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That vulnerability had cost her something, just now. It was plain on her face. And fuck it all, Harry had been aching to finally see it from her. Formonths.
But Christ, this couldn’t be worse. An impending birth, a storm bearing down as sunset approached. Clouds moved faster behind Rowan, pushed across the horizon by a giant, invisible hand. His lungs began to burn, his lips began to tingle. He was going to lose his shit and have a full-on anxiety attack, right there in front of her. Harry curled his bare toes into the wood floor and willed himself to stay put until she went away on her own.
Don’t throw up.
Harry tore his attention away from the sky. Forced himself to look at her. His heart and stomach did a synchronized dive to the ground. Genuine anguish overtook her features, and it felt like watching glass break in slow motion.
Harry recognized the instant she regained composure. Her face became a resolute mask. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
She turned and sprinted away.
THE ONLY THINGmore potent than his fear was his self-loathing.
Harry pressed his forehead and knuckles into the closed door.Slammed his palms against it. He thrust away and screamed at the wall, shaking with rage at his fucking fragility.
He closed his eyes and sucked in a few breaths through his nose, and texted Duncan:
Get home. Rowan needs help, lamb being born
Duncan responded almost immediately, no words, only a photo of his dinner plate. A half-eaten baked potato. Untouched broccoli. And unmistakably, in the center of the plate, a lamb chop. A text followed:
Well, this is awkward
Harry replied:
I’m not fucking around
From Duncan, without hesitation:
I’m not either. It’s delicious. I’ll be home in a few hours. Might have a guest
Harry grunted in disgust and lobbed the phone onto the kitchen counter. Paced. His phone chimed that a new message had arrived. Duncan again:
Be what she needs
The words swam on the pixelated screen as Harry’s eyes flooded with angry, impotent tears. Another text from Duncan arrived, rapid-fire:
My date just ripped me for texting at dinner. Don’t let my sacrifice be in vain, dick
Harry sniffed hard, blinked hard, swallowed hard. He wanted to shatter the glass of the phone against the granite countertop.
Instead, he ran to his room to get dressed before he could chickenshit out.
THE MIST MADEthe grass slippery. Harry slid sideways as he ran, splaying his arms to keep from face-planting. When he reached the barn, he nearly lost an unlaced boot to the sucking mud.
Rowan didn’t hear him approach.
She had her back to the open double doors, trying to separate the flock from the laboring ewe with a makeshift shepherd’s crook: a long, narrow piece of plywood. She held it horizontally and crept toward them, clustering them in a corner. But rather than allowing themselves to be guided toward the pens she was trying to get them into, the sheep surged around her at the last second, scattering and bleating in irritation.
“Fuck!” Rowan yelled, kicking a puff of straw into the air.
A single sheep answered her with a defiantmeh.
The donkey lowered her blocky head over her stall’s fence to watch, puffing out her nostrils. Rowan had named her Asparagus.“Emphasis on the ‘ass,’”she’d said on the day the rescue had delivered her, eyes twinkling.“Get it?”
“I’m here,” Harry said.
Rowan yelped and pivoted with the plywood against her chest like a shield.
