William had been in plenty of stupid fucking fights when he was growing up. Stupid fights that never ended with more than a fleeting sense of victory or wound-licking failure.

Victory tasted like copper pennies in his nose and throat.

His earliest memory was sitting sullenly on the corner of the tub with his mom kneeling in front of him. She wore a white skirt suit, her hair pulled up in pearl combs. There was an alcohol-soaked cotton ball between manicured nails, her soothing voice whispering, "Words, son, words are better than fists," as she dabbed a wound he'd gotten over his eye.

Fast-forward to twenty-odd years later. He was the winner of a word fight, and it felt like all he'd accomplished was swallowing a hive full of bees. It buzzed in his stomach as he drank a six pack of his newest brew. It rolled under his skin as he milked the cows, and hauled the weekend milk into the dairy. The bees tingled as he slammed buckets and smashed doors behind him. They were a droning roar in his ears as he collected eggs. When Hellfire bit him he felt their stingers, and he glared at the bird's beady eyes as she clucked and flapped her wings.

The frustration drove him to grab a chainsaw and load his four-wheeler. From nine to six, William murdered trees.

The hum of the chainsaw drowned out the buzzing in his ears. He sliced branches, splinters flying as he let his weapon of war bite into the wood. Sap and pollen filled the air, coating his hair and beard, covering his shirt to create an itchy layer of wood chips.

No matter how many chops he made, no matter how loud the buzzing in his head, none of it drowned out Shane's stupid fucking voice.

Just because we're sitting down with a few beers doesn't mean we have to bond.

More branches. More Leaves. More sawdust.

Was that all they were doing?

Bonding?

Shane had reached his hand out to touch those scars. William hadn't asked him to understand the bullshit in his life. And hell, he'd said no, hadn't he? Scrambling away that day...the panic so clear in his face when William had told him he might do something stupid.

Stupid, like reach for more than any employer had a right to ask of his employee.

Did Shane just want to hang out and drink? Maybe that's why he'd brought the damn beer—so he didn't feel guilty about drinking all of William's. Maybe that's all William was. All any of this was. A paycheck. Beer. A break away from people.

Nothing real.

His chainsaw slowed and he panted, realizing the shadows were getting long. He leaned back on the ladder, holding it with one hand, then kicked the machine off and threw it to the ground.

In the past the movement might've made him sore, but now it sent screaming pain through his spine from the overextension. Shouting, he clung to the ladder.

He took a deep breath in.

Exhaled.

Then, moving like an old goddamned man, he climbed down and looked at the carnage of felled trees.

It hurt to move, but he couldn't stand there and rot, now could he?

He limped to his four-wheeler. Around him the wind kicked up and he could smell moisture in the air, the clouds starting to darken to a murky gray.

I know you're not scared, asshole! So what the fuck is it?

What was it, William? What was it that stopped you? Were you afraid?

Did you know that if you pinned him again you'd do something fucking stupid, you hungry psycho?

Shut up.

William missed the bees. They didn't talk to him about this bullshit.

He looked at the logs. He'd have to get them before the storm hit or they'd rot, and he wouldn't have time before going to Ma's tomorrow.

If he went to Ma's.

Groaning, he rolled and loaded each one into the back of the wagon, stacking the heavy chunks while his spine creaked and throbbed. There was relief in the pain. Worrying about his back distracted him from how Shane had trembled, practically asking for one more taste of violence.

He weighed his own deferred need as he started the ATV. Just because he'd managed not to throw a punch yesterday, did not mean his head was screwed on tight enough to keep from introducing a new dance step tomorrow. He'd call it the Brunch Room Blitz. The signature move would be smashing the crystal punch bowl into twenty thousand pieces. The papers would write it up as an exclusive event, only offered by registered members of the Fuckwit Society.

The jostling of the four wheeler was agony, but he managed to get the machine parked. It was dark by the time he limped to his house, forced to stop several times to lean on fence posts. The goal was simple: get inside so he didn't pass out in the yard.

As he neared the porch something crunched under his boot. Shards of broken glass, scattered under a tree. A pang hit him.

With a curse he kicked the pieces to the side. He'd have to get a damn broom out here to clean it up. Later. When his back wasn't being a twisted piece of shit.

A shame rest and a shower wouldn't untwist his head.

Marnie was the one bright light of the Daniels family.

When Shane looked down the line of crap humans littering his family tree, disguised as adults, the difference was stark. For all the headaches she gave him through her cheerful, chatterbox ways—all the moments she could 'be a fucking pain,' as he'd so graciously told William—Shane knew Marnie Daniels was good. Truly good. She refused to be dragged down by her blood.

Unlike Shane, who was just as shit as his lineage.

