“You like to be prepared for everything, don’tcha, Boss?”
“I can’t prepare for everything. But this farm’s been here a heck of a lot longer than I have. It’s not going to be blown to bits on my watch.”
Ty paused and ran his free hand over his head, then picked the fork back up again. Maybe he was being too hard on Jenna. Betsy tried to take care of her. He should probably try to do the same. But her calling meant she needed something, and Ty wasn’t sure Betsy had anything to give. Not money, not energy, certainly not another chunk of her heart. Last summer was the last time, as far as Ty was concerned.
Betsy had been so confident that first procedure would work. He’d hoped it would too, of course, but he knew it was usually better to expect the worst. Not as hard of a fall that way. Betsy, on the other hand, had expected the best, even planned for it—she’d use the weekend in Nashville to give the good news to Jenna. It didn’t pan out that way though.
After they got the call that the test was negative, Ty had expected Betsy to bail on the trip, but she didn’t. Putting five hundred miles between her and the double glass doors of South Alabama Fertility Specialists would feel good, she’d said. Give her something else to focus on. And anyway, Jenna had asked her to come, and Betsy would do whatever she could for her sister.
He still kicked himself for letting Betsy go, but at the time, he didn’t have the heart to say no. When she pulled up the driveway at the end of the weekend, both she and the truck were on their last legs. She hadn’t gotten the rest and peace she’d gone to Nashville to seek. Jenna had been a sour taste in his mouth ever since.
So the phone call? It was the same as the leaves swirling in the wind, the animals all jittery in their pens, the weathermen loosening their top buttons and rolling up their shirtsleeves. Everyone knew something was coming.
eight
Betsy
It was a long day, as Ty had predicted. Betsy didn’t see him before the afternoon milking, which took him through the early evening. He blew in the back door as lightning bugs floated around the backyard and cicadas in the trees chirped out their scratchy melodies. He wolfed down a bowl of spaghetti, then ducked back out the door.
“Sorry, babe,” he said. “Broken pump. Carlos and I have to fix it before tomorrow.”
It was well after ten before she heard the back door open and his footsteps, heavy with fatigue, on the stairs. She was propped up in bed reading.
“Everything okay?” she asked when he trudged into their bedroom.
He shrugged, unbuckling his blue jeans and stepping out of them. He pointed to the bathroom. “Shower.”
Ten minutes later, he entered the bedroom, smelling of musky soap. She’d planned to tell him about Jenna and the girls as soon as he came out of the steamy bathroom, but then he collapsed onto the bed next to her, flung his arm over his eyes, and groaned.
“That bad?”
“It’s working again, but I don’t know how long it’ll hold up. It’s the second time we’ve had to rig it. Wish I could have called Chuck.”
For years Ty had used Chuck Panter anytime a piece of equipment broke or malfunctioned, but with the closing of several dairy farms in south Alabama, there wasn’t enough broken machinery to keep him in business. At one time there had been twelve dairy farms in his territory. Now there were three, and Franklin Dairy was the biggest by far.
After a moment, Betsy reached over and turned off the lamp. In the semidarkness she had the nerve to ask, “What about us? How are we doing?” She knew the numbers, but numbers only told half the story. Many times their numbers had been down but Ty said not to worry, that the next season would bring them well into the black, and it always happened.
But he didn’t immediately dismiss her concerns, which made her concerns feel that much more real.
“I was thinking about calling the principal at the elementary school,” she said. “See if he’d be interested in setting up some more field trips for next school year. And I talked to the head of the summer program at the Y. They’re adding us into their weekly camp schedule this summer.”
“That’s great, Bets.”
She turned her face toward him. He stared up at the ceiling, one arm behind his head.
“The field trips help,” he finally said. “They really do. The renovation set us back, but it’ll pay off. We’ll be okay.” He reached over and pulled her toward him. She scooted close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, slid one leg between his, and nestled her head under his chin.
He sighed. “We always make it work, don’t we? When something doesn’t go our way, we try something else.”
“What are we trying this time?”
“We’ll be creative, how about that?” He pulled his head back and smiled at her. His face, weathered from spending hours of every day of the year outside in the elements—heat, cold, rain, wind—bore straight white lines between his eyes and temples. He said he couldn’t be outside in the sunshine without his sunglasses on or his light-blue eyes would scald right off his face. She reached up and traced the line to his ear.
“Maybe it’s time for that vacation you’ve been talking about,” he said. “A long weekend. What about Destin? Or New Orleans? You could take me to that antique shop you like on Magazine Street. Walker and Carlos could keep an eye on things here for a few days.”
“How can we
