Page 2 of Mom Ball

“Yeah, but better to learn young.” Morgan sucks on the lemon slice.

Erica snarls before leaning back and closing her eyes. I stare outside, my stomach knotting as I try and recall the cow rotation.

The county owns that field, which connects to our land. They alternate between running a golf course and keeping cattle on it. There’s a good chance our kids will either get hit by a golf ball or worse—a bull.

I spring to my feet and tighten the sash on my robe. Morgan and Erica stare at me like I’m crazy.

“What’s gotten into you?” Erica asks.

“I’m going to check on the kids. The cows may be out, and if not, there will be crazy people driving golf carts and hitting balls.”

Morgan tugs my robe. “Land the helicopter, Brooke, they’re fine. Ethan’s in charge.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I jerk loose from her grip and head toward the door.

My flip-flops clap against the concrete on my way through the patio to the garage. Daddy keeps a four-wheeler ready to go by the house. I can maneuver it inside the pasture easier than my Corolla.

I straddle the seat and tuck my robe beneath my thighs so it won’t blow open. All I need is to flash a random Apple Cartian on my way to rescue Timothy. With one hand on the gas and the other securing my robe, I fly down the drive in third gear.

Stray hairs escape my topknot and stick to the cream on my face. I unsuccessfully attempt to blow a strand out of my eye, afraid to let go of my robe. I turn toward the gate to the pasture on two wheels, then park.

Grass hits my bare legs as I jog to the gate. Of course it’s locked. I gird my loins and climb the metal rails, then hoist my short legs over the top. I step down a few rungs and hop to the ground. Thanks to all my years as a cheerleader, I manage to land without breaking anything. Except for maybe my dollar store flip-flops. To be fair, they were living on borrowed time.

I move best I can in the near knee-high grass, which is another indication it’s cow time.

“Timothy!” I yell his name as I stagger up a slight hill.

When I come to a clearing, I spot the brains behind this outing—Ethan. And I use the word “brains” loosely. He’s your typical young teenager, obsessed with sports, outdoors, and Aniston’s niece, though he’d never admit the latter.

“Ethan!”

He comes toward me, a bat in hand.

“Miss Brooke?” He stares like I’m a swamp monster.

But with four-wheeler hair and cleansing clay on my face, it’s probably an accurate assessment.

“Do you know where Tim—”

“Mama?” Timothy bounces toward me before I can finish his name.

I rush toward him and hug him close, kissing his cheek. He laughs and pulls back. “Why are you sticky?” He rubs a smidge of cream from his cheek.

“I was worried the bulls were in here. Y’all don’t need to come out here without asking first.”

“I told my mom we were coming,” Ethan offers.

I slant my eyes his way. “That doesn’t count for Timothy.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” He nods toward the road. “We can go back. Andrew is already outside the fence getting the ball.”

“You shouldn’t send your little brother in the road by himself.”

“I didn’t, I sent Carter too.”

I press my lips together and fight the urge to scold Ethan. Sending Aniston’s nephew, who’s maybe a year older than Andrew, isn’t much better, if not worse.

“Let’s go.” I hook my arm around Timothy’s shoulder.

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