Shane sank onto the wooden porch chair as if it were a cloud.
The click of a door told him William had gone inside the house.
Pain pounded, intense and rhythmic. Unlike that night outside the bar, he didn't have adrenaline to blind him. He'd been pinned on the ground, waiting for it. Asking for it. And the answering fist had been a kindness—even if he felt every knuckle. Right now, all the fucking garbage in his brain was gone. William had bounced it so deep into the back of his head that for a few blessed moments here on the porch, he couldn't access it if he tried.
Stars flaked like static in his vision, but that was it: white noise.
Eventually he gathered enough energy to twist the cap off his whiskey and take a long swallow. Leaning back, he shut his eyes, resting the bottle on one knee. Time stretched until he heard the click of the door again, then the scrape of wood on wood as William dragged the other porch chair in front of his.
Something hard, metal, and icy pressed over his eye, the cold instantly releasing some of the fire.
"You floating?" William asked, voice gravelly.
Shane tried to confirm, but only a soft, airy noise came out.
The chair scooted a few inches closer and William lifted Shane's hand, getting him to hold the compress in place. Carefully, he began to rub a cream onto the other eye, over the less-severe bruise.
Late afternoon sun beat down on the roof. Shane drifted, his head growing quieter. William's fingers massaged away the static and replaced it with a deep pool of calm, movement keeping time with his breaths.
Breathe in, gentle rub.
Breathe out, gentle rub.
Breathe in, gentle rub.
Breathe out, gentle rub.
Shane would have sat here all evening. He didn't want it to stop, but all too soon both William's hand and the compress were pulled away.
William sat directly in front of him. The compress rested on his thigh, looking like a miniature iron. The tube of cream—some type of numbing agent, Shane realized, already feeling the effects—sat on the arm of the chair. William picked it up, squirting another dollop onto his fingers, and faced Shane again. He smoothed it over the more painful side.
"You want me to apologize?" he asked. His fingers were steady, his intense blue gaze focused on its work.
"No," Shane said, closing his eyes. He sat in darkness, pliable as a statue.
"Good." William's thumb worked over the brow. "Because I'm not sorry."
When done, he wiped his hand on his pant leg and picked up the compress. "Here. I got this." Gently holding the side of Shane's head, he pressed it over his eye again. "Just relax a minute. We're okay."
It was the calm after the storm. Shane remembered, like a distant echo, the empty silence of being left on the ground after their first fight. Remembered thinking the word peace; the different definitions of it.
Here with William on the porch, it was warm, and not from the sunshine.
Slowly, careful not to disturb his hold on the compress, Shane reached into the pocket of his hoodie and shoved the crumpled wad of applications at him.
William took the stack and tossed them in the empties bucket, where they landed with a feathery thump.
"How's your eye?" he asked, pulling off the compress. "Can you blink it yet?"
Shane tried, flinching.
William sat back. He handed the iron over, the instructions clear: hold it.
"Fighting with you is an experience, Daniels," he said, standing, and without further explanation went into the house.
Shane pressed the metal to his face and shrank into the seat.
Daniels.
It'd been Daniels all day again. But in the spa…just for a few minutes…it'd been Shane.
The door was left ajar, and from inside Shane heard the fridge open and close, then the snap of a bottle cap. William came out moments later, taking a long swallow of beer.
"Didn't give you much fight this time," Shane said quietly.
"There is more than one kind of fight," William said, sitting down in front of him again. "Believe me. I have bruises you can't see."
Shane went quiet, his fingers adjusting on the compress, and William sighed.
"What are we going to tell your aunt about that eye?"
Good question. Marnie could be oblivious, but she wasn't fucking dumb. Shane hadn't gotten a black eye since moving to the valley, and now twice in such a short time? What was the common denominator there?
"I dunno," he mumbled. "Passed out drunk and hit the table."
Which was true once. Years ago, in a bar.
