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Hey, Bree. You and Uncle T need some help in the orchards today? I feel like I need an outside day.
The three dots move almost instantaneously.
Dad’s not working, but yeah, come hang with me. I’m in the orchards today, so great timing.
Brianna’s dressed in flannel and jeans, her long brown hair pulled back in a braid that hangs nearly to her ass, and she has working cowboy boots on her feet. She’s in the orchards, supervising no fewer than fifty ranch hands who are pruning the fruit trees.
“Hey, Dave,” she says as I approach. “I’m filling in for one of the foremen today who caught some kind of crud. Feel like pruning?”
“Isn’t it early for that?”
“Then I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?” She laughs. “Early February is a perfect time for pruning in Colorado. As long as the weather is cooperating, of course. Right now, it’s easy to see the dead or diseased branches and get rid of them. Then we can shape them correctly to improve air circulation, sunlight penetration, and tree health, which will lead to better fruit production.”
I can’t help widening my eyes. Here’s my cousin, one of the flirty awesome foursome, but damn, she knows her stuff.
She points to a pile of tools. “Grab some pruning shears if you want to try it. But you’ll have to put on some gear.”
“Are you going to prune?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not today. I’m going to do some soil testing. Check for nutrient deficiencies. Then I’m going to start mulching.”
“What’s that?”
“We apply a layer of organic mulch around the base of the trees to help conserve soil moisture, regulate soil temperature, and suppress weed growth. Mulching also adds organic matter to the soil as it breaks down.”
“Need help with that?” I ask.
“Always.” She tosses me some leather work gloves. “For later. We’ll do the soil testing first.”
And we get to it. And with every chore I help Brianna with, the weight of the world seems to pull me down a little less.
Something about manual labor…
Brianna feels it too. I can see it in her face.
She doesn’t mention Jesse, and I don’t mention Maddie. We don’t mention anyone, especially not Uncle Joe or Pat Lamone or anything else related to our family.
Clearly, we don’t want to talk. We want to work.
When the sun begins to set in the west, I glance at my watch.
It’s nearing five o’clock, and damn…
I was supposed to have lunch with Maddie.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
There’s one text from her.
Only one.
Are we still having lunch today?
It came at about eleven thirty this morning.
And I didn’t bother responding. Not on purpose, of course, but I needed to give my mind a rest. I needed to work my body today. I haven’t even looked at my phone, and with the sounds around me, I didn’t hear it ding.
“Hell,” I say.
