The Farmer's Wife Read online

  “I’d like to know what you’ve been doing,” he said softly.

  She jumped to her feet, gathered his empty bowl, then went to the sink. Brian frowned at her stiff, straight back. Kim always ran when the going got tough, even if it was just halfway across the room. But what was tough about that question?

  “Kim?”

  “I would think that Dean told you everything.”

  “No. Dean was amazingly closemouthed about you.”

  “Then who . . .?”

  “You wrote to Becky Jo Harding.”

  Kim gasped and spun around. “She—she told you?”

  He shrugged. “You know how it is. When there’s not much to do for entertainment, folks talk.”

  “She was my best friend.”

  “Probably still would be if you’d let her.”

  Kim shook her head. “She stopped writing a few years back. We didn’t have much in common anymore.”

  She looked so sad and that made Brian wonder. Becky Jo Harding was now Becky Jo Sopol—wife of Patrick Sopol, dairy farmer, and mother of Cindy, Joey, Carrie and, just a few months back, Chloe Sopol. Becky had become everything Kim had feared, so why would their parting of ways make her sad? He had a feeling that if he asked, he’d only be informed of another item to add to the no-talking list, so he returned to the one subject she hadn’t seemed averse to talking about.

  “She told me that you’re a paralegal and you live in Savannah.”

  “Yes.”

  “You like it?”

  “The job or Savannah?”

  “Both.”

  Kim leaned against the sink as she considered the question. “I’d have to say I like the job and love the place. It’s beautiful there, Brian. Nothing like here at all.”

  Which to Brian’s mind would make Savannah a bit of hell. However, from the expression on Kim’s face, hell was housed in Illinois.

  “The city is old, but not broken-down old. Savannah is ancient, stately, haunted.”

  “Haunted? That’s good?”

  She smiled at his skepticism. “The ghosts add character. And there are plenty of living characters, too. You would not believe the differences that exist side by side in that city. Every day is a marvel. There’s no snow. Flowers bloom in March.” She spread her hands. “March? Can you believe that? And the trees . . .” She sighed with nostalgia. “They have a personality all their own.”

  Brian had a hard time understanding how trees could have personality. And no snow? What kind of winter would there be with no snow? No ice-skating, no snowmobiling, no hockey. Bummer. He wasn’t even going to think about how depressing a green Christmas would be.

  “How did you end up there?”

  She blinked, and Brian could almost see her coming back from her little mind trip to Savannah.

  “Um, well, after I uh . . . left—” she busied herself washing the few dishes in the sink “—I went south. I wanted to feel the sun on my face. I was so cold,” she whispered.

  Brian had to stifle his urge to go to her, put his hands, such that they were, on her shoulders, turn her around and—

  Kim shook her head, almost as if she knew what he was thinking. “I went to Atlanta. Got a job, started school.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Bartender.” Her voice was clipped, defensive. “I had no experience, no references, no training.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  She ignored him. “Once I finished school, I worked for a large law firm in Atlanta. I hated it.”

  “The job or the law firm?”

  “Both. Being a paralegal is like being the bridesmaid but never the bride.”

  “Then why didn’t you become a lawyer?”

  “I couldn’t afford it.”

  “But you had money from your gramma.”

  “If I’d stayed here, lived at home for my undergrad years and worked, I might have made the money stretch through law school. But on my own—” she rinsed his cereal bowl, stacked it in the dish rack “—I needed to live, pay for school and keep something back for a rainy day. I couldn’t ask Daddy for help, not when I’d—”

  “Run off?

  She cast him a narrow glare over her shoulder. He must have skated too close to the no-talking zone. She didn’t bother to answer.

  “I decided that maybe if I worked in a small office, with a lawyer who had some ideals, I’d feel better. I saw an ad in the Atlanta paper for a secretary-paralegal in Savannah. The minute I drove into town . . . Bam!” She clapped her hands. “It was love.”

  “You fell in love with a place?”

  “Hey, Savannah isn’t just a city. It’s a state of mind.”

  He grunted. Sounded like the town slogan. Maybe it was.

  “Don’t you love this farm more than anything else?” she pointed out.

  Once he’d loved her more, but he certainly wasn’t going to bring that up. She’d run farther than Savannah this time.

  “That’s what I thought,” she murmured, taking his silence for agreement.

  “So you started working for a lawyer in Savannah.”

  “More than just working for. I became Livy’s partner.”

  “Partner? But you aren’t a lawyer.”

  “The money I’d kept back for a rainy day I invested in Livy’s practice. She had a shiny new diploma and a brand-new baby. She needed help and she needed money. We became partners in crime fighting. It was pretty darn great.”

  Her voice wistful, her face had gone sad again. She loved and missed Savannah. Her job had once been great, and something was not right between Kim and her partner, Livy. Kim might be different, but her face still revealed whatever she felt.

  “Was?” he prompted when she didn’t continue. “Aren’t you still partners?”

  “Technically.” She dried her hands on the dishtowel. “There was an incident.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Not really. Or at least not as serious as I made it out to be. Livy lied.”

  “About what?”

  Kim tossed the towel onto the counter. “She said her son’s father was dead. Then, surprise, he turns up undead.”

