Page 41 of Relentless

“Oh, Oakleigh,” she emphasized with a touch of dismay in her tone. She stooped down, leaning back on her heels. Running her fingers across her brow, she examined the chirping yellow fluffs. “When you said baby chicks, I didn’t expect them to be hatched yesterday.”

“Notyesterday —” Oakleigh clarified in an apparent attempt to find any silver lining to her decision. She pointed to the next stall. “The goats are over there,”

Maeve pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Are you mad?” Oakleigh winced.

She sighed, appearing to collect her thoughts. “No, not mad.”

Harper scoffed. “Oakleigh read the room — of course, she’s mad.”

Maeve quietly tilted her head, observing the funny little rooster pecking at the ground. “And I suppose you’re the big guy making all that racket first thing in the morning.”

Dozer sat down beside her, looking as though he was also invested in the scene.

Maeve glanced over, giving the dog an amused look. “Did you know about this?”

The excited dog barked like he always did when Maeve gave him the attention he craved.

“Thought so,” Maeve chuckled, reaching over to give his ears a tousle.

“So what do you think?” Oakleigh nervously spoke up.

Maeve stood to her feet and dusted off her jeans. “I think this is going to be one heck of a chore this winter,” she said, observing the baby goats bleating and scampering around the small makeshift pen. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Taking the pitchfork off the wall, Maeve offered it to Harper. “Go ahead and start cleaning the stall while we haul in the feed bags.”

Harper frowned, her eyebrows pulling together as she considered Maeve’s instructions. “Oh, no thanks,” she replied, putting up a gloved hand.

“You’re in no condition for heavy lifting,” Maeve insisted, still holding out the handle of the pitchfork.

“Oh, is that so?” Harper’s lip curled in disgust. “I’m not interested in mucking stalls.”

Now in a stalemate with her stubborn sister, Harper was sure her eyes were going to freeze open — but this was one battle she was determined to win.

Maeve finally shrugged and hung the pitchfork back on the wall. “Let’s get the feedbags inside, Oakleigh.”

“What’s Mom going to do?” Oakleigh inquired, following on her heels outside to where the feedbags were stacked high.

Maeve hoisted one on her shoulders and headed back toward the barn. “She’s our guest,” she said, noticeably speaking loudly enough to reach Harper’s ears. “She can do whatever she wants.”

Harper found a dark corner and crossed her arms. Using her gloved finger, she pushed up her beanie hat, which kept slipping over her eyes. Harper observed Oakleigh as she picked up a large, heavy bag and flipped it onto her shoulder. She never imagined that her eldest daughter would lift a finger for anyone, let alone gladly participate in manual labor.

Once they had stacked a few bags inside, Oakleigh took the pitchfork off the wall without a whisper of a complaint. She began clearing the soiled hay from a horse stall while Maeve continued to singlehandedly haul in the heavy sacks of chicken feed.

Oakleigh shook her head in frustration, speaking as though Harperwasn’t standing right there. “Why does she always have to make things so difficult?”

“If I remember correctly,” Maeve said, heaving a bag onto the growing pile. “It took you some time to get used to this kind of work.” An amused smile dashed across her face, “I thought Sawyer was going to wring your neck that day you flooded the barn.”

“I thought you were going to throw me out,” Oakleigh grinned, giving her a knowing look. “You probably actuallyshouldhave thrown me out.”

Maeve leaned on the stack, wiping her brow with the back of her gloved hand. “You know we don’t do that around here. Once a Callaway —”

Harper felt her blood begin to boil.

Oh you’ve got to be kidding me with this.

Oakleigh wasn’t aCallaway,and Harper had heard quite enough.

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