Free Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle by Candace Carrabus

headed for the checkout.  
    “Tell Fawny-Wawny I said hi, okay?”

    ~~~

    I’d put my three bags on the seat of the truck before I began to see the humor in the situation. So long, that is, as no one ever found out the panties were mine.
    Back at the ranch, I put groceries away quickly, loading the two cans of Reddi-Wip into the door of the fridge. I’d gotten one plain, one chocolate. The chocolate was for extreme stress. Emergency provision only. I took a hit of the creamy white stuff, closed my mouth, then swept my tongue through it a little at a time, letting it dissolve at its own pace. Tension slipped away like water from a leaking trough. After a deep breath, I took another quick squirt and headed outside, feeling renewed. Who needs yoga and meditation when there’s whipped cream in a can?
    I grabbed my baseball cap and pulled my hair through the opening in the back.
    Henrietta was nowhere in sight, which made me nervous, but I didn’t have time to look for her. Hank had parked the manure spreader at the top of the hill. His tractor looked more like a jolly green bulldozer with four back wheels taller than me and a scoop on the front-loader big enough to pick up a car. He shut the giant down when he saw me.
    “We’ll hitch the spreader to the Laird’s Ford, and I’ll show you how to run it.”
    “Sure,” I said, wondering about ear protection. Hadn’t anyone in the tractor business heard of mufflers? “Does everyone call him the Laird? Should I?”
    “Hell no. He hates it. That’s why’s I does it. Ever since he came back from that school in Scotland. He was tellin’ me and Clara about it one night and the history and whatnot and I took to callin’ him that after. Pisses him off right royal, it does.”
    “Why do you do it, then?”
    “I known him since he was born. No need of him to start puttin’ on airs thirty-two years later. Just remindin’ him where he came from, is all.”
    Made sense, in a convoluted way. Either that, or the fumes from the manure pile were getting to me.
    “How often does he wear that kilt?”
    Hank gave me a look, like he was trying to figure out why I asked. I knew the moment he found an answer he liked because it made him smile.
    “Most the time.”
    I could get used to most of the time. No, less distracting if he didn’t. Better to remember Malcolm was a prick the last time I saw him.
    “We gonna get this shit moved today, or stand out here yammerin’ or what?”
    “Let’s go,” I said.
    Mr. Malcolm’s tractor sat under the shed along the north side of the barn. I hadn’t ventured over there yet. The gooseneck horse trailer was backed into the front of the shed, and in between sat a square baler. Or so Hank explained. Okay, so I’m a typical consumer. I’ve fed hay to horses all my life—bought, unloaded, and stacked it. I’ve never seen it baled and cannot figure out how this contraption does it.   Hank pointed out a hay rake, too, which didn’t look anything like any rake I’d ever seen before.
    He showed me how to start the tractor and pointed out the clutch, gas, and brake. My truck was a stick, so I eased out the clutch and backed clear of the shed. Attached to long arms on the front of the tractor there was some other mean-looking farm implement with three, thick metal spikes—two short and one long—each with sharp points. I pointed at them.
    “What’s that for?”
    “Bale spear,” Hank answered. At my blank look he added, “To pick up them big round bales.”
    I don’t know what I’d expected, but doing hay on the farm was not going to be it. I made a mental note to stay far away from the bale spear. That thing could skewer a person or two and never know the difference.  
    Hank jumped on the back, rode to where he’d left the manure spreader, and hitched it up when I got close enough.
    “Okay,” he yelled.
    I turned the gas down to lower the noise and cupped my ear to hear him better.
    “Wait a minute, and I’ll bring up a