Page 5 of Heart of the Sun

Phil nodded. “I need to drop Em off at the bus for music camp early tomorrow morning. I’ll call Arnold when I get back.”

I shot a look at Emily, still staring at me, eyes wide. I looked away. My dad tipped his chin. “Go on and get started, so you won’t be up all night,” he said, his tone softer.

“Yes, sir.” I looked at Mr. Swanson again. “Sorry again, sir.”

“Thank you for your apology, son. That shows a man of principle.”

Principle.

My mother caught my eye, giving me an encouraging nod. I didn’t glance at Emily again before I turned and walked away.

chapterthree

Tuck

I hefted the pitchfork, dropping the pile of dirty, urine-drenched hay into the wheelbarrow, and spearing another. It was hot in the stable, the quiet chuffs of the horses in the other stalls mixing with the distant buzz of the crickets outside.

Soft footsteps sounded near the entrance, but I didn’t turn until Emily was right next to me. I gave her a quick glance, not halting my work, lifting another pile and dropping it in the half-filled wheelbarrow.

She retrieved another pitchfork from against the wall, and without a word, walked to the other side of me and began collecting forkfuls of dirty hay and dumping them on top of the pile I’d started.

When the first load was full, I wheeled it outside and grabbed a second wheelbarrow. I’d bring both out to the garden in the morning where it would be used as mulch. If you ran a farm well, nothing needed to go to waste.

We worked in silence until all four empty stalls were cleared out. Our horses were settled for the night, so in the morning, when they headed out to the pasture, I’d clean out the remaining stalls. Emily set her pitchfork against the wall and then turned to me. She was dirty and sweaty and had pieces of hay sticking out of her hair. I swiped my forearm across my own damp forehead. “You better get to bed since you’re leaving early,” I said.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked. “Why’d you cover for me?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t have anything going on this weekend. And I don’t mind the work.” What I didn’t say—what I didn’t knowhowto say—was that after hearing her sing, it had seemed wrong in some massive way that she should miss out on her music camp. Ondeveloping her talentor whatever my mom had said about the program. And so, I’d lied. I hadn’t even really thought about it; I’d just acted. I couldn’t exactly explain my split-second decision, but I also couldn’t seem to regret it, even standing there smelling like sweat and horseshit, and knowing I was facing down a long weekend of back-to-back chores under the grueling sun. Not to mention my dad’s anger and disappointment.

Emily’s gaze moved over my features for a moment, confusion clear in her expression and the tilt of her head. Then she took a step closer, my breath halting as she leaned in. My heart skipped a beat as she came closer, closer, her eyes closing. For several breathless moments, time stilled, the background fading so that it was only her and nothing else. Velvety skin. Flushed cheeks. Lips that looked as soft as a rose petal. A strange prickle of panic jumped inside my chest as though I had only this one chance, only now, to memorize the details of her before she moved away. As though she’d sensed my sudden turmoil, her eyes fluttered open just as her lips grazed mine and for two heartbeats…three, they lingered there, our gazes locked. And when her lips left mine,I felt a groan of disappointment move up my throat but swallowed it down.Don’t stop.

“Thank you,” she whispered when she finally stepped back. I brought my hand to the place where her lips had been as she turned and walked to the door and slipped out of the stable. My heart kicked back into rhythm, a slow grin spreading across my face. I stood there for a few minutes, reliving the kiss before I practically skipped over to the fresh bales of hay, picking one up as though it weighed nothing, and hefting it over to one of the clean stalls.

I heard the door behind me once more and dropped the bale, turning to see my mom walking toward me holding a sports bottle. “It looks good,” she said, peering into the stall and then turning her head toward the others. “Was that Emily I saw heading away from here?” She held the bottle out to me.

I brushed my gloves together, a small explosion of dust creating a cloud around my hands, bits of hay and debris drifting to the floor. “Yeah,” I answered, because it wasn’t like I could say anything else. I accepted the bottle and lifted it to my mouth, grateful for the clean, cold water, though the hose would have quenched my thirst too, even if that water had a slight metallic tang.

“It sure was nice of her to help you out for no reason whatsoever.”

I took another sip, deciding it was in my best interest not to provide a comment. I’d lied enough for one day. A small smile played around my mother’s lips as she walked with me, helping to carry a second bale of hay to another cleaned-out stall.

“I went with Phil to surveille the damage to the Thunderbird,” she said as we lifted a third bale of hay. “The interior is fine, which is lucky because that glass could have cut the seat.”

“That’s good,” I said as we set the hay down and returned for the fourth and final one.

“I was curious about how a weight fell from the loft and so I climbed up there to check it out.”

I sighed as we set the bale on the floor and I took the wire cutters from my pocket, snipping the binding and beginning to spread the hay on the floor. “You set up a spot very similar to the way I imagine your grandfather lived when he first came to this farm,” she said. I didn’t look at her, just continued spreading hay.

“I know my grandfather’s story,” I said. I’d heard it a hundred times. Truth be told, I never grew tired of hearing it, but I didn’t say that then because I was embarrassed that she’d found my setup, like I was playing some sort of role or something, trying to pretend I was him. Guillermo Luis Castañeda, an orphan from a small village in Mexico, had come to America when he was only seventeen years old. He’d gotten a job right here on this farm, picking oranges under the sweltering sun. He’d slept in the old stable—that had been brand-new at the time—and learned English, eventually surrounding himself with books on every subject he could get his hands on. He read, and he learned, his mind growing strong, along with his body as he labored picking fruit. When he wasn’t in the orchard, he worked his muscles anyway, lifting coffee cans filled with dirt as he practiced pronouncing the words he read. It came to be that when there was a problem on the farm, people went to Guillermo because he had a wealth of knowledge on everything from the animals, to the machinery, to the quality of the dirt. At first only the other farmhands and laborers sought him out, but then the bosses did, and eventually, even the owner knew his name. Guillermo worked his way up, becoming invaluable to the operation, socking away every cent he earned. He implemented a new water system that saved time and money. He came up with an original method of picking the fruit that cut cost, and he brought in hives of bees and set them up on the hillside because he’d read that they helped sweeten the fruit,and found it was true. He married my grandmother—a local girl—when he was twenty-five, and he bought the farm outright when he was thirty, renaming it Honey Hill Farm, after those bees that set his citrus crop apart from all the others.

We moved to the next stall, and I again cut the binding on the hay and began to spread it out. “You have the same yearning for knowledge that your grandfather had,” she said. “And the same determination. The same work ethic. It’s nothing at all to be embarrassed about, Tuck. It will open doors for you, in the same way it did for him. So many lack the grit and the heart to carry forth the legacy of those who came before them. Like your uncle, for instance,” she murmured, her forehead knitting the way it always did when she mentioned her brother. But she took a deep breath, her lips curving as she looked at me. “But not you. If your grandfather was alive, he’d be so proud.”

“Thank you, Mom.” I felt a wash of warmth, her words giving me renewed energy as I picked up the speed of my work. I liked knowing she thought Grandpa Castañeda would be proud of me.

“Follow in his footsteps,” she told me. “But also, forge your own. If anyone is capable, it’s you, my smart boy.”

“I will, Mom.”

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