Page 4 of His Country

When he was a little deep in the moonshine, he could almost acknowledge the big gaping hole in his chest. The one that whistled when the wind whipped off the mountain. The one that grew a little bigger every time he went into town and saw couples holding hands or a father teaching his kids how to tie their shoes.

Like a bleeding wound he refused to treat, because bandaging it would mean it was there at all. And ignorance was bliss.

Aiden had never been close to bliss, but he was closer than he would be if he looked inside a little too closely. At wounds that festered rather than healed.

Morosely, he forced himself to whistle. Anything to break up his tumultuous thoughts. By the time the barn was in sight, he felt fine.

Sugar disappeared the moment they got in the gate. No doubt on the prowl for something good from the kitchen. With a lazy hand he rode Eagle into the barn.

One of the oldest structures on the farm, the differences in wear in the wood was like a map of its lifespan. With one corner of the roof sagging, patched with tarp and the feeble hope they could replace it before the next big storm. The smell of wood and hay always lingered thick in the air and dust danced in the beams cutting through the darkened interior.

The horses were kept out most of the time, but a couple of box stalls were nestled in the back of the loft barn. He dismounted and took his time to get Eagle settled. Aiden gave him a good curry checked his feet and shoes, then rubbed liniment into his tendons. By the time he was done, Eagle was tired of his fussing. He let him into the stall for some hay. The sound of content munching followed him as he put up his saddle and bridle.

“Back already?” Isaac asked with a soft grin, hands full with three boxes,

“Seems like it.”

Isaac was never put off by Aiden’s gruff responses. All smiles, he was the only other full time ranch hand. He helped a lot with the tourist side of things. Dark hair pulled back in a stringy ponytail; he looked younger than his years. Aiden thought he came from down south, Louisiana maybe, but it was just a guess. He’d never asked.

“Just in time,” he grunted as Aiden took the top box off, peering inside. A heap of frilly looking lace stared back at him.

“For what?” he asked, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

“The boss has some friends coming in.” Isaac set the boxes down in the corner, shaking circulation back into his fingers. “Family friends or something like that. They want to get married here.”

Aiden made a face. “Have fun with that.”

“It’s going to be all hands-on deck.”

“Fuck that. I’m not touching that shit.” He dropped the box like it had personally offended him. “Not my job.”

“Your job is what I say your job is.” Frank’s voice rumbled through the barn. There was an edge to it that made Isaac flinch, but Aiden just glowered at him.

“I didn’t sign up to be a wedding planner.”

“As if you could.” Frank waved his hand like the thought was ridiculous. “But this is important to Carol. So it’s important to me.” Frank’s eyes were dark and deadly. The only light coming into the barn was from the open barn door and from between the poorly fitted slats. Even in the low light, Frank was intense.

“Sounds a whole lot like not my problem.”

Frank tolerated Aiden because he was good at what he did. But there was a line and Aiden could tell he was getting dangerously close.

The two men stared at each other, neither willing to back down and neither willing to escalate the fight. Jaws clenched, hands fisted, they battled silently. Isaac stared between them, mouth opening and closing like the poor confused guppy he was.

Frank broke first. “Just…help move shit around and then make yourself scarce the day of.”

“Done.”

And he was gone, brushing past his boss with a tip of his hat. The smell of cooking bacon was calling him, and Carol would give it all to Sugar if he didn’t hurry.

Unloading hay was as familiar as it was mindless. Aiden had been tossing hay bales since he could wiggle his chubby little fingers under the twine holding them together. There was rhythm in it. Bend, grab, lift, pivot, toss. All while blinking against the onslaught of dust in his eyes.

It was the kind of job you had to get lost in. The bales fading away until it was all one blurry collective made up of individual movements. He wasn’t sure how many he’d unloaded or how many he had left. It didn’t matter. The hay had to get unloaded and he was the one doing it.

The truck dipped under him as he dragged a bale off the pile, twisting to toss it into the barn. As monotonous as the workwas, there was satisfaction in seeing a barn full of hay. A sort of security in knowing that the animals would be fed.

Dropping to sit on the edge of the truck bed, He exhaled dust, looking down at his aching hands. His fingers were curled, throbbing where the twine bit into the creases. It was a latent kind of pain, one that he’d known for as long as he could remember. Back then it didn’t matter that the bales weighed almost as much as he did.

Excuses didn’t put food on the table.