

Swallowing, I inspect the clothes, finding a pair of old jeans folded neatly beneath a plain white cotton T-shirt. They’re clean, despite the stains. For a moment, I wonder if these are Brody’s clothes. And by the time I force myself to put them on, I’m almost certain they are. The jeans are baggy enough around my waist that I have to dig into my suitcase for a belt before heading out.

A dark laugh trickles through my lips as I stare down at the cowboy boots left directly in front of the door. I’ve never worn a pair before, and I’m not about to start now.

I make my way back to my suitcase and pull out a pair of black running shoes, sliding them on before going to meet Wade outside.

Without the sun up, the air has a brutal chill as I head toward the man waiting at the bottom of the porch steps. Hearing me coming, he turns to face me and takes a long, hard look at my clothes before focusing on my feet.

His huff was expected, but he doesn’t bother chastising me for it. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

I fall into step behind him, following in silence. Only when we stop in front of a battered, two-door pickup truck do I ask, “Where are we going?”

“Work’s started already. Got a few jobs for you to do for me today,” he says before opening the creaking driver’s door and hopping into the truck.

I inhale calmly and round the hood to the other side. The first thing I realize when I slide into the truck is the dirt. It’s everywhere, in the cracks of the seats and dusted over the dash. I immediately lift my hand from where it lay on the cloth seat and wipe it clean on my jeans.

“Has anyone ever cleaned this thing before?” I ask, quickly buckling the seat belt despite the fact Wade doesn’t.

My nose crinkles at the smell of dust and what I only imagine is cow shit as Wade uses the crank on the door to roll down his window.

“There’s no reason to clean a farm truck. This thing’s been driven in the muddy pastures for longer than you’ve been alive. It’s seen everythin’ and then some.”

The stick shift between us looks older than the ranch itself. And the sound the engine makes when Wade manages to turn it over on the third try? My eyes go wide at the roar and the plumes of smoke kicking out of the exhaust.

“Right,” I breathe, staring at the black clouds behind us in the side mirror.

We jolt when Wade pulls at the shifter, and we leave the guest house. The gravel road is just as bumpy in the truck as it was beneath the wheels of my suitcase as we head in the opposite direction of civilization. Instead, we keep driving until we hit a fork in the road, one leading to more open fields and the other to one blocked by a long, never-ending wire fence. Behind the fence, I stare slack-jawed at the number of cows following behind a tractor with a bale of hay speared onto two sharp prongs.

“Feedin’ time,” Wade says, parking beside the fence. He grabs one of the pairs of brown gloves from the middle seat and slides them on. “You’re goin’ to wish you wore those boots, boy. Be careful where you step.”

I watch him get out of the truck and push open the gate in the fence. Knowing he’s more likely to leave me here alone for however long this is going to take instead of waiting, I take the second set of gloves and follow him.

“Have you ever worked outside a day in your life?” he shouts over the tractor’s engine once I jog up beside him.

I stretch my fingers in the gloves. “No.”

“This will be fun for you, then.”

He stops walking when the tractor turns to drop the hay bale in front of a large silver trough—one of the many spread as far as I can see in the dark pasture. The cows have formed a herd as Wade moves to the bale, using a knife to cut through the wire wrapped around the middle of it.

“Get in here. This’ll be your job this mornin’,” he demands.

The cows are huge, bigger and more intimidating than I expected them to be up close. They watch me curiously as I decide against arguing with Wade about this chore and stand beside him, pressing my fingers into the hay. Immediately, the texture of it beneath the protection of my gloves turns me off as I recoil from it.

“Cut the wire with this and then tear it apart with the fork. Once you’re finished, fill the trough and move on to the next one.” He hands me a utility knife from his pocket and a pitchfork from the back of the truck, and I take them with a cautious hand.

“How many bales are there?”

“Too many for just you. The ranch hands are already out and workin’. Could introduce yourself to your new friends if you wanted to once you reach ’em.”

The idea of making friends with any of these people is even less appealing than spending all day plucking through hay.

“I assume you’re not staying to supervise?”

“You’re catching on quick. I’m headin’ back now, but the truck is yours. Use it whenever you have to get around. Feedin’ time is 7:00 a.m. sharp always. My wife has breakfast ready every mornin’ at the main house at six thirty for the staff if you ever feel like joinin’,” he says gruffly.

My stomach growls at the thought of food. “Right. And what should I do after this?”

He narrows his eyes on me, searching my expression for something. “We’ll start here. See if you can handle this, and go from there.”

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