Fuck, he'd wanted it this time. And maybe a sane person would have said no to that silent request, but a sane person wouldn't have asked for it, either. He'd only been thinking make it all shut up, and William had obliged.
William blew a raspberry. "Bad story. No excitement. What if we tell her I knocked you in the head while moving a fence post?"
Shane took a shot of his whiskey.
It was a possibility. He'd have to really sell it, but…maybe. It was only the eye, after all. Not like last time when he'd limped home, a beaten sack. And William didn't have any marks, so if Marnie thought they'd fought again, he could just point to his bruise-free boss. Wasn't like employers regularly went around socking their employees in the face, one-sided. The fence too; that was real, the proof on the edge of the property. They'd been working on it little by little, and there had been a few close calls.
He took another drink. William was still watching him, contemplative.
"I mean, as black eyes go, your last one was ten out of ten." He looked Shane up and down. "This one? Maybe a four."
Shane's fingers twisted on the bottle.
Okay. A fence post. That was his story. The cream and compress would help, with how soon they'd been applied. Tomorrow the bruise would be colored, but probably not swollen…
William stood, draining his bottle, tossing it in the empties bucket after. It landed on the stack of applications with a dull thud as he headed back into the house. Shane heard the fridge and snap of crown tops again, and when William returned he handed over one of the fresh beers.
"About. Friday." He looked at Shane hard.
Shane leaned forward, elbows on knees, heart pounding.
"C'mon man," he whispered. "Don't do this..."
He hated how fragile his voice sounded, how the words came out like a plea.
William rested on his elbows too, looking at him. Really looking at him.
"You want to drop it?" he said. "Never talk about it? Pretend it didn't happen?"
A pause.
"It didn't," Shane said, the lie tasting like ash.
William flinched, unable to hide the split second of hurt. With a long swallow of beer, he stood and crossed the porch.
Shane sank lower in his chair.
He'd asked for that kiss. Clear as day—clearer than asking for that hit by the fence—he had asked William to kiss him, and William had read every fucking line in the spa correctly. He'd been so fucking good. No one had ever treated him like William in those moments under the hot water, his hands so gentle, his lips caressing…
He glanced up. William was resting his forearms on the railing, his back to Shane and his shoulders tense. In the distance a bird called.
"Maybe it didn't happen for you," he said.
Shane dropped his head again. Staring at the wood, he mumbled, "It can't have happened."
A few seconds passed, then he heard the clink of a bottle set on the railing, followed by clunking footsteps. William's boots appeared. He squatted down and slipped a hand over Shane's head, fingers threading the hair.
"Why?" he asked, voice as soft as his touch.
Shane blinked at the panels of the porch, vision swimming.
"It just…it fucking can't," he said. "I fucking can't."
"You already did though." William rubbed slow circles along his neck. "And look, still breathing and everything. So whatever says you can't? It lied. And Shane, babe. I'm not going to lie."
Pressure built in Shane's chest.
This wasn't happening. William wasn't touching him like this, massaging out some of the headache. He wasn't using the word babe in the same line as Shane's name. This was surreal, a swirl, more dreamlike than the spa, than the whole messy weekend…
Shane set his beer between his feet. He rubbed a hand down the less-painful cheek, over and over, mashing the skin—then buried his face into the crook of his arm and screamed.
The sound was muffled, falling like a brick between them.
William frog-marched closer. He slid his hand down and cupped the base of Shane's neck.
"It's not okay. I get that." His voice was low and calm. "It's a far-fucking-cry from okay. But I'm not scared of it, Shane. I'm not scared of what is fucking lying to you. Don't care how much it hurt you to make you believe it. I'm bigger, and I ain't fucking scared."
Shane tried to breathe, face still pressed into his sleeve, pulse hammering.
No one had been this close in years. No one. Even then, it hadn't been like this. Whatever this was, rubbing his neck and calling him babe, it was different, and it wasn't going to blow up in his face. Not like last time. Not unless he blew it up himself, like in the spa.