Saturday morning he made an entire pot of coffee and dumped it in a massive thermos, along with a generous helping of whiskey—enough to carry him through the whole morning and afternoon. That was how he survived his weekends.

Usually.

Saturday was different.

It'd started at ten that morning. The coop was cleaned, the horses out grazing in the pasture, and Shane had just started sweeping stalls when Marnie bustled into the stable.

"Shane," she'd said nervously. "The radar just showed a nasty storm coming in tonight."

"Got it," he'd answered, not looking up.

"We need that huge feed order ready for Monday afternoon, and if the hay isn't off the fields by tonight it'll be ruined. I tried calling Hunter but he never picks up on the weekend. Could you—would you, please, handle that today?"

Shane could do a lot of chores drunk, but driving the tractor was not one of them. Collecting hay meant cutting himself off now while he barely had a buzz. He'd wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her the storm was not his fucking fault, and he wasn't about to let it interrupt his day-drinking.

Except that would be biting her head off, just like last night.

He'd grunted in affirmation.

"Thank you," she'd said softly, then paused to add, "I truly hope you know how much I appreciate all you do."

After she'd left the stable, Shane stared at the door for a long time.

The large fields were covered in a fluffy layer of pale gold, the cut hay having dried in the sun over the last three days. Shane spent hours gathering it, Marnie's decrepit old baler hooked up to the tractor, spitting out messy bundles that would have to be tightened and retied before being shipped.

He tried not to think how much it would piss William off, dealing with such a shoddy baler. The Bowery ran like a well-oiled machine. By comparison, the ranch barely chugged along.

Once done, the trailer parked in the storage garage, he'd grabbed gloves, twine, scissors, and his thermos from the stable. The coffee was cold, but it was a fucking waste to dump that much whiskey, and Shane had downed far worse things in his life. He'd spent the next few hours drinking, tightening loose bales, and repacking the ones that had busted open during the drive.

It was late afternoon when the air became damp, and suppertime when the first clouds rolled in.

The wood of the trailer creaked and sighed under Shane's boots. He cut a line of twine, slipped it around a rectangle of hay, and glanced out the window as he jerked it tight.

The clouds were stormy and grey, creeping over the setting sun.

"Shane?"

Marnie stood in the entrance of the storage barn, fingers on the doorframe. Her auburn hair was extra frizzy, another reminder of the coming rain.

"You skipped dinner last night and lunch today. Please come in for a decent meal? I've made a casserole, and Jas helped me bake cookies this afternoon."

Shane looked down and yanked another cord of twine. "Still got a lot to do."

"But you've been working so hard today…" She sounded nervous and hesitant again.

Asshole. Putting her on edge.

He tied a knot. "Thanks," he said, in a softer tone. "But I'm good."

She didn't leave, and Shane felt her eyes on him as he stacked three more bales to the side. The hair on the back of his neck raised, and he was unsure whether from her gaze, or just the electricity in the stormy air.

"Something else?" he asked, shoving a fourth bale into place.

Another hesitation. "I just—I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Yep." He lifted a fifth bale. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She took a few steps inside, standing next to the long table that lined one wall of the barn. Her hand brushed over it, dusting off a snowy layer of hay particles that had floated down.

"Your first week on the new job," she said. "It went well?"

Oh, yeah. I got this great new boss, and decided to impress him by throwing a fucking tantrum on his porch yesterday. It went swell.

"Yup."

Marnie leaned against the table, crossing her arms and watching him. It wasn't an angry cross; merely one that said she was settling in for a conversation.

Great.

"Bill must appreciate it," she continued, "having an employee who already knows so much of the business."

Shane dropped a bale of hay. "He goes by William," he said quietly, adjusting it on the stack.

"He does?" It was apparently not what she expected to hear. "You mean to tell me I've been calling him wrong all these years?"

"Gus started the Bill thing. He prefers William."

He ignored the odd feeling that rolled through his stomach at saying William's name aloud to his aunt. He also ignored the voice that whispered, You're drunk and saying things you wouldn't say sober.

"Heavens," Marnie said. "That's embarrassing. Well, Farmer William it is then." Another pause. "But you two get on well? I mean, I know it was a one-off…but considering…"

"That we kicked the crap out of each other?" Shane said, testy. "Yeah, we get on fine. Really made things level and shit, and now we're best friends."

"Shane—"

"Marnie, I swear. I work, he's happy, I leave. End of story."

"Alright" she said, just as testy, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Excuse me for asking, I won't make that mistake again. Now tell me—will you come in for supper? Or would that be too intrusive? I can always bring it out here instead. You can eat with the cows, use one of the hay bales as a table. Perhaps this as a fork?"

She grabbed a three-pronged garden tool from a canister, holding it up.

