Wildflowers from Winter (32 page)

The hairs on her arms stood on end.

“The calf’s coming,” Evan yelled. “Get ready to pull again.”

Bethany took a deep breath and braced herself.

The cow strained again.

“Pull!”

Bethany heard someone grunt. She didn’t know if it was her or Evan. Her fingers whitened around the chain. She threw her body away from the animal, denying her lungs oxygen until she pulled that calf out alive.

“Come on, Luna, push, girl. Keep pushing!”

Something shifted again.

“Great, Bethany! We’re doing it! She’s still contracting … Keep pulling!”

Her face contorted. Her mind focused on nothing but her muscles and the metal gripped tight between her fingers. Without Evan’s command, she pulled again. And again. The calf’s legs appeared, then its nose.

“One more time, Bethany!” Evan’s voice echoed through the field, overtaking the cow’s horrific groans.

With one last mighty tug, they fell back, bringing the rest of the calf with them. The calf was out.

She’d pulled the calf out.

Bethany gulped in the humid air, breathing in heaping mouthfuls, scented heavily with sweat and blood, the burning in her lungs spreading throughout her entire body.

That weighty, important thing building in her chest rent loose and whirled away, leaving behind a lightness that might lift her off the ground and carry her to the sky.

The new mother came to her feet. She turned her giant head, nudged the calf on the ground, and began licking, cleaning her baby as if she’d done this a dozen times before. As if Bethany hadn’t just been tugging the beast’s insides out for all her life was worth.

Evan moved to the calf, did something to make it sneeze, then fell into the grass. His eyes found Bethany’s, and she stared in amazement at what they’d just done. At what she’d just done. She delivered a calf—she stood behind a twelve-hundred-pound animal and pulled a baby from its womb. Her breath came in airy waves. She could feel Evan watching her as she watched the two animals. Both alive. Both healthy.

Evan came to his feet, moved toward the mother-calf duo, and leaned close to the mother’s ear. “This was your first one, Luna. I promise the rest won’t be this hard.”

He moved away, toward the four-wheeler. When he returned, he carried the bucket filled with soapy water and bent low to clean the cow’s udder. Satisfied that her lungs were functioning and her legs would not
collapse, Bethany stood and joined him. She’d watched Grandpa Dan do this same thing. Clean the cow’s udder so the calf could nurse.

“When I didn’t see her with the rest of the herd, I thought I’d drive out and check. I’ve been worried about her. She’s pretty small yet to calf.” Evan dunked the rag into the sudsy water. “I didn’t think she would make it.”

Bethany could feel Evan looking at her, no doubt taking in the hair sticking to her neck, the dirt and blood covering her hands and arms. She had to look like a nightmare.

“Thank you, Beth. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

The airiness in her chest hummed.
Beth
. Evan had called her Beth. Before she had time to dissect what that might mean, the calf did something amazing. Something that made Bethany gasp. Less than fifteen minutes ago, that animal had been fighting for its life. And now, there it was, getting to its feet. Evan dried the cow’s udder and moved away. The calf took an unsteady step forward, bent its head, and latched on to its mother.

How did it know? Who taught that helpless animal to bend down and nurse?

Bethany looked at the sky, then scanned her surroundings. Something still, something peaceful, welled up inside her as she took in the view—a few distant round bales sitting in the fields, rows of corn stretching toward the horizon, the white-fenced paddock, and the spot she’d noticed earlier—where the stream gurgled through the pasture and wound behind the barn.

Her breath caught.

Wildflowers burst from the ground in vivid blues and whites and violets, creating a picture more pleasing than anything her hands could design. She didn’t understand how it was possible, but Evan had been right. The abundance of snow had produced an abundance of wildflowers. More than she’d ever seen before. Somehow, those cold, lifeless winter months had prepared the land for something breathtaking. Something beautiful.
Something brimming with life. And her newfound lightness grew lighter, warmer, as if the sight before her was reviving the dormant pieces of her soul.