He slowly lifted from the crook of his arm and opened his good eye. William was only inches away, waiting and patient.
Shane lurched forward and kissed him.
William caught it with a groan. Pulling Shane close, he deepened the kiss. Growing it, then teasing back, just enough to feed them both breaths. His lips stayed soft no matter how desperate and greedy Shane reached for it, until—too soon—he let it naturally wind down, and rested his forehead against Shane's.
"Lookie there," he panted. "Seems like you can."
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
The pressure that had built in Shane's chest before the first explosion was building again.
"Why is it okay with you?" he demanded, the words coming out in a crackle of frustration. "It's never—it's never fucking okay, and then you—you just—"
William nipped his bottom lip to shut him up.
"It's gotta go somewhere, Shane," he said. "It can't just stay inside, or it fucking chokes you. Don't overthink it." Tilting his head, he kissed the bruise, lips warm against the painful skin.
Shane closed his eyes. "I don't want to go home."
"Then what do you want?"
"Minute I leave, I'm gonna fuck this all up in my head."
"So come back fucked-up tomorrow and I'll kick your ass again. Seems to do the trick."
Shane slowly eased back in the chair, retrieving the beer from between his legs. His brain…this morning…everything since…
He drank, thoughts jumbling as the liquid rushed down.
William pushed up and walked to the railing to grab his own beer. He rubbed his lower back. "You're not going to make me come find you tomorrow, are you?"
Shane didn't answer. He shotgunned the rest of his beer, then stood, tapping the now-empty bottle against his leg.
"I'm gonna be shit at this," he said, pacing across the porch. "Like, really fucking shit at it."
"Why?"
"I don't—I just—"
He cut himself off. It was so frustrating, this build of pressure, of confusion. It was making him stupid. Then again, he was always stupid, so why would now be any different?
"Is it because I'm paying you to work the farm?" William asked.
"What?" Shane's head jerked up. "No."
A pause. "Is it because I'm a man?"
Shane stopped pacing and stared at him.
William, in his good jeans and white shirt that showed off his time spent under the sun. His tattoos and his beard. The strong fingers around the neck of his bottle, that had been on Shane's neck moment's ago. The big arms that Shane knew the feeling of being hit and held by.
"I need another beer," he mumbled, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"Help yourself," said William. "Get me a freshie too."
Without looking back Shane went into the house. To the fridge, where the rows of home brews stood in perfect lines, clanking when he grabbed two of them. He popped off a cap, then looked toward the front door. William was expecting him, but…
Right now, he just needed one moment to himself.
William waited on the porch, catching his metaphorical breath. He felt hopeful. More hopeful than he had in over three years. New relationship energy was exciting. Invigorating. And Shane was going to take this chance…on him.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the grain on the side of the house.
He was willing to bet his tractor that Shane had been hurt before.
Family?
An ex?
He could only guess, but with no firm data he risked jumping to conclusion. Better to wait until he learned more. After all, he was in his thirties and single. Maybe his relationship history was as shitty as William's was. Despite the mystery, William found himself sucked into the innocent energy, as though their first kiss had meant as much to Shane as it had to him.
Had Shane ever been open with anyone? Closeted guys were always so careful. Maybe that was the reason he'd run off Friday. Trauma from something awful.
But he was giving this a chance. He was scared as hell, and giving it a chance.
He was…also taking a long-ass time to get refills.
William went inside. No Shane. He rounded the corner of the hall and noticed the door to his bathroom creaked half-open. Stepping closer, he could see Shane leaning with his hips against the counter, facing away from the mirror.
The counter was clean except for a small decorative soap dish his mother had picked out to match the rodeo-esque décor of the room. Two plain brown towels hung from a ring, and the basic tan and creme color scheme seemed to emphasize how out of place and nervous Shane looked. He had one empty beer bottle at his side and was currently working his way through the second, zoning out.