Shane grunted as he yanked another cord tight. "Yeah, right. Use one as a table, and watch the food end up on my lap when it falls the fuck apart."

He threw the bale on the stack with too much force—and seconds later Marnie followed suit with the tool, chucking it back in its tin. Shane flinched as metal-on-metal rang through the barn.

"Because it's so simple," she shot, "to go buy a new baler. I'll cut a few items off the grocery list next week, shall I? Pick one up with the saved pennies?"

She crossed her arms again, anger and hurt in her tearful eyes.

Shane paused with the bale he'd just stacked, leaning into it with his weight against his forearms.

You. Fucking. Jackass.

"Sorry," he muttered.

For a moment nothing but damp silence hung in the air. It was darker than when Marnie had come in, the sky now blanketed in grey clouds.

"Yes, well, me too," she whispered. "Because it's either the horses or a baler this year, and I'll give you one guess which of those the ranch can survive without."

He lifted his head. Even in his partially drunken state, this caught Shane off guard. William had been surprised to learn Marnie was downsizing her herd, but Shane knew losing the cows would be nothing compared to the horses.

She once told him she'd lived and breathed them as a girl. That she'd checked out stacks of horse books and equestrian magazines from the library, and dreamed how one day she'd grow up to have her own. And with that same quiet, resilient strength that had kept her out of the clutches of hereditary alcoholism, she'd made her dream a reality—moved to the country in her thirties, and spent all her hard-earned savings on a ranch. And horses. Horses she groomed and talked to and loved. Horses that she'd ridden daily, until hurting her back the previous year.

And now if Shane was hearing her properly, she was going to sell them.

It made sense; the cows brought in regular money. The horses existed purely for her company and pleasure. And for Jas, who loved them just as much. Who, like a young Marnie, checked out talking horse stories from the library, and who begged Shane to take her riding every weekend.

He glanced out the window to the pasture, where the four horses still roamed beneath the gathering clouds.

"You have to?" he said quietly.

She rubbed the corner of her eye with a sleeve. Her anger was gone, leaving only a sad, weary woman in front of him. "I'm well aware of how much worse that baler has gotten, Shane," she said. "I know it won't last another season."

Shane knew the underlying message: if they couldn't fill feed orders, they might as well board up the whole damn ranch.

He nodded.

She wiped her eyes again, gave a sniff, then stood up straighter. "So," she said, strengthening her voice. "Supper?"

Shane shook his head. "Gotta finish up. I'll eat later."

"Yes, I figured."

There wasn't any heat in the words. She spoke with resigned understanding; her nephew was no stranger to avoiding meals when he had an excuse. She simply gave the table a few pats of her hand and turned to walk out of the barn.

"You'll bring the horses in?" she asked, pausing in the doorway.

"Yeah."

She nodded and left.

Once her figure had grown small in the distance, Shane grabbed his thermos and swigged the rest of the cold coffee and whiskey, shuddering as it went down. The damp air was growing chilly, and goosebumps crept up his arms and under the sleeves of his t-shirt.

His head swam. It swam with the refresher of booze, and the whole conversation that had just happened. It swam with memories of last night—shouting at William, snapping at Marnie, ignoring Jas. It swam with the weight of realizing how much worse Marnie's finances were than he'd thought, and how if he cut back on drinking, he could set aside enough money to make a difference.

Swam with the knowledge of how un-fucking-likely that was to ever happen.

He jumped off the trailer and dug in one of the toolboxes for the electronic moisture tester. Even though the hay was bone-dry when he'd collected it, this bought him a little more time, and he went bale by bale to get a beeping read on each one.

A few minutes later, thunder rumbled low in the distance.

"Shit," Shane muttered. He looked out the window, where the grey sky was growing black.

Marnie had mentioned the rain wasn't to hit till after midnight, but with thunder it was dangerous to leave the horses out any longer. He chucked his tools into the bin on the table, grabbed his thermos, and closed up the barn. The hay was safe and dry till Monday, and Hunter could deal with whatever was left.

The horse round-up went fast. For three of them, at least. Daisy did not like storms. The thunder had spooked her, as Shane knew it would the moment it hit. He managed to snag the harness over her head, and attempted to coax her restless, back-stepping hooves forward.

"C'mon, Daisy Dukes," he murmured, using Jas's favorite nickname for the chestnut horse. "Sooner you're inside, better you'll feel."

Daisy jerked her snout as if looking for thunder behind them, her tail giving a few nervous flicks. It took several minutes of stop-and-start before Shane got her into a steady walk at his side.

He patted her neck. "Good girl."

Once in the stable, the horses tucked safely—and in Daisy's case, anxiously—into their stalls, Shane paused and looked around, a slow, sinking feeling in his heart. He closed his eyes and wished he could just sleep out here.

