Page 8 of In the Dust

The dewy grass sways with the morning breeze. I inhale the fresh, unpolluted air; I don’t want to admit that I’ve missed this. The nostalgia of home blankets me, stirring up every emotion I’ve pushed down the past few years.

I swing by the chicken coop, lazily tossing their feed out onto the dirt. I know I’m doing this slower than necessary; there’s no need for me to stare at the chickens as they attack the dirt to get their breakfast, but I can’t help myself.

I know today will be hard. My high school sweetheart is in the barn that I’m trudging towards, but I told myself there’s no sense in kicking up dust … He doesn’t have to affect me. Damnit, Dixie, this isn’t that big of a deal. You broke up years ago, and you’ve moved on.

“You’re late, Dixie May.” Colton smirks as I walk into the barn. It’s still early morning, but it’s already steaming hot. He’s wearing only a pair of wranglers, and his button up is strewn over one of the barn doors.

His toned stomach is glistening with sweat as he throws another bale of hay on the stack.

“Didn’t want to be rude to the rooster.” I tilt my head to the rooster that’s standing on top of the fence and stick my tongue out at him. “Woke me up at the crack of dawn this morning.”

Colton laughs. “Well, it looks like you took your sweet time. It’s eight already.”

I shrug, placing my palm against the weathered wood of the barn. “I had to take a bath.”

He takes off his ball cap, shaking his messy hair out before flipping it on backwards. I bite my lip; he knows that’s my favorite way he wears it. “The city did a number on you, having to bathe before work.” He laughs again. “On second thought, where do you work now?” he asks.

“Oh, here and there.” Nowhere. I couldn't find shit for work in the city. You would think it would be easy with all the shops, but my entire life I’ve worked on a farm. I didn’t have the skills for anything there and no job history to back myself up. School kept me busy enough.

It’s not like anything there really caught my eye work wise, but I’d never admit that.

“Want some help?” I change the subject.

He quirks his brow. “You wanna stack? You always hated that.”

“Things change,” I lie. I don’t want to stack even one freaking bale.

We work in sync and silence and twenty minutes later, a thin sheen of sweat is lining my forehead, making my attempt to cover my birthmark pointless. “Are we done yet?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, throwing one more on the stack. “We need to get the cows together. Who do you wanna ride?”

“Pixie, of course.” I snort, wondering why he’d ask that question.

Dad appears from around the corner, already on his horse, Texas. He’s named that because his favorite show is Walker Texas Ranger. I note the smirk on his face, and I don’t think it’s solely from seeing me and Colt together.

I cross my arms, directing my attention to Colt. “Where is Pixie?”

He holds out his hands, already proclaiming innocence before I hear what he’s done. “Peaches—”

I stomp my boot in the ground. “I don’t even like freaking peaches, Colton!” My horse neighs when I say the name of that stupid fruit. “Colton.” I shake my head, “Please don’t tell me you’ve stolen my baby. I’m riding her.”

“No, you left her.”

Dad laughs. “While y’all figure this out, I’m going to wrangle the cattle.”

I huff, climbing onto Pixie and noting that she seems a bit wider than I last remember. Before she steps forward, Colton slides in behind me. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“You’re not taking my horse.” He grabs the reins from me.

Who does he think he is? “And you’re not taking my horse!” I take the reins back. “What have you been feeding my baby?”

“All the best.” He pets her mane. “I’ll take—”

I shake my head. “Me and dad got this.” I pull the reins, leaving him behind.

Honestly, it’s like riding a bike. I flank the cows on their left side in the back to keep up with stragglers while Dad wrangles them into the gate. “You’re doing great.” He grins.

Great, yeah. My legs are already sore, I took a bath for no damn reason, it’s hot as Hell. “Thanks!” I shout.

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