Just like the first time William had noticed him at the bar: no fucking spatial awareness.
Absurd as it was, he found that look endearing. Wondered, like he always did, about the world that was swirling behind his quiet face.
Still, friends didn't let friends drink alone. He walked in and took the bottle from Shane's fingers, startling him.
"Head start?" William said. "That's cheating. Can't beat me that easy."
A flush brightened across Shane's face while William chugged the remaining beer in one long swallow. He lowered the bottle when done, catching those green eyes with purpose—and as if burned, Shane jerked his gaze down.
He folded against the counter, his bottom lip disappearing while his leg twitched.
William placed his empty next to the first one. Together. Just like they were now. He waited, knowing that if he gave it time, Shane would give him words.
"What is this?" Shane mumbled at last, rubbing a hand down his face.
William studied his brow. The bruise was already swollen, but not purpling as bad as their first fight. Still, if he kept shoving his fingers over it, it would get worse.
"It's fucking attraction, Shane. It's two people who are attracted. Makes them like each other and shit."
He searched for words, doing a little gold digging of his own. Too many times he'd scared guys off with wanting too much. He had to balance that line here, make sure Shane knew he was serious without letting him jump to a crazy conclusion about what he wanted.
"I know we both feel it," William said, "or you wouldn't kiss me a second time. What about this is making you shit your pants?"
"Not shitting my pants..." Shane scrubbed his hand through his hair, still trying to pace around the small bathroom. He moved two steps one way and then the other, until pausing in front of the sink.
"It's—we fucking—we kissed, and then we didn't. And then we fucking did it again. And now—me—I just..." He looked up, his face desperate. "You won't blab?"
Is he fucking serious?
"I ain't going to tell anyone you like my tongue in your mouth, Daniels," William said, placing a hand on either side of Shane to crowd him against the counter.
He wanted him to still and relax for a minute. To trust him. Staring at the mirror, he met Shane's flushed face in the reflection. He liked the way they looked. Shane's body was nearly as big as his, the broad shoulders firm and solid against his chest. They contrasted, dark hair versus golden blond. Yet despite the difference in coloring, so much was the same: men who had seen and felt too damn much in the world, about to figure it out together.
He placed his chin on Shane's shoulder.
"You know what? If you want? This can be our little secret." He rubbed his beard over Shane's neck, earning him goosebumps. "We can just…figure it out, nice and easy. Because, Shane." William nipped his ear. "I have the taste of you, and I'm going to be craving more for awhile."
Vulnerable eyes met him in the mirror.
"A secret," Shane repeated quietly.
"Until you're ready," William promised, leaning closer, arms wrapping around his waist. He was willing to bet his house that if he slipped his hands over Shane's hips, he'd be happy to see him.
Shane shivered, but didn't try to pull away from the tighter hold. William couldn't help it; he wanted more. He ran his hand up Shane's chest, digging his fingers into the shirt, over the muscular body that was slowly losing its original softness. He could only imagine how good that would be.
Don't blow it, Bauer.
If he rushed this he would ruin it. Tonight, as much as their bodies said yes, common sense said put on the brakes. Still, it was nice, being close for a little while longer. That was when he noticed Shane's watch, pointing out exactly how long he'd kept him.
It would be a shitty start to their secret if on their first night together, they caused uncomfortable questions.
"You should go home," William said. "It's getting late." He kissed Shane's cheek, then rested his forehead against the side of his head, taking that scent in one more time. "I'll try and manage with my loneliness until you come back tomorrow, okay?"
He stepped back.
Immediately, he regretted it. It felt wrong to pull away, like he'd just shoved a lone boat off of a ship into the ocean.
"Okay..." Shane agreed slowly. He grabbed his empty from the counter, staring at the brown glass, rolling it in his hand. William wondered if he felt the same reluctance. With a final deep breath, Shane dropped the bottle to his side. He looked lost and uncertain of his destination, the remnant of their encounter dangling from loose fingers as he stepped through the bathroom door.