Well, you never did finish cleaning this morning.

That was right. The stables had been abandoned when Marnie asked him to collect the hay. And it'd be irresponsible not to finish, wouldn't it? He just had to brave his family for a quick but necessary stop inside, and then he could easily make the chores stretch until bedtime.

Ignoring Jas a second night in a row was shitty, but he had no fucking energy for anyone right now.

When he entered the kitchen she was at the table, art supplies out, markers and crayons scattered in a rainbow around a paper canvas. She looked up.

"Uncle Shane, are you done with work?" Her voice was hopeful. "Can we play a game tonight?"

"Maybe tomorrow, kid," he said quietly, washing his hands while his eyes adjusted to the bright room.

She popped a cap off a red marker and sighed, grumpy. "It's always tomorrow."

He cut himself a piece of the dinner casserole and shoved it in the microwave, listening to the sound of her furious marker on the page as the timer ticked down. "Where's Aunt Marnie?"

Jas didn't look up. "In the shower."

"Why don't you see if she wants to play a game?"

"Because," she said, now uncapping a yellow marker. "She won't play video games."

Fair enough. Marnie liked cards. Old Maid, Go Fish, Crazy 8s. It was Shane who played the console with her. Shane who let her trample his ass on the gridball field, and set off remote-control nukes in her favorite shooter.

The microwave beeped and he pulled out his food. "Look," he said, grabbing a fork that wasn't a garden tool. "Tomorrow we'll play something together. Promise."

He was almost out of the kitchen when he heard her mutter, "It's always promise."

Like a papercut—sharp and precise.

Shane forced his mind from the stinging sensation and went to his room. From the back of his closet he dug out a heavy fall jacket. He tucked the half-full bottle from his sock drawer into its zipper liner, then scarfed down the casserole before heading back to the kitchen.

Jas's art supplies were abandoned. She must've gone to her room.

The whiskey sloshed in his pocket as he walked outside. He focused on the sound, imagining moments from now when it would warm his throat and smooth the sting of that papercut.

Selfish dick.

Yeah, well, maybe once he was drunk his brain could tell him something he didn't already fucking know.

Shane spent his whole evening with the horses. One by one he led them into the spare stall so he could clean, all the while draining shots from the whiskey and trying to keep his mind off anything outside the stable walls. He grew drunker and drunker, until—in the middle of sweeping—he stumbled, at the last second catching himself on the wide broom.

He pressed it into the floor to keep steady, staring down at its rectangular bristles and swaying side to side.

He was a piece of shit, he realized, with sudden profound clarity. He was a piece of shit, wrapped inside of a piece of shit, and topped off with—yep, that was right—another piece of fucking shit.

A clap of thunder hit. Shane jerked up just as Daisy gave a whinny, prancing backward, her eyes shiny and terrified.

He set aside the broom and went over to her.

"Won't leave you, girl," he slurred, rubbing one hand under her chin, the other on the side of her nose. "I'll stay here tonight, if you're scared."

And Shane did. Maybe he was a selfish dick to people, but he could at least do right by the horses. He spent the rest of the night speaking soothing and increasingly thick words, sitting on the bench with one of the stable blankets pulled over his legs.

The rain came just after midnight. It pounded hard on the roof, and when Shane leaned his head back against the stall, its rhythm lulled him to sleep.

William could swear he smelled mud. He thought, for a moment, something crawled and bit him. Something small. And there was pain...so much pain.

Thunder slammed through the house like a bowling ball knocking down pins in an echo chamber.

His eyes opened.

Movies and television shows always made waking from a nightmare look dramatic. Sitting up in bed. Panting like you'd been running a mile rather than laying on your back for hours. William, still with his head on the pillow, tried to remember what he'd been dreaming of. Horrible flashbacks never occurred more than once or twice a year; times like this, he'd only get the vague impression of wetness. Of discomfort. Of heat.

He pushed up on an elbow, rubbing his face, running a hand down his beard. He realized that he'd sweat through his shirt, shorts and sheets.

Feline purring cut through the disorientation. Ingrid, his ungrateful and often recalcitrant cat, was curled in a hot little ball on his lap, her paws kneading through the sheets, sharp claws digging into his thigh in protest of his movement.

He relaxed, the sound of her purr louder than the bees he'd had in his ears. Louder than the half-remembered dream, a dream he already couldn't fully touch. Louder than the storm that raged outside. He leaned back and closed his eyes, focused on petting the cat, her soft fur anchoring him to the present.

For a half hour he tried to doze, but his sheets had become clammy. Ingrid began to insistently walk up and down the mattress, slamming her shoulders against him, demanding food. William grumbled but got out of bed, stripping himself and, much to Ingrid's protest, the sheets as well.

