Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

We walk back over to the tractor. Grandpa and Tim have the baler and wagon ready to go already.

“Grandpa, this is Brooke.”

Grandpa smiles at Brooke and then touches his fingers to the brim of his old cap and nods.

“That means he really likes you,” I whisper into her ear.

She blushes a little, and if I’m not mistaken, a tiny bit of shyness shines through that brave smile of hers.

I lead her over to the wagon then, and when we reach the edge, I jump on first before offering her my hand. She doesn’t hesitate as she lays her hand in mine. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched her. She steps up onto the tongue of the wagon, and then I pull her up. But all I can think about is how soft her hand is. I pray a little silent prayer that it’s not the last time I get to hold it.

“Tim, this is Brooke.”

Tim’s posted up at the back of the wagon. He looks more skittish than a squirrel tryin’ to steal some birdseed off the porch, but he manages a hi nonetheless.

“Hi,” Brooke says.

“Tim, give Brooke your gloves.”

He looks longingly at his gloves. I can tell he contemplates what will happen if he doesn’t do what I tell him to do. But then, I’m also sure he’s considering the fate of his hands as well. But after a moment, he starts to slide the gloves off one by one.

“No, it’s okay…,” Brooke says, holding out her palm.

I snatch the gloves from Tim and hand them to her. “You’ll thank me later,” I say, giving her a confident wink.

She looks a little worried as she smiles and whispers a thank you to Tim before slippin’ the gloves over her soft hands. The gloves are old and frayed, and they look huge on her. In fact, they make her hands look like that Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s hands in the Ghostbusters , but she could wear the whole darn marshmallow suit and still be just as cute, I think.

“Okay, you wanna help me stack. “Tim’ll pull ‘em off.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding. She looks a little unsure of her next move, but she’s wearin’ a smile nonetheless.

Grandpa looks back one more time before he takes off with the tractor and the baler, jerking the wagon back. And the next thing I know his shirt hits me in the face. I peel it off and then catch him grinnin’ as he turns the tractor to make the first round. I just smile and force my arms through the shirt’s holes. It’s a little big, but it does the trick of coverin’ my arms just fine.

I find Brooke again. She’s holdin’ onto the wooden slats of the wagon, steadying herself as the wheels hit uneven patches of dirt. “You still want to do this?” I ask. I figure I’d give her one last chance to back out.

She gives me a devilish grin and then nods her head. Hot damn. She might be crazy, but hell, maybe crazy’s my type. I just can’t seem to get enough of her — or her daring smiles.

The first bale comes out. Tim snatches it up and throws it back to us. I take it and start a row with it in the back of the wagon. Then I go for the next one Tim throws our way, but a pair of big, round marshmallow hands beat me to it. I back off and let her take the bale. She picks it up and scoots it next to the first one. She struggles a little, but she’s surprisingly stronger than she looks.

We keep it up like that for the most part. When two bales come out pretty close together, I’ll take one in each hand and stack them to give her a little break. But the whole time, she never complains once. The sun’s beatin’ down on us, and it’s as hot as hell out here, but she never says a word about it. She just wipes her forehead every once in a while and then just keeps goin’. Hell, Tim’s been doin’ this for years now, and he can’t stop complainin’. And I try not to think about how much hell I’m gonna catch when Tim’s blisters start showin’ up on his hands in a day. But then I guess it’s probably good for him. If you never get blisters, your hands never get tough. I’ve been tellin’ him that for years.

We eventually get the field done. It’s a small field, so it’s not even a whole load, but with the heat, it pretty much feels as if it might as well have been. I unhitch the baler, and Tim and I hook the wagon back up to the tractor, and then I climb back up onto a bale next to Brooke. Once I get settled, I hand her my water thermos. She takes it without any hesitations and drinks down what looks like half of it. She tips it up too much at one point, and some water trickles down her lips and chin and eventually slides down her neck and past the place covered up by my long-sleeved shirt. It’s a miracle that while watching that drop of water slide farther down her body, I notice out of the corner of my eye Tim starin’ at her too. I kick him in the shin. He sends me a mean look and then goes to rubbin’ his leg.

“Thanks,” Brooke says, handing me back the thermos and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She’s no longer wearin’ the marshmallow gloves.

Tim doesn’t say anything to Brooke the whole ride back to the barn. He’s definitely in rare form, and it must be killin’ him. He’s always got at least thirty questions for every new person. But if I’m not mistaken, I’d have to say that little shit is scared to death of her. Then again, I guess I’m not that much better.

We get to the barn, and Grandpa stops the tractor and wagon right next to the two hayloft doors.

“We can do this part. It won’t take long if you wanna go rest in the shade,” I say to Brooke, pointing to a spot under an old maple tree.

“Are you resting in the shade?” she asks.

“No, I’ve gotta help Ti… Oh,” I say, stopping mid-thought.

She smiles at my understanding, and I just shake my head. “You wanna help Tim put the bales on the elevator then?”

She doesn’t answer. She just slips her big gloves back on and grabs a bale.

Tim and Brooke send the last bale up the elevator, and I grab it and stack it on top of the others in the corner. Then I jump down from the loft and land on my feet and onto a patch of dust and loose hay.

“I see why you’d want to cool off after that,” she says, eyeing me. “You do this every day?”

“Bale?” I ask.

She nods her head.

“Naw,” I say, “not every day.”

I look over at her. The poor girl looks exhausted.

“Farming’s a lot of work,” she says.

I just smile at her. “Yeah, it is.”

She pulls off her gloves and swipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. I ain’t never seen sweat look so good on someone.

“You wanna cool off?” I ask her.

I catch Grandpa’s eyes on me out of the corner of my own. He smiles before he starts makin’ his way up to the house. Nosy old fart .

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Let’s cool off.”

I notice Tim under that old maple tree lookin’ as if he’s on his last leg, as usual. He’s sippin’ out of his thermos. I’d ask him if he wants to come too, but I really don’t want him along, and anyway, he’s always too tired to make the walk to the creek. It’s only half a mile, but he acts as if it’s halfway around the world.

“Let’s go,” I say.

We start walkin’, and we get barely ten feet before I realize I don’t even know this girl’s full name.

“What’s your last name?”

“Sommerfield,” she says before she takes off runnin’. “Race you, farm boy.”

Before I can even realize what’s goin’ on, she’s already got a good head start on me. I take off after her, and I don’t even catch her until right before she makes it to the bank of the creek. Damn, this girl’s fast, and it looks as if balin’ hay did little to slow her down. She pauses only to pull off her boots before she jumps right in — feet first, clothes and all. I can’t get my boots unlaced fast enough before I’m kickin’ mine off too and jumpin’ in after her.