William followed him out, leaning on the porch.
Sucks you got to go, he thought, tracking Shane's form as it faded down the path. But damn is it fine to watch you walk away.
The easiest way to play off his eye as an accident, Shane decided, was by not trying to hide it. Which meant facing his family less than twenty minutes after William had pinned him against the bathroom counter.
Rubbing his beard on Shane's neck.
Feeling up his chest.
Kissing his cheek.
He uncapped his whiskey and drained several shots while walking the dirt road home. His heart thumped erratically, the calm evening doing nothing to dispel his nerves.
They can't know. It's impossible to tell just by looking at you.
Marnie was in the kitchen, putting a roast in the oven. When Shane opened the door she turned her head at the sound.
It took less than a second.
"Shane!" she cried, dropping the pan on the counter and rushing over. "Your eye!"
Déjà vu.
"It's fine," he insisted, kicking off his shoes.
Marnie opened and closed her mouth like a fish, until a few words finally squeaked out between the air bubbles.
"You—what in heaven's na—"
"It was a fence post," Shane said, sidestepping as she moved closer. He knew she wanted to chase down his face and get a better look at the bruise, but god, what if he smelled like William? Stupid fucking jerk always smelled so good, and he'd just had his arms around Shane…
Marnie froze. "A fence post?"
"Yes."
"Shane, did you boys fight again?" She leaned in, as if to sniff his breath.
"Marnie!" He jerked away, pushing past her to get to the fridge.
Act normal. Act normal. Act fucking normal.
He waited on her lecture, but this time it didn't come, and as he dug for a soda it dawned on him why.
She was expecting an explosion.
Between the truck ride, the applications, the fighting, the kissing—everything that happened since this morning—Shane had forgotten how he'd behaved the last few days. After the fiasco of the spa, he'd holed himself up in his bedroom and spent the whole weekend getting trashed. A month of acting like a semi-decent human being, then he'd backslid, hard. And Marnie, who'd let her guard down at her nephew's sudden good behavior, had been sprayed with all the mud.
Back to eggshells.
Shane set his soda on the counter, cracking the tab. "We were putting in posts," he said. "William swung around with one and didn't see me standing there."
She remained by the coat rack, nervous to get closer. "That's the truth?"
"You want pictures of the new fence or something?"
His brain told him to shut the fuck up, that he was protesting too much, and over-explaining would make it sound more suspicious. But he was afraid to give her space to read between the lines.
Still, the snapping had to stop.
"I'm fine," he said, quieter. "Really. Already iced it and everything."
Her gaze drifted over his face, taking in his black eye, his expression as a whole.
"All right," she conceded, and returned to her roast pan. "Dinner in forty minutes. Will you be eating with us?"
The question was innocent, but made William's words crash back into Shane's head.
You fucking broke my heart when you ran from me, asshole.
Running—god, it's what he was good at. Shane didn't give himself credit for many things, but running, that was his fucking specialty.
And nobody got it.
"No," he said. "I'm tired."
It was the truth, and now that he'd gotten the whole uncomfortable business of showing his bruise out of the way, he needed to fucking be alone. Besides, he didn't want to scare Jas again, right? Better to wait until tomorrow, when it didn't look so fresh.
Marnie nodded and silently slipped the roast in the oven.
Safe in his bedroom, Shane locked the door and stood in front of the mirror he'd sworn to tear down weeks ago. Tonight, he was glad to have left it up. He viewed the bruise from all angles, tilting his head side to side and touching the sensitive skin along his cheekbone. William was right. If the first one had been a ten, this one was definitely a four. It was coloring in lovely and dark, but the eye itself hadn't turned into a bloodshot pulp like last time.