"They're wet," he told her, tossing the whole sweat-soaked bundle into a basket. "C'mon Ingrid, have some standards here."

She responded by grooming her inner thigh, one leg up over her head.

William changed clothes, moving stiffly. His back was pounding, and his head kept tempo, pulsing on the downbeat—a regular concert of aches.

Ingrid forgave his bed-making after he poured crunchy cat food into her dish. While she ate, he picked up the white plastic handset he'd inherited from Pops. He dialed his parent's house number by memory while rubbing through the stiffness of his back, eyes on the dark sky outside. The sun was completely hidden in clouds. A grim haze lingered over the farm, a light, steady rain falling, though thankfully the thunder was soft and distant. The fiercest part of the storm had moved east.

"William?"

"Morning Ma," he said, watching as Ingrid ate.

"It's six am," she said.

"Yup. Wanted to give you a heads up that I'm staying home today."

She was silent so William waited her out. She expected him to explain, but then again, she was used to disappointment. He won the game of silence-chicken less than thirty seconds later, when she let out a cloud of static against his ear.

"Well for heaven's sake, why not?"

"It's raining today. Don't wanna make the drive in the wet."

"Your father could come and get you."

"Ma. Don't be ridiculous. It's a two hour drive. Look, I'm not coming today but I'll be back up next week."

"Are you alright?"

He hesitated. The question was soft. Intent. He didn't want to lie to her. She had a way of figuring out the blatant falsehoods. Yet what was he going to say?

Sorry Ma, I'm put out that the guy I hired doesn't want to 'bond' with me, even though I'm sure he's lying to us both. Also, was a moron and threw my back out yesterday. And the peanut on the shit sandwich is that this fucking weather makes me want to sleep for one hundred years. So yeah, not feeling like spending time with you and your posse of petty bitches today. Ta.

"Feel fine," he said, trying to infuse a smile into his voice. "Just...not up to the drive."

If sighs were neon signs, the one she gusted out would've flashed dissatisfaction.

"Son," she began, and William's shoulders tightened at the familiar lecture in her tone.

"Anyway," he interrupted, his voice sing-song, "gotta go get the milking done. I'll see you next week. Love you. Bye."

He hung up.

She rang back immediately. Sliding his finger down, he snapped the ringer off. It was a fantastic feature.

He turned away from the silent phone and went outside to face the rain.

Shane woke with a cold body, stiff shoulders, and a kink in his neck.

Why was it so cold?

Why was it so hard?

Why wasn't he on a pillow?

He opened his eyes to see arched rafters high above him.

The fuck…

Groaning, he turned over—and promptly rolled off the bench he'd been sleeping on, landing with a thud on the stable floor.

"Godfucking…"

Clearly you made some genius decisions last night.

Once the shock had passed he pushed himself up, noticing the empty fifth of whiskey on the ground. He rubbed a hand over his face. Ignoring his pounding head, he checked the watch on his inner wrist.

6:42 am.

The horses were at standing rest. It was still dark outside, a steady rain pounding on the roof. Shane closed his eyes, listening to the wet patter. He weighed the risk of going inside for coffee. Marnie milked the cows every day at six, but she was often in and out of the house during that period, and he didn't particularly care to explain that he'd slept with the horses.

His need for coffee won.

With the empty bottle tucked into his jacket, Shane trudged out of the stable. He was in luck; the light to the cow barn was on, and walking through the rain he saw a silhouette move past one of its windows. Marnie was probably unhooking the cows from the milking machines now. He dropped his bottle in the recycling bin next to the house and went inside, where his luck continued, a pot of coffee already made and waiting in the carafe. He quickly poured himself a mug, went to his room to drop the usual wake-me-up inside, and ducked back out to the coop before anyone saw him.

Much as Shane didn't love mornings, and much as he'd woken every day for the last five years with a hangover…he had to admit that mornings on the ranch were better than any he'd had in the city. The chicken coop, which started as one of his daily chores, had quickly turned into an escape. It was a short, blissful time each morning that Shane spent with animals who didn't care how much he drank, or how crappy he treated the people around him.

The chickens only knew he was the guy who gave them food, and they seemed to fucking like him for it.

He stepped into the coop and flipped on the light, met with the bright smell of hay, barn wood, and feathers. The flock of birds immediately strutted toward him, clucking louder, and much as it should've grated on Shane's headache he found it soothing.

Noises helped. The patter of rain, the clucking and shuffling. They massaged away some of the self-loathing thoughts.

