Page 40 of Where I Should’ve Been

The cold hits instantly, sharp and biting, and then I see…

Well, I’m not entirely sure what I’m seeing.

A cluster of woolly shapes crammed half in, half out of a squat little building. Some of them are bleating, some are shoving each other, and one has what looks like a giant sack over its head.

The snow is trampled into a muddy mess, and the air smells…ripe.

“What in the actual hell?” I whisper.

Tad grabs my hand, already dragging me forward. “They broke into the feed shed.”

“The what?”

“Where we keep the grain.” He points with his free hand. “That idiot Nash—” he jerks his chin toward the sheep staggering blindly in circles “—managed to get a whole bag stuck on his head.”

I blink. “Oh my God! Is he suffocating?”

Tad snorts. “No. Just stupid.”

We’re running now, snow spraying up around us, my coffee splashing dangerously close to my wrist. “Why are they all shoving each other?” I call out, trying desperately to keep up.

“Because sheep are greedy little bastards. One gets a mouthful, the rest want in. It’s like a Walmart Black Friday circa 1995 in there.”

Randy throws his arms up when he sees us coming. “Wow, Tad! Isn’t this fantastic? A true vision of our sheep-farming excellence!”

Tad ignores him, letting go of my hand and wading into the wool storm.

The sheep with the bag stumbles into another one, knocking them both into the snow. Grain scatters everywhere, and suddenly, there’s a mad dash of bleating, wool, and tiny hooves scrambling over one another to get a bite.

Tad curses as he lunges forward to use some muscle against the flock. “Come on, Breezy. Help me block them in!”

I freeze. “Block them in? With what?”

“Your body!”

“My what?”

“I promise, Breezy. I would never put you in harm’s way,” he says as he nods toward where he wants me to stand. “I just need your beautiful presence right over there to distract them. They won’t do anything besides move in the opposite direction of you!”

Tad is in the thick of it, muscling sheep back into the shed while Randy wrestles the bag off the one’s head.

And somehow, against all odds, I find myself edging sideways in the snow, arms flung wide, trying to shoo woolly bodies back where they belong. My boots are not made for this. My pants are not made for this. I am not made for this.

But Tad glances back at me—sweaty and laughing—and suddenly, I don’t care.

Instead of being horrified, I’m laughing right along with him. Something about snow, sheep, and the smell of farm feces unleashes ducts I thought were clogged a long time ago.

I feel alive.

…

The sun is higher now in the sky, and somehow, the yard looks ridiculous and right all at once.

After this morning’s debacle with the feed shed, my clothes and boots were destroyed. Now, I’m in Tad’s clothes. His jeans hang off my hips like a tent, his flannel is huge, and his boots are about five sizes too big.

I look like some badly styled country music video, and I’m grinning anyway.

There’s mud on my cuffs and grain dust in my hair, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about how I have no idea what I’m going to do with the rest of my life or the fact that I’m currently squatting at my brother’s house with absolutely zero plan.