He pulled off his dirty farm clothes. Down to his undershirt and boxers, he flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. It replayed like a movie. Being pinned beneath William, furious and wild. That sudden shift of expression—that wash of control—when Shane had pointed to his eye. The blue gaze that locked onto his, steady as a rock before delivering.
A punch to the face hurt like hell. At the time, it hadn't even been the good kind of pain. It wasn't the pleasant sting of a knife, or that beautiful soreness in his muscles after the fight. The black eye hurt for real, because it was supposed to; because sometimes that was the only thing to make the voices shut up.
He pressed down on the bruise, forcing sharp stars.
He thought of all the times he'd tried to silently ask Garrett for things, with looks, with moments of pause or hesitation. Those requests were never answered on the bone-deep level Shane needed. Yet somehow, William knew he'd asked for the punch. That it wasn't a dare, but a silent plea.
How did a day begin with wanting to puke from the thought of even seeing William, and end with kissing him on the porch while Shane wore his black eye?
He yanked down the front of his boxers and tucked them under his balls. Shoving away every thought that tried to interrupt, he spit into his palm and wrapped it around his growing shaft. With the other hand he pushed into his bruise.
Stabs of pain set the rhythm. He gripped hard, heavy, thrusting his fist until existing only in that pleasure, and when the final burst hit he pressed his head back into the pillow, groaning under his breath.
He sagged against the bed, panting.
His eyes opened.
The ceiling was white. It was too bright, spinning in a boozy circle as he stared up, his cock still dripping onto his stomach.
The next morning Shane maneuvered around his efficient new set-up in Marnie's coop. With everything confined to stations, he'd managed to shave several minutes off his normal routine. He wiped down eggs, stacked cartons, and jotted numbers, his head miraculously quiet beneath the buzz of whiskey.
Falling asleep early meant not drinking much before bed, which also meant the shots spiking his coffee were hitting hard. He felt bright and alert, ticking off chores with an unusual clarity. With the final stack of egg cartons resting against his chest, he stared around the organized coop.
William's influence.
Perhaps the quiet in his head right now was also William's influence.
The calm from the first fight hadn't lingered like this. Marnie's lectures and panic had punched a hole in it. Then there'd been the gossip of the townsfolk, and the cloud of unemployment hanging over his head. It hadn't been allowed to linger.
This time, though? It was the lack of fuss. A secret between them, that unlike the bar fight, was going to remain a secret.
A secret.
Shane went to the bathroom. He chugged a glass of water while staring at the bruise, then reached for the mouthwash, remembering William's warning about not drinking on his dime. Alcohol before work was bending that law and Shane knew it, but maybe by the time…
By the time what? William kissed him again?
Was he going to kiss him again? Were they going to discuss what happened, or just slip into work?
When he said they'd take it nice and easy, what exactly did that mean?
Hands in pockets, Shane walked the hushed country road to the farm, mint fresh on his breath and a heavy feeling in his stomach.
He would have to look William in the eye today. Maybe Marnie was too obtuse to realized they'd kissed. But William? It was like he could read minds. In one look, he'd know Shane had jacked off to the feeling of being underneath him. Maybe even know all the times Shane had jacked off to him over the past month—which until now, Shane hadn't even admitted to himself.
It was always underneath him. Straddled and pinned. His face pushed into the grass their first fight. Helpless in the headlock on his porch. William's body towering over him in the spa, while Shane sunk into the water below.
When was William going to learn that the man who'd apparently given him one of the best fights of his life wasn't a fighter at all? That the thing which drew him to Shane was a goddamn lie, a fucking one-shot in his life?
He didn't want to fight. He just wanted someone to make it all go away.
In the fresh morning air, Shane's buzz was already fading. In its place the nerves crept in, steadily increasing as he got closer. By the time he stood in front of the lit barn his whole body hummed with them.
William was already hooking up cows, his back turned to Shane. Classic rock played from the radio, and two thermoses sat on an upturned crate.