The earthy smell was a comfort too. He remembered visiting the ranch in the summer as a boy, when he'd made the trip with his dad in their rusty black truck. The moment they pulled down Marnie's road, Corey Daniels' lip would curl and he'd make some snide comment about manure. But Shane had always liked that part of the countryside. They were smells associated with the couple of weeks each summer when he didn't have to walk on eggshells for once. They were smells of relief; of waking up to breakfast and "Good morning, Shane!" instead of a thwap on the head with a newspaper and a growl of, "You miss the bus and your sorry ass is walking to school, you hear me?"

These days, it was Shane doing the grunting. Shane being the abusive dickhead who made his family walk on eggshells.

Shells created from the same eggs that made him breakfast, no less.

One of the chickens stepped on his boot, knocking into his shin. Charlie. Shane always knew Charlie by the little nick on her red comb, and the way she pushed to the front of the crowd. He bent over, offering his hand, and she nudged into it the way a dog or cat might.

"You just want food," he said softly, scratching her. "But at least I can't fuck that up."

He went to the shelves with the feed, then paused, staring at the bag. Turning back around, he looked at the coop.

It was clean, or at least as clean as it could be first thing in the morning. The birds were healthy, the nesting boxes full of eggs to be collected. The coop was the one thing in his dumb life he'd ever taken pride in, but now, having worked on the farm, Shane realized how homely it looked.

Part of that was unavoidable. William's coop was newer, the wood fresh and the beams bright. Short of telling Marnie to rebuild with non-existent funds, the shabbiness couldn't be helped. But there were other things; things he'd not noticed until this week.

Though he'd bought them used from an auction, William's feeders were clean and uniform. Marnie's had been collected over the years as her flock grew, and were a ragtag bunch of shapes and sizes. While they didn't harm the chickens, they didn't utilize the space well either. Not like William's, perfectly lining one side of his coop.

It was poorly organized here too. Marnie's ledgers and logbooks were in a messy pile in a crate, and the tools and cleaning supplies were thrown haphazardly on the shelves in a way that would've made William's eye twitch.

Shane fed the birds. Refreshed the wood shavings on the floor. Grabbed a bunch of egg cartons and clean rags, and went to the nesting boxes. Wiping each egg with a cloth, his focus remained critical. There was space along the back of the coop, he realized. Room for a shelf to run perpendicular to the nesting boxes, so the cartons could be stacked conveniently until the job was done. He could install hooks for the logbooks, and to hang bags for the clean and dirty rags.

He spent two extra hours in the coop that morning, sorting tools, rearranging supplies, stacking crates. He organized everything as much as possible, and thought about his paychecks.

Being a jerk to Marnie was one thing. Doing nothing to apologize was another.

No, he couldn't afford a new baler on the spot. He couldn't yet hand her a check that would turn their fortunes around. But he was going to be making time-and-a-half what he'd made at JojaMart. He'd even questioned the amount, when William first brought it up—but his boss had simply raised a brow, saying "Man's work? Man's pay," and had refused to discuss it further.

Maybe he could ask William to keep an ear out for more auctions. Find Marnie some good deals, stuff that was affordable.

Except you were a jerk to William too. Bet he can't fucking wait to jump at a chance to help you.

Was there anyone in his life he wasn't a jerk to?

William, check.

Marnie, check.

Lewis, double check, considering Shane had decided two years ago not to even give him a chance.

Jas, triple check. Because she had the least understanding of why he was such a douche all the time.

Shane went back to the house before noon. He shoveled down some of last night's casserole, then showered off the overnight filth. Once clean and in fresh clothes he walked to Jas's room.

The door was open. She was inside, sitting on the floor and playing with her dollhouse, her hair in neat pigtails that Marnie had clearly done.

Shane rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and she looked up.

"You ready for that game?" he asked.

She gazed at him, skeptical. "Right now?"

He paused. "Only if you ate lunch already."

"Aunt Marnie made me peanut butter and banana," she said, lowering her doll.

Of course she did. Because she's actually a decent thoughtful human being who takes care of the people she loves.

"Then yes," Shane said. "Right now."

The dolls were abandoned in an instant as Jas jumped to her feet. Stopping in front of him, she looked up with glowing eyes.

"Last one there's a loser," she said, then tagged him.

She tried to race off, cackling, but Shane knew this game and snagged her around the waist at the last second. He lifted her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her to his room like a sack of potatoes while she squealed injustice.

Today he'd make it better at home, and tomorrow he'd make it better on the farm.

When William had something to focus on, he could ignore the wet. If he had a reason to put one foot in front of the other, it wasn't different from marching patrol. While staring at eggs and writing numbers down in little boxes, he could ignore the way the damp rubbed him. Hosing down floors and laying out fresh straw staved off flashbacks. When inspecting cows, he wasn't thinking about the smell of his own fear-sweat, or how the rain drummed on the roof.

