Page 47

Story: Delicious

I stride up the path and knock sharply on the front door.

There’s no answer.

That’s not surprising. Farmers don’t automatically clock off after five. There’s always more work to be done.

But his pickup truck is out front, and I spot his four-wheeler in the shed, so he must be somewhere around.

I track him down in the cattle yard, teaching his heading dog to work the new cattle he’s bought. The dog’s young and eager, about as subtle as a brick through a window, but Benji’s patient with him. His voice is gentle but firm as he gives commands.

Benji doesn’t spot me approaching, which gives me a chance to observe him. Observe how the sun’s catching him just right, turning his light-brown hair golden. He’s lean, but his shoulders show the results of physical labor three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

Not that I’m paying attention to any of that. I’m just…appreciating his stockmanship. That’s all it is.

His head snaps up at the crunch of my boots on the gravel as I reach the yard, a smile spreading across his face.

He’s always like this, always acts like he’s pleased to see me despite the fact that nearly every interaction between us has some point of friction.

He gives the dog a final pat before striding over, all easy grace and too-white teeth.

“David, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You need to repaint your gate,” I say.

Benji’s eyes dance with amusement. “But I just painted it.”

“Yeah, I saw. It’s an eyesore.”

He leans against the fence post, crossing his arms over his chest, his head tilting to one side as he considers me.

“How is it an eyesore?”

“It’s purple,” I manage to reply.

“What do you have against the color purple?” he asks.

“Nothing. It’s just not appropriate for a gate.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up. “Is there some manual about acceptable gate aesthetics that I missed? Was there some report inFarming Weeklyabout how purple gates decrease lamb production?”

This is what makes arguing with Benji so infuriating. His tendency to meet every complaint with that crooked smile and dancing eyes, like I’m simply making his day more entertaining.

“Some things are just done certain ways out here,” I say.

“But who says every gate has to be the same color?” he asks, his eyes not leaving mine. “Every time I drive past that gate, it makes me smile. And isn’t that worth something? A bit of unexpected joy when you’re not expecting it? Besides, last I checked, sheep don’t care what color the gates are.”

The idea of doing something just to make yourself smile seems frivolous. Wasteful. The kind of thing that has no place on a working farm. But then again, that’s exactly what my vegetable garden is, isn’t it? Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

“But I’m the one who’s got to look at that gate all the time.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I was hoping it would make you smile too.”

Inexplicably, heat that has nothing to do with the late afternoon sunshine creeps up my neck.

I scuff my boot against the ground like it’s personally offended me.

Because the way Benji’s looking at me makes my skin prickle. Better to talk about something that makes sense. Something I know how to handle.

“The thistle paddock’s looking rough at the moment. When was the last time you actually ran stock through there?”

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