Page 28 of That Conflicted Feeling

Withoutmissing a beat, he takes off his jacket, hangs it on a nail behind the door, pops off his cufflinks, drops them in his pants pocket, and starts to roll up his sleeves.

Littleby little, two strong forearms with a dusting of dark hair and a couple of thick veins come into view.Ihave to clamp my lips together to suppress the urge to let out a long “phew” sound.

Hegrabs the twine around the nearest bale and swings it up in front of him as if it were a bag of feathers.Christ, those arms could pick me up and toss me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry like it was no effort.

“Wheredo you want it?” he asks.

Doeshe really not care that he has bits of hay all over him? “Careful, it might mess up your shirt.Andpants.”

“It’sfine.”

Itcan’t be.Hesounds like he means it, butIdon’t believe him.

Iturn my back and force my brain to refocus from the thought of those arms looping around my waist to the much less sexy activity of scooping whole grain from the feed bag into a bucket.

“Iunderstand your point that some local businesses would be affected by aYellowBarn,” he says. “Butyou must realize it would create way more jobs than would be lost.”

Iplunge the scoop deep into the grain. “People’slives aren’t about math.”

“Butwe’d employ cashiers and stockers and janitors who might not otherwise be able to get jobs inWarmSpringsat all.”

Onemore scoop and the bucket’s almost full.Igrab the two milk bottles thatMomleft here for me and balance them on top of the grain.

Iturn back around to faceMax.Helooks like something from a hot farmers calendar. “Mr.AprilTossesHayBalesAfterAHardDayAtTheOffice—AndWeMeanHard.”

“Pleasedon’t insult me by making out you’re performing a community service.”Iheave up the bucket and nod to the door behind him. “Backto the goats.”

Hewalks out ahead of me, the muscles across the back of his shoulders bulging under his white shirt with the effort of carrying the hay.

“Thestore would actually do a lot for the community,” he says.

Ifhe continues to spout this garbage,I’mgoing to struggle to hold on to my fury.

Unableto see where he’s going over the bale,Maxsquelches into the biggest muddy puddle.Thebrown liquid oozes over his foot as it disappears completely beneath the surface.There’sa sucking noise as he pulls it out as if nothing’s happened and continues toward the five bleating faces.

Hisright shoe and the bottom of his pant leg are shiny with thick brown mud.

Atleast that’s some form of punishment for his completely cold-blooded argument.

“Itwould provide access to affordable food for way more of the local community you care so much about,” he continues, as if nothing’s happened.

Whyis he ignoring it?

“Thatdoesn’t make it right.”Icatch up with him at the enclosure and swing open the gate. “Tosell produce at those prices you must pay the farmers a pittance.”

Thegirls immediately swarm around him, trying to nibble the hay.Imake no attempt to shoo them away.

“Youcan drop it in the rack over there,”Itell him.

Heslops across the ground that’s still soaked from the hose leak.Hisfeet must be so sodden and cold by now he might as well be barefoot.

“Peoplewho live here have to schlep way out of town for affordable groceries,” he says tossing the hay into the rack. “AYellowBarnclose by would mean they wouldn’t have to drive to the superstore anymore.”

Oneof the babies who can’t reach the hay grabsMax’spant leg and pulls.Hedoes nothing, just lets her.

Where’sthe clichéd city boyIwas expecting?Theone who’d be yelling about the dirt messing up his expensive clothes and lashing out at the small animal tugging on them.

“She’snever seen anyone without their pants tucked into muck boots before,”Iexplain.Theaching muscles in my arm relax asIdrop the bucket next to the grain trough. “Andcheaper groceries aren’t always better, you know.”