The fact was, rainy days happened, and for a farmer they meant good crops and a lower water bill. Focusing on the necessary work got him through the unpleasant haze, and William used every single ounce he had left to get his girls milked, the eggs collected, and all creatures fed sans mental breakdown. When done he went inside and stripped off his wet clothes for a second time that morning, then dug out more beer from his fridge.

Today was a good day to be drunk.

He decided to play a game. Every time his traitorous brain started to remind him of something inappropriate, he drank. Whenever he felt frustrated about said forbidden topic, he drank. When he began to regret his decisions, both in the last few weeks and in the last few months, he drank some more. One by one, he dropped brown bottles into the glass bucket, until he had a little army of dead soldiers. Hour by hour, the tightness in his joints loosened and the focus in his head blurred.

After his last beer he wandered around his empty house, swaying from door to door. He stopped in the guest suite, flicking on the lights and glaring at the beautiful, tastefully decorated space. The double bed had a grey and blue blanket, and the neutral window curtains were tied back to reveal dark skies. He walked in—nearly tripping over the fancy-ass rug his mom had bought to 'pull the room together'—and snapped them closed.

The bathroom was next, but it was just as impersonal as the guest room; another space he'd let his mother loose in after expanding the house. He returned to the kitchen instead and poured a glass of water, and after shutting off the lights took it into his office where he sank into a chair and tried to work.

His vision was so blurred he slammed the ledger books closed.

Admitting defeat, he stumbled to bed and passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He'd barely closed his eyes when the alarm ripped through him like a knife—his head throbbing in time with the 'beeep beeep beeep'.

Groaning, he turned it off.

The daily aches were compounded by a hangover. It took twice as long to get ready; twice as long for his body to warm and stretch. He waited while the coffee brewed, and after it was poured stared into his mug as if the dark brew could give him some answers. Only he wasn't sure of his questions, and one long swallow later, he stepped outside to meet the day.

He froze in place at the sight that greeted him.

Shane was there, picking up the glass he'd smashed on Friday afternoon. He didn't look up, quietly gathering the broken brown pieces.

Each one felt like a shard pulled out of William's chest. He couldn't draw his eyes away as Shane crossed over to the porch, stopped at the empties bucket, and dumped the glass into the bottom. The sound was loud in the still early morning, those little pieces tinkling in the metal pail and ringing like a clarion bell to clear the air between them.

He raised his eyes and William stared back.

I'm sorry.

There was no more blatant way Shane could have said it.

William felt the tightness un-knot in his chest with the silent apology. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out the good gloves he usually used, and tossed them over.

Forgiven.

Shane caught them, as if by accepting them he was also accepting the forgiveness. William's neck and shoulders relaxed.

"I'll get the south barn," he said. "You can start at the coops."

Shane nodded and silently headed out.

William went to the milking barns. When he stepped inside, he turned on the radio and let country music play into the silence.

It was a few hours later when the attack hit.

William had been pushing fertilizer in a wheelbarrow, mind on the melon patches. A reading taken on the soil that morning showed that the nutrient level was low. When he walked under a tree, heavy with rain from the night before, the birds in the branches launched themselves into the air, shaking the leaves so hard a burst of water fell right over his head.

It was so sudden, the rustle of the tree, the surprise of the wetness, the shock of the cold.

He lost his grip on the wheelbarrow, jerking his head up and staring into the empty branches, for a moment—just the shortest of moments—seeing those hateful Gotoro faces as they dropped…

Nothing.

Because nothing was there.

William's heart raced.

His shirt was soaked, the cloying moisture choking him. As if splashed with acid, he ripped it off, and trembling despite the warmth of the summer morning, flung it into the tree.

It should have been worse yesterday, with the constant rain, the thunder and lightning. Today was sunny. But the sudden surprise was too much like that day.

Sucking in air, vainly attempting to ground himself, he looked up.

Tree.

Not jungle tree. Just a regular tree.

Pull it together. You are losing your shit over a bit of water.

He hauled the wheelbarrow up and shoved it ruthlessly towards his goal. If he just kept working, he'd be fine.

And he did keep working, mixing soil, checking the plants. After several hours of hot sun to dry up any residual moisture, William knew he was back on saner ground. It was almost lunch time, and—fertilizer supply exhausted—he turned back to the house, needing to clean up and get dry clothes.

He was at the porch before he saw, folded neatly on the top step, the grey t-shirt he'd flung on the ground.

William stared at it, then glanced at the east side where Shane was working the morning's dairy haul. He couldn't see him, just hear the sound of the pasteurizing machine as Shane monitored the milk's process from raw to regulation.

Swallowing, he looked back down at the square of fabric.