Two. Just like yesterday in the truck. He never used to make coffee for him.
Shane stood in the doorway like an idiot, debating whether or not to take it, when William glanced over his shoulder.
"Hey," he said with a half-smile. "You sleep okay?"
Shane forced himself to walk to the crate, heart thumping.
"Yeah." He picked up the coffee. A swirl of steam rose from the black surface as he twisted it open. "Slept okay."
William hooked the last teat-cup to the heifer and patted her hindquarters. "Good to know." Coming up behind Shane, he ran a hand over his shoulder, slow and familiar. "Cows would have missed you if you hadn't been here."
He reached for a new set of hoses, the hand sliding off. A shiver snaked through Shane.
"I'd, uh. Miss them too," he said.
His face went to fire the second the words left his lips, but he couldn't help it. 6:00 am, they were on the clock, and there was already touching.
William gave a bigger grin. "Good to know," he repeated.
Shane headed for his line of cows, furious with himself.
Pull it together.
Most days William only got the milking started for Shane, but today he stayed until an entire line was done.
"Gotta do some harvesting," he said, picking up his thermos and sitting down on the overturned crate. "Prepping for the grange. Lewis is coming by at some point this week to get the sign-up forms I collected." He sipped the coffee, eyes on Shane. "Maybe after the granges are done…you and me could secretly go hang out."
It felt like William had handed Shane a steering wheel, telling him to drive when he'd never gotten his license. He wasn't ignoring this. He wasn't running away, or regretting what they'd done after seeing Shane in the sober light of day.
No, he was asking for a fucking encore.
"A-after the granges?" Shane stammered.
William stood, leaning against the big steel gate that separated them from the cows. "Too soon?"
Shane chewed his lip. "I…dunno."
"Dunno if you want to? Dunno if it's too soon?"
"Just, the grange?"
William nodded with a grimace. "Good call. Probably too public." A lock of hair escaped his top knot as he looked over. "Shit. Couldn't convince you to go clubbing over the weekend, could I?"
Shane choked, hot coffee burning his throat.
"Okay, sorry," William said, chuckling. "That was mean. We'll ease into a club."
Before Shane could protest the words ease in, William leaned over, pressing a kiss against his bruised eye.
"Well, can't let you distract me all day. Time to go get the damn wheat harvested." He scooped up his thermos. "See you 'round lunch. Think about the fair though. I mean it. We could at least have an after party."
With a final squeeze of Shane's shoulder he headed toward the door, looking cheerful.
Shane stared at the hooves of the heifer across from him, temples warm from the kiss.
The hours passed uneventfully, Shane taking care of the animals while William stuck to the fields. The main barn was low on feed, so once finished in the coops he spent the rest of the morning driving back and forth from the silo, stacking hay into the loft.
In fourteen years at JojaMart, the one thing Shane had enjoyed was unloading the truck. He'd arrive in the morning to pull pallets of groceries from the dock, then pack them into the coolers. No customers. Hardly any coworkers. Just quiet, peaceful, physical labor.
It was even better on the farm. Throwing hay was sweaty, mindless work that warmed his muscles while his mind could wander.
He paused to stretch his lower back, staring at the fields through the open window of the loft. William had been on the tractor all morning, but now the noise of the engine had cut and he was nowhere to be seen.
Shane checked his watch. Not quite lunchtime.
Don't be an obsessive freak.
He hauled up another bale. When tossing it onto the growing pyramid of feed, he heard the low rumble of an engine, not loud enough to be the tractor. He glanced out the window again.
Angie's little sedan, piping down the road to the farm.
Shane's heart climbed into his throat and he ducked back, making sure he wasn't visible. The engine slowed then cut to silence, and moments later Angie's voice danced through the air.
"William! Look at you! Why, you're only limping a little."
William must have seen her coming before Shane did, because he was already there to greet her, his deep voice suddenly stiff.
"Mother. You brought a guest."