Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,98
I’ve increased our revenue by a hundred percent! And you’re still mad?”
“What I am is tired. It’s like you forgot you were ever in college. Here’s a refresher—you joined a fraternity and played football and drank beer. You didn’t spend all your time trying to figure out your future on the farm.”
“I don’t enjoy nagging you,” my brother growls. “But what choice do I have? There are decisions to be made. Big ones. And you claim to care about this place, so…”
“Claim?” I bellow. “You arrogant fuck! I care as much as you do. But I know it doesn’t matter what I think, or how I feel. You’re going to make all the choices, and I’m going to have to fall in line. Forever, basically. You talk as though I’m just too scattered to figure myself out.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No!” I roar. “I just can’t picture spending the next forty years trying to make you happy. You’re exhausting. So I quit. Make all the decisions you want. I’m done.”
“What?” Griffin actually gasps. “No, Dyl. That’s not how you make a choice.”
“Save it,” I bark. “I’ve been thinking about it a long time. I don’t want to work for you.”
“But you wouldn’t! It’s a family farm. We all—”
“No.” I shake my head vigorously. “I know you think of yourself as the benevolent dictator, carrying on the family legacy. But who is it really for?”
“You!” he shouts. “Your sisters! Mom! Audrey! Gus! I work my ass off for all of you. Because it’s worth it to keep it for you.”
I just shake my head. “I don’t want it. Not at that price. Today it’s a tractor tire, right? But what if I stay on, and it goes wrong? Like, really wrong?” It’s just too easy to picture this disaster. “Maybe the price of milk takes another dive. Maybe the vet bill is astronomical. I don’t want to have this conversation every day until I die. I’m willing to fuck up my own life. But I don’t want the hell on Earth that plays out when I accidentally fuck up yours.”
Griffin’s shoulders droop as I come to the end of my lengthy speech. “Don’t be hasty, okay? There are big decisions to make. Let’s sit down later and talk this out.”
“No.” I stand my ground. “I made up my mind. I finally did it. That’s what you wanted, right? So why argue now?”
Griffin opens his mouth, and then he closes it again. He honestly looks defeated. That should make me happy, but it doesn’t.
“And by the way?” As I say this, I start walking backwards toward the farmhouse. “Isaac’s chicken tractor was in the way.”
“What?” Griff looks blank.
“I was going to take the road, like you said. But he blocked it with an electric fence.”
“Fuck, Dylan. I’m sorry.”
I turn my back on him and stride toward the house. Before I even reach it, Rickie’s crappy little car comes up the drive, headlights blazing in the near darkness.
He stops, kills the engine and jumps out. “Dyllie! I made it. I drove through that freezing rain. And now it’s snowing.”
I look up, and notice that he’s right. Big, fat flakes have replaced the frozen crud. “Can you come into the barn with me? I’d like to close up before we go inside to eat and drink ourselves silly.”
“Sure, dude.” Rickie shuts the car door and follows me toward the barn. “Show me your tricks. I want to see all of it. Do the cows have names?”
“Of course they do. Duh.” I wave him through the half-open door. “That’s Millie, and this is Barbie.”
“Barbie?”
“She’s very blonde for a Jersey.” I run a hand over Barbie’s back, and she turns her head to sniff me. God, I’ll miss this. If Griffin shuts down the dairy, it just won’t be the same here anymore.
But I feel very clear about this all of a sudden. I meant what I said to my brother just now. I don’t want to farm here if it means spending my years trying to stay out of trouble and win his approval. That’s no way to live.
I make my way down the row, checking every animal and making sure nothing has gone amiss since the milking. “Rickie, serious question—do you think I could get into vet school?”
“Of course you could. But it’s hard, right? Lots of years of study, and then a low-paying job afterward.”
“I don’t care so much about the money.” Farming was never going to make me rich.