Page 30 of Till The Cows Come Home

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Miles

Earlier That Day

A fter the fire department finally left, I stood in the driveway looking at everything I’d lost, the ruin highlighted by the sunrise, and it wasn’t until Stu spoke that I forced my eyes from the pile of ash in front of me.

“You should get some rest,” he’d mumbled, searching my face nervously, as if he expected me to fall apart right in front of him, but I didn’t.

Not then, anyway.

I did nod in agreement, though, excusing myself into my home after thanking him with every ounce of emotion I could muster.

He didn’t have to wait up, his alliance wasn’t to me, and yet he was the last to leave.

His concern was valid, though, because as soon as I crossed the threshold, I was no longer able to hold my own weight.

My body instinctively used the door as a prop, holding me up as the weight of the morning finally hit me like a ton of bricks.

Even still, I listened, waiting for his truck to pull out of the driveway, and only when I could no longer hear the sound of pavement crunch under his wheels did I allow the charade to fade away.

My body slumped and my poor attempt at a stoic expression fell, but I couldn’t crumble, not yet, because there was still so much to do.

I walked to the dining room table, determined to gather the papers necessary for not only the vet coming later this morning, but also to any potential farm gracious enough to house the cows until I figured out what the hell I was doing.

Taking the list we’d highlighted, I began sorting the papers into green and red piles, ignoring my blurring vision as the grief snuck its way out of the cracks in the wall I’d erected.

The papers stuck together from years of abuse and I slowed to peel them apart, careful not to rip them, but as my hands shook, I could feel the anger rising in my throat.

My composure snapped and my hand swiped across the table, the sudden force sending the previous night's coffee mugs across the room.

Momentarily ignoring the regret that surfaced, I watched as they traveled through the air, suspended for only a moment, and as I closed my eyes, exhaling deeply, I waited for them to fall.

My body winced out of reflex as the sound of ceramic shards exploding overtook the room, another addition to the already debilitating disaster.

Her father was right. I needed to shut my mind off before I tore this place apart, but I was terrified.

I knew the moment my lids closed I’d see Sage’s horrified expression looking up at me like I was a monster, any ounce of feelings she had for me dissolving away into the sad blue pools of her eyes.

The sorrow continued to creep in and I found myself unable to distinguish the losses I was grieving.

The herd was obvious, but part of me was attempting to say goodbye to the love I hadn’t even confessed.

The mix of anger and disappointment settled heavy in my gut as I tried to rationalize what had happened. Sage left. She watched with me as both our dreams burned to the ground and instead of standing with me, she walked away .

An incoming phone call tore me from my thoughts, and I rifled for my cell, knowing I couldn’t afford to ignore a call.

“Hello?” I answered, not bothering to hide the way my voice cracked as I spoke.

“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Carver.”

“This is him. You can call me Miles, though. Mr. Carver was my father.”

“Well Miles, I heard you had a long night. My name is John Chambers. I own a farm over in Stanton, and I wanted to extend not only my condolences, but also my hospitality. We have some room freed up, and Stu Baker told me you need a spot for your herd.”

I cleared my throat, unable to speak. Stu had mentioned calling around, but I didn’t expect someone to be able to take them all, and especially not this soon.

“Thank you,” I mustered, clearing the lump from my throat, “But I have sixty-two cows that need placing.”

“I can be on my way to load them within the next hour if that works for you?”

“All of them?”

“Kid, I’d make room for a thousand. Farmers help farmers.”

“I can’t thank you enough, sir.”

“No thanks needed, Miles.”

“I have the vet coming to look over everyone, is it okay with you if I reroute her your way?”

“Sounds perfect, I’ll let my wife know to look out for her, and I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you in a bit,” I echoed, and as I hung up, the weight of a singular brick was lifted from the pile I was buried under.

I spent the rest of the morning making calls and readying the girls, and about two hours later the semi truck I’d been eagerly awaiting pulled in.

Mr. Chambers hopped out, and after one look around, he cleared the distance between us, pulling my outstretched hand into a quick embrace.

From that moment I knew he was a genuinely good person, willing to give the shirt off his back, or in my case, even more.

He intended to house, feed, and care for animals he didn’t even know, and I tried not to think about the debt I may never be able to repay.

It took awhile to load everyone, most of the herd still shaken up, but he didn’t seem to care. His voice was soothing and calm until the moment we coaxed the last girl into the trailer.

“Ready?” he asked as he bolted the back of the truck.

“I don’t know if anyone is ever ready for something like this, but I think I’m as close as I’ll ever be.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he said, returning to his seat behind the wheel.