  “A vampire? Savannah really is full of spooky characters.”

  Kim giggled and the sound made Brian smile. He much preferred her laughter to her tears, even after he’d shed so many over her.

  “Spookier than you can imagine,” she agreed. “Anyway, when the truth came out, I didn’t handle it well.”

  “You ran home.”

  Her laughter died. “Aaron called. I came back. My home isn’t here anymore, Brian.”

  “I think I know that better than anyone.”

  In the silence that fell between them the distant cackling of the hens intensified.

  “I’ll take that shower now.” Kim disappeared into the bedroom.

  “I kind of figured that you might,” he murmured to the closed door.

  Kim stripped off her egg-encrusted pajamas and kicked her ruined slippers into a corner. Feathers rained all around her. Funny, but she didn’t smell chickens anymore. How long before she no longer noticed the scent of manure wafting on an eastern wind? She had to make sure she was out of here before that happened.

  She turned on the shower and, while the water heated, glanced into the mirror. A surprised snort of laughter escaped. She resembled a refugee from a fried chicken commercial. If only Livy’s son, Max, could see her now, he’d no doubt write a story titled “Attack of the Chicken People.” That kid had an imagination that just wouldn’t quit.

  Kim was very fond of Max—had been since the moment she’d first seen him. A psychiatrist would no doubt say she was compensating for the children she’d never have by bonding with Max. Whatever kept her out of the psych ward.

  She stepped into the shower. The pecks on her hands burned when the water hit them. She’d broken three nails but wasn’t sure how. Kim leaned her head against the faded peach tile and let the steam soothe her aches and pains. She missed Max, Li
vy and Livy’s mom, Rosie, something awful.

  Rosie—a Savannah character if ever there was one—was the mother Kim had dreamed of during many a long, silent, grounded night in her room. Free spirited, outgoing, accepting of everything and everyone—except for those who weren’t as accepting—Rosie flitted from job to job, cause to cause and jail cell to jail cell. You could talk about anything with Rosie, and she’d tell it to you straight. Kim adored her.

  Yet Livy and Rosie had as prickly a relationship as Kim and her mother. Rosie didn’t cut Livy as much slack as she cut the rest of the world, and Livy preferred people who were dependable and law-abiding. Rosie was neither one. Kim had often thought that Livy would have appreciated Eleanor as much as Kim appreciated Rosie. God’s little idea of a knock-knock joke, perhaps.

  Knock-knock.

  Who’s there?

  The wrong mother.

  The wrong mother who?

  The wrong mother for you.

  “Har-har,” Kim muttered, and rinsed her hair.

  Before Kim had left Savannah, circumstances had forced Livy to take a clearer look at her mother; and vice versa. The two had started their relationship from scratch. They were buddies now, and Kim was just a bit jealous.

  She frowned. Did she want to be pals with her mother? The idea was novel . . . more intriguing than she wanted to admit. So she put it out of her head— for the moment.

  What she really needed to do was call Livy and apologize. She’d told herself that she’d been hurt and upset over years of lies. But in truth, discovering that Livy had been lying only brought home that Kim had been lying, too.

  Brian was right. Her guilt had made her run.

  Just as it had made her run all those years ago.

  Kim stepped out of the shower. If she called Livy, she might ease her guilt over how she’d behaved, but then her friend would want to know when Kim was coming home. Kim would have to explain why she wasn’t—at least not immediately—and then they’d be back to the lies. Be they outright or by omission, a lie was a lie was a lie. Perhaps a letter was a better idea.

  Kim unearthed her jeans, a University of Georgia sweatshirt—not that she’d ever gone there, but she’d dreamed about it—and the only pair of tennis shoes she owned, pristine white and never worn.

  She curled her lip at the ho-hum tennies. Her denim- shaded, two-inch platforms with rhinestone accents would go nicely with her outfit, but she didn’t want to tempt fate any more than she already had. If she continued to buck tradition and prance around in her favored footwear, she’d no doubt end up with a torn ligament, or at the very least, a tumble into the pigpen.

  Kim donned the tennis shoes, considered curling her hair, and French-braided it, instead. She had a feeling that in the weeks to come she’d be doing a lot of French-braiding.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The days passed, marked by the slowly fading bump on Brian’s head. They settled into a routine of sorts. Brian, used to awakening before the sun, continued to do so. He walked the barn with Dean, watched his friend work and listened to him grumble. Then, before Kim appeared, he’d have Dean help him dress, right down to his shoes. The less Kim touched him, even on his toes, the better off Brian would be.

  She prepared a mean bowl of cereal, and often did, but she also managed to dominate the chickens after that first day. Not to say that she didn’t still nurse several pecks on her hands and her fingernails were a thing of the past, but she didn’t give up, and the squawking had faded to a minimum.

  Unfortunately, the first time she made scrambled eggs, she burned not only the eggs but the pan, too. The smell had been horrendous, the fire alarm so loud the sheep had scattered to the far end of their field and the cows, too. From then on they ate a lot of PB and J and even more cereal.

