Have Mercy - Christina Lee Page 0,13

stuck around here because he cared—not only about Sienna and Ainsley, but the animals too. Or at least that was the first impression I’d gotten of him after so many years. And also after hearing stories about their heartbreaking divorce and their daughter’s subsequent illness.

“If you ever wanted to learn how to milk a cow, now might be your time.”

I chuckled. “Not sure it was at the top of my list, but I’d definitely be curious.” I moved nearer to the enclosure. A few goats followed on my heels, and I noticed for the first time that the barn was divided by two large free stalls, one side for the cows and the other for the goats. “No farmhand today?”

“George will be in shortly, along with a couple of part-timers, to do whatever needs done for the day. Like repairing that fence our goats keep jumping over.” He dipped his head lower, and I zeroed in on some sort of bottle in his hand as he massaged the cow’s udders with the other. “But generally, George exercises and grooms the horses. The cows are mine to milk twice daily, and Sienna has taken over the goats. In fact, the whole goat-milk product line was her idea, and she loves it.”

“Good to hear.” From the sound of it, they each had their place, and it was all hands on deck. And I liked that idea, even though I’d promised myself I’d be free as a bird as soon as I was discharged from service. The thing was, I had my place among the men in my platoon too. As a team lead, my specialty was disarming explosives, and it made me feel not only essential, but productive. And damned good. Those feelings were lacking for me lately. I felt aimless and on edge, so it somehow rooted me to hear more about how the farm was run.

As the one explosive I never had the opportunity to disarm skirted the edges of my memories, and before the sounds and smells could become too vivid in my mind’s eye, I forced my feet to move to the gate of the enclosure and step inside.

“And the chickens?” I asked Kerry, wondering who was in charge of them while also detecting the machine resting on the hay with what looked like pumping devices on the ends.

“Eh, they’re pretty low-maintenance, so whoever gets to them first.”

“Sounds about right,” I replied, absently thinking about how we’d draw straws in the barracks to decide who would clean the common area after a rare night of cards or some stupid game Smithy had made up. I blinked to clear my thoughts. Don’t go there.

Thankfully, Kerry stood right then, distracting me.

“You okay?” he asked, studying me.

Fuck, I did not want him to think I was some sort of head case. They’d send me packing back to the city in one second flat.

“Still waking up.”

He reached for the machine I’d been wondering about. “Thought you’d be used to this kind of schedule,” he said with a small grin.

“Guess I’ve gotten a bit soft around the edges.” On cue, a yawn came on, and as I rolled my neck and stretched, I could feel my shirt riding up my stomach. I self-consciously tugged it down but could feel his gaze on me. I was still in good shape, but I had nothing on Kerry with his broad shoulders and muscled arms, no doubt from good old farm labor. “Need the discipline again.”

“Doubt that.” When my gaze met his, I noted how rosy his cheeks had grown, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the conversation or exertion. “But give the farm a couple more days, and you’ll fall back into a schedule.”

“I could see that.” I watched as he attached the pump from the device to the cow’s udders. “Does that machine milk the cows?” I leaned closer, fascinated. “You don’t do it by hand? Sorry, I totally sound like I’m from the city.”

Kerry grinned. “Bet you saw all sorts of animals in the desert.”

“Definitely. The villagers had farms in the less arid regions. Grew mostly wheat and cotton, but a bunch of other stuff as well.”

The Afghani children would trail our vehicles, shouting at us as we passed through the square. One adorable boy named Arash was especially persistent, trying to sell us any number of their wares, which included fruit, vegetables, and freshly baked Afghani bread, called noni, which was sort of flat and round, and damn, I