Her father and grandfather had poured their sweat and hearts into every inch of this land. Yet she’d been determined to get rid of it. As if keeping it would somehow mean forfeiting the woman she’d become. But sitting there, having witnessed such a miracle, with that heavy thing within her gone, she suddenly realized that it might be possible to have both. To be both. The little-girl Bethany who loved the farm and the adult Bethany who loved architecture. Maybe she didn’t have to choose.

She breathed in the wide-open space and embraced the deep-seated longing germinating in her heart. A long-buried love took root and blossomed, and for the first time in a decade, it no longer felt like a weed.

Blood and dirt had soaked through the fabric of Bethany’s shirt and would never come out. Thankfully, Evan lent her an oversized T-shirt, so she could discard her top. She rinsed her face with cold water and used a washrag to wipe her arms and legs, then pulled the T-shirt over her head. The scent of Old Spice clinging to the cotton didn’t help her wobbling knees. Evan had given her a ride to the house on the back of his four-wheeler. Her body still felt like warm putty from pressing against his.

She slipped out of the bathroom and crept down the steps. The familiar creaking brought a gentle ache to her chest. On the cusp of such an exhilarating morning, she longed to talk to her grandfather. To share her experience with the man who could listen better than anyone. Instead, she tiptoed past his empty recliner—as if not to disturb his memory—stepped out onto the front porch, and found Evan sitting on the porch swing. She took a seat in the rocking chair beside him.

The shade of the porch didn’t deter the heat. The mugginess crept underneath the awning and settled around her shoulders like a heavy blanket. Evan cracked open a Pepsi, then grabbed an unopened one by his feet and handed it over. The sweaty can felt like ice on her fingertips. She brought it to her neck and pressed the shock of cold against her skin.

They sat in comfortable silence while Bethany sipped her drink, rocking back and forth, the floorboards creaking a hypnotic lullaby. When she had nothing left but an empty can, Evan dropped his own to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot. The loud crackle may have interrupted the soothing cadence of the moment, but it was his words that obliterated her peace.

“You can sell the farm.”

Bethany stopped rocking.

“You can tell your Realtor that I’ll sell the house.”

“I don’t understand. I thought—”

“It’s your farm. Not mine. My uncle has a friend in Missouri. He’s going to rent me some land after harvest this fall.”

Bethany’s mind tripped over his words. Evan was leaving Peaks?

“I won’t stand in your way anymore.”

The word
hypocrite
flashed in her mind. He’d given her so much grief for wanting to leave, to find a job elsewhere. Now he was the one leaving. He was the one abandoning Robin. He was the one abandoning the farm. Her hand pulsed with the angry desire to slap him. She wanted to scream at him for giving up, for relinquishing his dream. But she buried the words inside and gripped the sides of her rocking chair.

“Thanks for your permission.”

The icy tone of her voice clashed against the simmering heat of the late morning and melted into a puddle of resentment at her feet. Bethany had nothing keeping her there. She had no excuses to hold on to the farm now. Not when her anchor had just let go.

THIRTY-TWO

A
month after my eighteenth birthday, I packed up my car to leave Peaks, and the last place I planned to stop on my way out of town was the farm. I boxed up the few belongings worth taking and crammed them into the back of my Geo Metro—a horrid combination of teal and rust. Yet somehow better than Mom’s Pinto, which, thank the heavens, breathed its dying breath two winters ago.

Mom stood to the side and watched, arms wrapped around her waist like she might spill into a puddle on the ground if she didn’t hold on tight. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a crumpled pink tissue. David had left two years before, and now she’d be all alone. In that tiny trailer.

I couldn’t get away fast enough.

When I finished packing, we stood there. Awkwardly. My mother wasn’t a hugger. And I suppose I didn’t make it easy for her to hug me. So we said our good-byes, Mom’s eyes watering while mine stayed completely dry. She asked if I’d packed a lunch. I said yes.