  Ba still butted her whenever she got the chance. Yesterday she’d butted Kim right into a pig wallow, ruining Kim’s yellow high heels and Hawaiian-print shirt. There was also the little incident of a headfirst plunge into the compost pile wearing denim heels and a lacy white sweater.

  No matter what Ba or the farm dished up, Kim took it. She didn’t complain and she didn’t get mad and she didn’t disappear. His admiration for her was growing in spite of himself.

  Brian glanced at the clock above the sink. He was exhausted, and it wasn’t even noon. Most days he’d have milked over a hundred cows; then, depending on the season, plowed, planted or picked corn, barley or hay and all before lunch. He’d done nothing lately except hang out with Kim. Well, she always had been so full of energy she made everyone else tired.

  Her door opened and she stepped out in what looked to be her only pair of jeans. One of Brian’s Gainsville High sweatshirts enveloped her to the knees. She’d rolled the sleeves up to just below her elbows. Her tennis shoes had once been sparkling white and never worn. Not anymore.

  “What should we do today?” she asked.

  “Something. Anything.”

  They hadn’t been doing much, and he was about to lose his mind.

  Her glance swept the kitchen. “I could clean.” The wrinkling of her nose revealed her opinion on that. “It’s been quite a while since I have, but I’m sure I can manage.

  “You don’t clean in Savannah?”

  “Nope. I work fifty to sixty hours a week. I have a cleaning lady.”

  The novelty of a cleaning lady made him pause. He’d never known a woman who had one, but if anyone would, or probably should, that someone was Kim.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I cleaned the place, top to bottom, a few days before you came.”

  “You?”

  “You see anyone else around?”

  “Good point. I could go grocery shopping. What would you like for supper?”

  “You’re going to cook?” He was unable to keep the fear from his voice.

  She scowled. “Well, you certainly aren’t.”

  “Can you?” He recalled the smell of burning eggs and blackened frying pan.

  “Kind of.”

  “How do you kind of cook?”

  “I can read the directions on a package and make something kind of close to what’s on the box.”

  “Swell.”

  “Guess I should have paid attention when Mom was trying to teach me a few domestic chores.”

  “Wouldn’t have hurt.”

  “It did back then.”

  He could imagine. Kim had hated anything domestic, everything to do with the farm. She’d wanted two things—him and out of here. They’d put off for as long as they were able to the realization that she could never have both.

  “No reason to grocery-shop today,” he said. “I need to go to town tomorrow and get these casted.” He held up his arms. “We can shop then.”

  “Are you ever going to put those back in the sling?”

  “Nope. Makes me feel like I’m in a straightjacket.”

  “And you know what a straightjacket feels like?”

  “Yeah, a double arm sling.”

  She shook her head. “I guess we can have PB and for supper again.”

  “That’s for lunch. For supper we go to your parents’.”

  “We do?”

  “Dean said your mom wants us for supper tonight to celebrate your dad coming home.”

  “Oh! I forgot that was today. Supper. Great,” she said, but she didn’t seem happy.

  “Hey, you want to take a walk?”

  Kim cast a dubious glance at the gray, overcast sky visible through the kitchen window. “Outside?”

  “City girl,” he muttered, earning a glare. “Yeah. Outside.”

  “Why?

  “Exercise? Fresh air?”

  “It’s fresh all right.”

  “Come on. I’m not used to sitting around twiddling my thumbs, such as they are. If I don’t move around outside, I just might go crazy.”

  “Okay, but keep that vicious wool ball away from me. These are the only pair of jeans I’ve got at the moment.”

  “No problem.” He fo
llowed her out the back door. “This time of day she’s usually at the sheep pen pretending she doesn’t care that she’s different.”

  “You mean Ba is the black sheep?” She snickered. “I’m sorry. That was just too much to resist. Doesn’t she think she’s a dog?”

  “I’m not sure what she thinks. But she’s drawn to the others.” He paused and pointed at the field behind the chicken coop, where about a dozen sheep clumped together on one side of the fence and a single black sheep stood alone on the other. “She likes to watch them.”

  “You should let her be a sheep, Brian.”

  “I don’t think she knows how.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “A minute ago you called her a vicious ball of wool and now she’s a poor thing.”

  “Well, just look at her. She wants to be with her friends.”

  “They aren’t her friends. I put her in with them once. They kicked her butt.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Survival of the fittest.”

  “That’s the law of the jungle, George, not the farm.”

  “It’s the law of life. Ba is different. She knows it. They know it. I saved her by taking her in, but I changed her, too. She can’t ever go back with them.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you didn’t give them enough time to get used to one another.”

  “When I said they kicked her butt? I meant that literally. Any longer and they’d have kicked her head in, too.’

  “How awful,” she whispered.

  “Welcome to the jungle.”

  She gave him a dirty look, and he could almost hear her thinking how heartless he was, but Brian couldn’t change the truth.

  For city dwellers nature was something to be observed on the Discovery Channel, never in your own backyard. Farmers dealt with it every day, and they couldn’t afford to get attached to their animals. Animals died—by accident or design—or they disappeared and were never heard from again. Kind of like people. Brian had learned the hard way not to get attached to anything at all. Sometimes he did feel heartless, but that was better than heartsore.