Page 105 of Hearts Held

The aroma of fresh flowers and grass surrounds me as I take a seat in the wooden rocking chair.

I place the cups on the side table and wave at my handsome husband as he plays fetch with Pig on the vast yard.

Everett has made my dream come true.

During the month he was gone, he purchased over one hundred acres of farmland in a state called North Dakota in America. It included a small, cozy A-Frame cabin, and is located in a quaint area with friendly individuals. Everyone helps take care of each other, much like in Lockham, but with less drama, no three-piece suits and no gangster business.

I perch one foot up upon the chair as my other rocks the chair gently, back and forth.

Everett finishes his game of fetch with Pig and saunters up to the porch, stick in one hand and an adorable, growling Piggy attached to the other side of it.

“Still cannot believe I’m wearing these fucking things.” Everett tugs on his denim trousers as I give a small chuckle. He does look rather handsome in them, a proper cowboy. “You better not tell Bobby I wear this shite.”

I give him a wink and say, “I already sent him a letter with all the details and a photograph.”

He groans in irritation at me, but I stand to go sit in his lap as he takes a seat upon the other rocking chair. He holds me close, one hand firm on my thigh as the other wraps around my waist.

“The corn is growing swiftly, though if I could keep the bison out of the far east field we would have more crop. Though I think one of them is flirting with Olive. I might need to move her grazing field.” He furrows his brow, then asks, “Bison and horses can’t mate, right?”

I nearly spit out my coffee as I cackle. “No, darling. They can’t.”

Then I hear footsteps on gravel, approaching from one side of the house.

Our neighbor Mr. Beckman comes around the corner with a basket of vegetables to share. He is roughly fifty years old and has a wife and four teenage children.

“Hi, folks, how ya doing?” he states, then places the basket near Everett’s feet.

Everett still mostly keeps his cold demeanor but has learned to augment it with a small smile. “Hello. How may we help you today, Beckman?”

Mr. Beckman stands in his overalls and folds his arms across his chest. “Remember that pesky farmer south of town I told ya about?”

Everett cocks an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Well, I may need your help talking to him after all. I tried to speak with him cordially, like yousuggested, but he got mad and lit my wheat field on fire.” Mr. Beckman’s voice shakes slightly as he nervously picks at the hair on his forearm.

“I’ll help you out, but I want my cut,” Everett boldly states, then Mr. Beckman jumps with glee. Then he nervously shakes Everett’s hand with such vigor it causes me to shake upon Everett’s lap.

Once Mr. Beckman says his goodbyes and takes his leave, my head slowly swivels toward my husband’s handsome face.

“You better not be doing business,” I boldly state, then place both of my hands on either side of his chiseled cheeks.

“I have no idea what you mean, my dove,” he retorts, then hauls me into his arms and carries me inside our home.