What was this fucker's deal? He was a scared rabbit if you so much as winked at him. Yet picking up the glass…folding his shirts…how the fuck was William supposed to ignore this attraction if he was going to be so fucking sweet and thoughtful all the time?

He snatched the shirt up and went inside.

He's not playing fair, William thought darkly as he dumped it into a hamper. He pulled a fresh one out and put it on. I'm trying to make things freaking professional, but if he keeps acting this way…

What way? Like a decent fucking person?

Shut up.

He glared at himself in the mirror.

"You will control your fucking feelings, Bauer," he growled, pointing a finger. "He's your employee. You owe him a level of goddamned space."

The bastard in the mirror didn't really seem to be listening, but he'd done his best.

He went out to the dairy barn where Shane was working, and tapped on the doorframe.

"Lunch."

Shane glanced up. "Almost finished."

Wary, William waited. Was he going to say something about the shirt? Was he going to ask why the fuck William had spazzed out like a crazy person?

Instead Shane turned back to cleaning the hoses, his eyes locked on the task like it was the only important thing in the world.

William returned to the house…leaving the door open.

The open door was more than a lunch invite. It was a brick on the foundation of trust. He had, unwittingly, shown a slice of his crazy, and Shane had responded with that same discretion he'd demonstrated after their first fight. Maybe, much as Shane said he hadn't wanted to bond, he at least understood.

William built sandwiches, opened a bag of chips, and laid the plates out. Just as he was sitting down, Shane appeared in the doorway.

He hesitated. After what felt like an uncomfortably long time, he finally stepped inside.

William dug into his sandwich so he wouldn't unconsciously reveal the relief on his face. He'd been worried Shane was going to just grab his lunch and go eat on the porch. Even now, as Shane sat beside him, the thought of that rejection made the food in his mouth go down like chalk. It was too easy to mess this up. Too easy to move too fast towards, God forbid, friendship.

Just as he was debating whether to break the silence, Shane spoke.

"I do this thing sometimes, where I'm a jackass," he said, and took a bite.

William looked up. He regarded him a moment then shrugged, shoving over the bag of chips.

"It's whatever man. Off day."

Shane accepted, sprinkling a few chips on his plate. He set the bag aside after and picked one of them up, but didn't eat it. "Hey, so…" He flipped the chip over in his fingers, inspecting it. "You, um. You doing okay?"

William paused mid-bite.

He thought through his options. Settling for the course of least resistance, he relaxed, smiled, and gave a shrug.

"Of course," he said, taking another bite. "Just another fucking day, right?"

His foot twitched under the table from the lie. It felt as though he'd stuffed the truth into a ball and it was vibrating to get out. He tried to lock it down, but the traitorous limb just bounced harder.

"Look," said Shane, dropping his eyes back to his plate. "I can, like…leave you alone today. Go home when the work's done. You don't have to entertain my sorry ass after."

You can be alone again.

William's hand snapped out, locking onto Shane's wrist. He couldn't handle any more solitude today. He'd met his limit. The shit in his head was too loud when he was alone.

They both froze. Shane stared at the wrist.

His eyes flickered up but William couldn't meet them, too startled and shaken by his act of desperation. Because, despite his intentions, grabbing Shane was the exact opposite of giving him space.

William released him, each finger peeling off with a surge of willpower.

What was he thinking? It was so stupid, to reach like that. A fucking crazy-ass move. Yet, just as he was sure Shane was going to get up from the table and back away slowly, he reached into the hoodie he'd draped over his chair. From inside he pulled out a small bottle, and placed it next to William's plate.

"Dunno if you like whiskey," he said quietly, "but the beer wasn't such a hot idea last time."

William looked at the bottle, then at Shane. He slid out from the table and crossed to his cabinet to retrieve two crystal-cut rock glasses, which made a heavy, solid thump as they were set down. The bottle squeaked as the lid was twisted off, and two shots of amber relief settled in the elegant cups. William tapped their glasses together.

He swallowed it whole. Shane did the same.

Leaning back in his chair, William watched the man across from him.

This was Shane's appeal. Simple actions. Simple solutions.

He held up the glass, regarding it. "Mom bought me these. Said I needed something with class in my man cave." He put it down, and revived by the burn of whiskey, reached forward to finish his sandwich. "Like your mom buying you glasses makes something classy."

"I guess." Shane shrugged. "I mean, you can tell your mom she has good taste or whatever. That shit makes 'em happy."

You make me happy, William thought, as Shane went back to eating.

He knew he was staring and reluctantly pulled his gaze away. They could pretend as though nothing big had happened. As if Shane hadn't seen William's desperation. As if he hadn't, in his way, reached right back.

"Yeah," William murmured, eyes locked on the plate. "Happy."

The silence that settled was companionable. As if nothing between them had changed.

Even though William knew, everything had.