And I drove away.

Without looking back.

I stopped at the Delners’ next, my car, as always, completely out of place in their neighborhood. Robin had decided to stay in Peaks and go to St. Ambrose University—only fifteen minutes away—something I could never understand. Our good-bye wasn’t awkward. We hugged. We promised to
stay in touch. She said something that made me laugh, but I can’t remember what. Mr. Delner came out and gave me one of his bear hugs. And I left before Mrs. Delner’s absence could dampen our happy good-bye.

Then I went to the farm. To say good-bye to Grandpa Dan.

I remember feeling surprised as I pulled up the long, graveled drive toward the farmhouse and realized how long it had been since I’d last visited. Once I started high school, with Mr. Delner’s words about architecture firmly planted in my mind, I visited Dan less and less. When I wasn’t busy hanging out with Robin, my studies consumed me. My grades were one of the few things I could control. Something that would ensure I could escape Peaks and make a life much different than the one I knew. It’s what earned me a full-ride scholarship to one of the most prestigious schools of architecture in the country.

A smile spread across my face at the sight of Dan, riding atop a tractor, mowing a large circle around the machine shed. When he saw me get out of the car, he waved and cut the engine, and I had the strangest urge to join him. To kick off my shoes and run out to see the horses. To be, for just a moment, the carefree girl I was before everything went so sour.

The urge welled up so strong and sudden that it frightened me. I’d convinced myself that I was over the farm. My young-girl dreams of marrying a handsome farmer like my father were long gone. The farm was part of my past, and I didn’t want to feel nostalgic toward anything that would tie me to Peaks. I was eager to start fresh, where nobody knew me. Where nobody knew my past mistakes. Far, far away from my mother and her choices and the memory of my father and his death. I couldn’t wait to re-create myself—to become Bethany the architect. Not Bethany the poor, fatherless trailer girl who tried to drown herself when she was twelve.

Dan shaded his eyes, and we met at the end of the driveway. He held out his arms, and I walked into them. I remember thinking how strong he was. Not at all like a typical sixty-five-year-old.

“My granddaughter, the college student,” he said, his chest rumbling with a chuckle. He pulled back, took hold of my arms, and looked me up and down, like he wanted to capture a picture in his mind. “I have something for you. Wait right here.”

He left before I could protest and trotted toward the house. I shoved my hands in my back pockets, kicked at some loose gravel, and scanned my surroundings—the paddock, the barn, that tall silo where everything changed. I fought hard against the lump building in my throat, perplexed by its arrival, until Dan returned with a box wrapped in newspaper.

“Grandpa, you didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said, handing the gift over, “but I wanted to.”

I smiled, tore off the newspaper, opened the lid, and pulled out a maroon and gray Texas A&M T-shirt. Underneath, a biography of Frank Lloyd Wright. I draped the shirt over my arm and picked up the book, the lump in my throat growing bigger. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re going to make a fine architect someday, Bethany. I have no doubt about that.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Just don’t forget, you’ll always have a home here too.”

He didn’t mean Peaks. He meant there, as in right there. The farm. And as I drove into the sunset, toward my future—my new life—I couldn’t help feeling comforted that the farm would always be there. My first home. My first love.

THIRTY-THREE

T
o avoid facing any decision about the farm, Bethany enmeshed herself in the café. The kitchen was complete. Evan and Gavin helped tear out the wall, replace the front windows, build the railing on the second floor, and make improvements in the two bathrooms. Robin planted flowers in the garden out front and browsed Craigslist for used kitchen appliances and espresso machines. Bethany kept in touch with the building inspector.

Together, she and Robin found a great deal on fifteen marble-topped round tables with black iron chairs that looked exactly like the kind she imagined gracing the inside of an Italian bistro. Bethany convinced Robin to enlarge the photos of Italy that she and Micah had taken on their honeymoon. They turned the photos into square canvases and stored them away until they could hang them on the walls.