Page 76 of Strike Zone

He shakes his head. He’s sitting in his usual brown leather recliner with his leg propped up again. I’m curious to know the story behind his injury—whatever happened had an effect on the entire family.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks. My steps falter. Wyatt wouldn’t have told his dad that I stripped all my clothes off and let him finger bang me, would he? His expression is blank, wrapped up in whatever is happening on the television. Maybe he’s making small talk.

“I did. Thank you.” I take a sip of my coffee and immediately start coughing. “What is this made with? Tar?”

His deep chuckle makes me smile. “You’ll get used to it after a few cups.”

“After a few cups, I’ll be doing laps around the farm.” I’ll admit the second sip does go down a little easier than the first. Likely because ninety percent of my tastebuds are tainted with this murky liquid that is posing as coffee. “Where is everyone?”

“Faith and Lenny are running errands. Willow is at work—she works a few days a week at the bakery in town. And the boys are working on that list you made for them last night.” His lip tilts up on one side.

“It’s Ford’s list. I simply suggested it would be more efficient if he wrote everything down and prioritized what he wanted done to keep everyone on the same page,” I say. He hums in response. “Did Wyatt mention anything for me to do while he’s working outside?”

“You didn’t want to join them?” His lip curls similarly to his son’s when he’s teasing me.

“I don’t know if you have enough insurance to have me help fix roofs and build fences.”

“Faith left a pile of documents for you to look through. All the income reports from the last ten years or so.” He nods toward the dining room table. “It didn’t happen overnight. Our financial situation. It’s been years in the making. Started back before I took over for my dad. Every year we get a little bit more behind.”

I wonder why Wyatt is under the impression he is the reason behind all their debt.

“You did the best you could. Your family—”

“Has sacrificed a lot while I sit here and watch.” He stares out the window that’s filled with green pastures and a barn that looks like a dollhouse since it’s so far away.

“Maybe it’s time to stop watching.” I finish my muffin and take my empty coffee mug back to the kitchen and rinse it out. “I need a tour,” I say, holding his cane out to him.

He eyes it for a moment. “You know how to drive a Gator?”

“I’m not sure what that is but I’m a quick learner.”

“Then grab your hat and put on your boots. I’ll meet you outside.”

Apparently a Gator is a four wheeler. I’ve never been on one before but it can’t be too hard to figure out how to drive. It’s a rocky start as we jerk down a dirt path that leads to the flower fields.

Green stems pop out of the ground. A few with tiny buds getting ready to bloom in a variety of colors. He informs me they will harvest the flowers and sell what they can to local florists.

What happens to the flowers they can’t sell? I add this to my list of questions for Wyatt.

We follow the dirt and gravel path as it curves around to the back end of the property. Mr. Rivers points out different pastures and sections of unused land. All the places they have plans to utilize in the future.

“Do you want to show the boys what you’re made of?” he shouts over the wind and rumble of the engine. He points toward a large red barn. I can’t quite make out who, but two of the four brothers are up on the roof.

“Hold on!” I yell before I step on the gas and we go flying over the hills. I’ve never done anything this crazy before. I break out in a peal of laughter and he screams wildly in excitement. I have a feeling it’s been a long time since he’s felt this alive.

“Circle the barn.” He has a death grip on the handle above his head. I take us around the barn a few times narrowly avoiding the workstation Ford has set up.

“Someone doesn’t look very happy with you,” he says after our fourth trip around the barn.

“Me?” I ask. He points to Wyatt where he's standing on top of the barn with his hands on his hips.

“You better stop and talk to him.”

“This was your idea, Mr. Rivers.” I press my foot on the brake and put the four wheeler in park.

“Mr. Rivers is my Pa. Call me Jack. I probably should have told you I’m not supposed to be riding on these things.” He slaps the dash.

“Dad. Wren,” Ford says with a stern look and crossed arms. “You know the rules.” Jack and I climb out of the four wheeler like chastised children.

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