Page 3 of Tied to You

The guy, who clearly isn’t one for small talk, holds out his hand, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. He rubs the back of his head with the other. “I should have introduced myself. Mick.”

I take his hand in mine, grateful.

“Sure does sound like you’re the right woman for the job.”

Woman. Not girl. I’m almost twenty-two and this guy’s the first man to ever call me a woman. I smile back at him. I’m going to like it here.

Mick holds out his other hand for my bag.

I hand it over with a dutiful smile, and he shows me to my room.

The walls are off white with low wooden beams hanging up above. There’s a single bed in the centre with a bedside table to the left, a small lamp sits on top. A wardrobe is on my right with a free-standing mirror next to it. “I hope this is, okay?” Mick asks unsure.

He looks nervous as I look around the simple room. There’s no fancy rug, or designer bedding. It’s low maintenance, run of the mill, everything standard. “It’s perfect,” I answer honestly.

Mick nods his head then steps towards the door. “I’m heading to the main field in twenty minutes to check on Blackjack, our pregnant mare. Meet me downstairs, I’ll show you around?”

I nod at Mick as he drops my bag to the bed. “Will do.”

He smiles, closing the door behind him.

There’s a happy buzz swimming around me. I look around my room once again, my heart and my mind finally content. This could be it. My chance to discover who I really am. I’m not about to let it drop from my grasp. Inevitably, I’ll have to go back to my parents and start working in the fieldI’m trained in, but for now—in this moment, this is a chance for me to be free.

The following morning, I wake to my alarm and get ready. I eat my eggs and bacon, courtesy of Mick’s wife, then I leave the house and make my way to the barn. My teeth are chattering. My toes feel frozen. I’m still wearing the socks I slept in, too scared to take them off this morning. It’s baltic at this hour.

Mick’s mucking out the horse’s stable. “Here, take over.” He throws the shovel through the air which I just manage to grab before it smacks me in the face. “Nice catch,” he says with a smile.

I laugh to myself. “Glad I ate my eggs.”

Mick smiles wider, bringing the wheelbarrow filled with horse muck nearer to me. “My wife is known for being an amazing cook.”

He’s not wrong. I lick my lips still able to taste the runny yolk and brown sauce.

“I’m going to make a start on the pigs. You carry on here.” He drops the wheelbarrow, and I begin shovelling the shit.

Grabbing his wax jacket off the hook, he swings it on. “My nephew should be here soon. He’s lazy though. Was meant to be here yesterday but he thinks he’s too good for this place. You’ll have to keep him in check.”

“No problem.” I’m good at telling people what to do… just not my parents. Could never find it in me to tell them I wanted to live my own life.

“Do you remember what we went over yesterday?”

I throw a shovel of shit into the wheelbarrow. “Yes.” I scoop another load. “I finish up here, let the horses into the paddock,” shovel, “then I feed the pigs, make sure the baby goats are fed,” shovel, “then I mend the fence on the outer field.”

Mick smiles. “You can never leave,” he says, relief and awe beaming from him.

I laugh shovelling another pile of shit into the wheelbarrow. Let’s see if he still thinks that after I’ve mended the fence. I literally have no clue how to mend anything. I’ll YouTube it.

“Is it just you and your nephew?” I ask him.

He buttons up his coat. “And Janette. She pitches in when she can. Arthritis stops her most days, but you wouldn’t be able to tell.”

I stand slumped, frowning, holding the handle of the shovel with both hands near my chest. “Is she okay?” I didn’t notice anything over breakfast.

“Yeah, she’s grand. Don’t let her know I told you about the arthritis, mind. She’s not one to ask for help. She’ll kill me if she hears me making excuses for her.”

I nod. Relating. I’m not one to ask for help, either. Studying to be a lawyer like my dad has taught me many things. For instance, you have to crack on when shit gets tough. You have a problem? Boo fucking hoo, deal with it. You don’t like it? Suck it up.

The men I’ve grown up around are nothing like Mick. They live to work, are driven by money, and life is all about who you know rather than what effort you’ve put in. And their sons?Allthe same. The only exception is Henry. He’s the only one who’s shown me signs of being normal.