Chapter 15

[Brock]

My heart should not have grown three sizes in my chest at her declaration.

I love you .

She didn’t mean me directly. She meant it in that off-handed way one says it, like when Ellie was little, and I’d come home with ice cream cones as a treat.

I love you . For ice cream.

And now cows? I snort. Way to try to dig out of that pile of snow, Pear .

Still, my chest seized, and I held my breath, inhaling false hope that she might mean the words. Like she might say them again and there would be honest emotion behind them that has nothing to do with livestock. And everything to do with me.

What a fucking idiot I am.

I’m equally stupid for giving in to sitting on a wooden stool that feels like it’s going to collapse underneath my weight and grab the teats of a cow.

“Just start at the top and give a squeeze. Don’t be afraid you’ll hurt her. She’s a mother. She’s tough.” Mr. Renshaw is exactly what one might expect in an older gent who has spent most of his life in a variety of seasons. His skin is weathered by the elements of extreme cold and blistering sunshine. Pride fills his face as well as gratitude as roughly a dozen or so people have showed up to help him milk his precious cows.

I’d offered to look at his machine or his generator in hopes that I could be of mechanical use instead of manual labor. Manual, as in, physically wrapping my hand around a cow’s distended nipple and milking it. However, Mr. Renshaw declined the offer. A repairman was on the way, but the cows could not wait.

“Don’t be afraid to give her a nudge, too. A gentle head butting never hurt.” He points to where another man has his head leaning into the side of a cow to keep her in place.

Personally, I want to bang my head on the side of this barn.

Then I look over at Pear whose smile is so wide, like she’s ready to lasso one of these beasts and take it home like a lap dog. For a woman who has lived in large cities most of her life, she’s embracing her inner farm-girl and loving this moment.

I’m also reminded of how she wistfully adored the antique sleigh in her dad’s barn. The job was too big for me to complete in one day; the project too extensive. Guilt strikes. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Turning back to the task at hand, I mentally gripe. Okay, Brock . You can do this. It’s like jacking off .

Only, it wasn’t. And I had to get that thought out of my head or I’d never be able to do the deed again. I’d need to be able to complete the one-handed talent in the future because Pear had given me years-worth of mental fantasies to replay on repeat.

Her body is my catnip. Her hips. Her scent. The sounds she made when my mouth was on her. I couldn’t seem to get enough. Kissing her was heaven. Touching her was out of this world.

I wanted to keep her, but I didn’t know how.

We joked a lot about Valentine’s Day. The future date feels so far away and yet my twelve-day sentence has passed too quickly. I have less than four days left at her dad’s farm. Then what? We say goodbye and go our separate ways. I didn’t like that idea. Not one bit.

“How’s it going there, Farmer Brock?” Pear’s sweet voice interrupts my rambling thoughts.

“I prefer fireman, snowflake.” The way she says such a common term makes me feel like I really am a superhero.

She giggles and I return to my mission. In the apex of my thumb and forefinger, I squeeze while tugging down, mimicking Mr. Renshaw’s instructed motions. Then I almost fall off my rickety stool when the first spurt of milk hits my pail .

“Holy shit.” As a man who prefers his milk cold and in aisle ten, this is surreal. Still, I keep up, eventually finding a steady rhythm. I am not as quick as the practiced Mr. Renshaw and his son, but I hold my own. By the time the gathered helpers are finishing up, I’ve milked eight cows on my own.

When the collective finishes, Mrs. Renshaw brings out donuts, hot and homemade, and big carafes of coffee and warm cider. Pear and I linger among the others, sipping our drinks, and sharing small talk. A sense of community I haven’t experienced before weaves around us.

Sure, I have family, friends, and the firehouse, but this is different. I am not about to become a farmer, but the moment feels important, special. I’m honored to be part of this morning’s accomplishment.

“Any time you need a favor, I’m your man,” Mr. Renshaw says, clapping me on the back.

I didn’t have any idea what I could possibly ask of him. Most likely, I wouldn’t be back to this farm. However, my eye had caught on something just inside the barn when we first entered.

Clamping my hand on his shoulder, I lead him away from Pear.

“Actually, Mr. Renshaw, I was wondering if I could ask for that favor now.”

And that’s how Pear and I end up on a horse-drawn sleigh, riding through Mr. Renshaw’s fields.

“This is incredible,” Pear whispers like she’ll disturb the two horses pulling us at a rhythmic trot.

Mr. Renshaw sits upfront while Pear and I huddle together in the back seat. A heavy quilt covers our laps. I have my arm around Pear, and she’s tucked into my side. For the first few minutes of our ride, we didn’t speak. We just enjoyed the quiet clopping of hooves crunching snow and the weak slushing of sled runners over the frozen ground. The fields slowly pass us or rather we slowly crawl over them. This is not a high-speed snowmobile. This vehicle is made for time. Not a rush, but patience.

If I thought Pear looked in her element milking a cow, she’s practically vibrating with excitement as we sit in this sleigh .

“You’re really digging this, aren’t you?”

Pear shrugs beneath my arm. “I’m a modern woman but it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the simpler things in life. An older way of doing things.”

“Do you know how long it would take you to get from here to Chicago in one of these things?”

Pear chuckles. “You wouldn’t go from here to Chicago in a sleigh. This is for local travel. For visiting.”

Suddenly, I picture Pear in a long wool coat with a muff at her hands, like some woman from a Charles Dickens classic. She’s gone off for a secret rendezvous with some man her family disapproves of. They’d ice skate on a pond. Kiss behind evergreens. I’d be that bad boy in her life; however, there isn’t a chance I can picture myself in the same scene.

I’m a modern man, through and through.

However, Pear is refreshing.

She makes pies for breakfast and chili feasts for game days.

She builds homes for owls and loves her dad unconditionally.

She has put up with me for eight days and I’ve never been so grateful.

Cupping her jaw in my gloved hand, I turn her head, so she faces me and kiss her. Long and sweet, slow but steady, like the movement of this antique sled.

Pear is a classic.

And again, I wish I could keep her, bringing her into the future with me.