Both my hands gripped the steering wheel as I followed behind him, my nerves evident through the whites peeking through on each of my knuckles.

Every rein I’d previously held was slipping away, my control along with it, and as I watched another person drive away with the last thing I had a hold of, I felt a little bit more of myself begin to unravel.

When we got to Chambers’ farm, the vet was waiting, and each cow was checked as they were unloaded.

Many of them needed ointment for burns, others received wraps for larger wounds, but I already knew I was in for a long road to recovery.

It didn’t bother me, though. I’d drive here twice a day to maintain whatever care was needed.

When the trailer was empty, John toured me around the facility, showing me the area the girls would be housed in, and as we circled back to where my truck was parked, having seen just about the entire property, I couldn’t help but linger .

“Something else you want to see?”

“No, sorry,” I mumbled, “I’ll get going.”

“Stay as long as you need, but they’re going to be okay, son,” he said, patting me on the back. “Are you?”

“I’ll be alright,” I responded, knowing the thread holding my composure was too thin to dive into my thoughts and feelings with a stranger.

“I’m sure you will be, but I just need you to promise me you’ll try to recognize if you’re not.

Far too often in this field we try to be brave, but something horrible happened to you, Miles.

Face it, feel it, then move forward. You’ll have nothing but problems if you try to do it the other way around. ”

“Thank you,” was all I could get out and as he looked into my eyes, I clenched my teeth, begging my emotions to stay inside until I was alone.

“My pleasure. Now go get some rest.”

I tipped my head to him before walking to my truck and as I pulled away, I clung to his words before finally allowing the tears to fall.

As I watched the farm shrink in my rearview mirror, the flood of sorrow and anger I’d been holding back consumed me so fiercely that I eventually had to pull off on the side of the road, my vision too obstructed to continue forward.

The weight of the evening crashed onto my shoulders.

The farm is gone. Thirty-four of my cows are gone. Sage is gone.

After a few minutes, a duller pain replaced the debilitating pressure previously inhabiting my chest, and as I pulled back onto the road, I felt the tiniest sliver of relief, a few more bricks unloaded.

Maybe the old man was right. The fog in my mind slowly cleared, allowing me to ruminate over the logistics.

I vaguely remembered insuring the farm when I first bought it and tried to recall the details of the coverage as I pulled back onto the road.

It was unlikely the policy paperwork was anywhere I’d be able to locate, and the offices didn’t open until tomorrow.

The longer I thought, the more I began to second guess myself.

A part of me was terrified they’d argue I was negligent and refuse my claim for even bringing candles into the barn and as I pulled into my driveway, stunned by the scene I’d now seen over and over, I began to believe that maybe they’d be right to.

Dread coursed through me as I sat in my truck, preventing me from opening the door my hand had instinctively found when I parked.

I could tell that a lot of the smoke had dissipated, but the smell was something I knew would haunt me in my dreams. A mix of charred timber and burnt flesh had ingrained itself inside my nostrils, I was in no rush to have it back.

My phone rang as I continued to procrastinate, and I fished for it, thankful for a reason to stay in my truck a little while longer.

When I looked, though, the unruly curls and toothy smile flashing on my screen caused my stomach to flip, and I blacked out during the short conversation that followed.

She sounded so sad.

I tossed my phone across the truck, my frustration intensifying as I watched it clunk against the passenger door before slipping out of sight onto the floor.

I’d convinced myself that I could change Sage Baker, was adamant on the matter actually, wholeheartedly believing I’d be capable despite the flashing warnings I’d received.

Yet here I sat with the audacity to be surprised when she remained herself.

It’s not that I expected her to walk away unscathed.

I surely hadn’t. I’d just hoped in the end we’d be walking away together.

Sage told me that she was struggling. She told me that she didn’t know what she was doing, but I continued to shove the farm down her throat in hopes that exposure was enough to fix the fractured relationship she had with her old home.

I brought her to the market behind a sign that said Baker Farm, knowing that the community would flock to her, but all it did was add another source of pressure.

Sage had the reins when it came to us, but I’d been nudging her hands, affecting the direction we went all along.

The clarity didn’t excuse the way the early morning went, but it did warrant some necessary self reflecting.

I loved Sage in a way that served me. Sure, she loved being at the farm, but I didn’t try to help her heal.

I thought new memories could just tuck away the old, but Sage needed to acknowledge the past to move forward.

Since the loss of my parents I’d been alone, and until Sage I thought I was content with that, preferring the companionship of the herd.

But the one thing her absence made me realize is that I wanted both. I just needed to figure out how.