Cattle Stop by Kit Oliver

Chapter Ten

As the sun peaks overhead,Cooper sets the gate against the fence post and closes it behind the last of the cows. “It’s always greener, isn’t it, ladies?” There’s no Whit there to roll his eyes. Good, Cooper makes himself think. “At least you all appreciate my jokes.”

Something hits his arm. A nose. A cow’s nose. Buttercup butts him again, and finding Cooper lacking a bottle, prances away, tail swishing and head tossed up in the sunshine. Ah, the carefree life of a calf on a sunny summer day. Maybe Cooper should sprawl out on a pillow of grass and spend the rest of his early afternoon lolling in the sunshine, blowing on puffy dandelions, and braiding a flower crown of clover for Sadie.

Though, no, because Whit’s got this place set up like he’s determined to drive Cooper nuts, even when he’s off getting his hand stitched up. It took the entire damn morning and now into what should be lunch to feed the herd, get them milked, and send them back out on pasture. That’s just like Whit, to struggle through chores every day instead of ever looking around at the farm and having the bright idea that what he’s been doing all these years isn’t actually working. Cooper squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on that old, well-worn annoyance. He’s still got the pigs to feed. Scoops and buckets, he hears in Whit’s voice, and he grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning out loud at how his stomach pitches at the memory of Whit’s low, deep voice.

And fuck. There’s the man himself, standing across the field. And probably sure as shit examining the cattle stop that’s replaced the gate. Working up an argument too, ’cause that’d be just like Whit.

Yet more reasons for Cooper to not cartwheel down the waiting chasm of his embarrassing crush.

“Thought you were at the hospital,” Cooper calls when he’s close enough.

The bandage on the hand Whit holds up is a bright white, wrapped from his knuckles down to his wrist. “Just got back.”

“Too bad, guess they didn’t get my request in time to suture up your mouth too.”

“Shame.”

Cooper’s struck by the sudden urge to laugh. He presses his jaw tight, because then, where would he be, but stupidly grinning in the middle of the damn field?

“I moved the hens,” Cooper says, “so don’t go sounding the alarm if you spot them in a different field.”

There, that’s better. Business as usual, his voice cool, like he doesn’t want to rest his hand on Whit’s arm and bat his fucking eyelashes at him.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, but you were gone, so who was going to stop me? Next up, I’m finally fixing that damn spigot.”

“You’ve been here weeks. I can’t believe it’s taken you so long to begin with.”

“Just working up to the good stuff.”

“Why are you always trying to change things?” Whit asks.

You were the one who went and changed everything, Cooper wants to blurt out. How fucking embarrassing, when Whit’s talking about the farm, and Cooper wants to hold hands and stroll on a goddamn beach together.

Cooper lifts his hat and rifles his fingers through his sweaty hair. Focus. Farming. Whit’s an asshole. Cooper got over him once and he can do it again.

“There’s a lot of good ideas out there,” he says. “I know this will shock you, but other farms do things differently.”

“Obviously.”

“No, not obviously. I mean, yes but—you should see some of the places I’ve worked. Drew would have to hire five people to do the amount of work one person could finish in a day. Automatic waterers, fencing systems that don’t have you trekking all over the farm, the pigs out in the pastures, and the chickens after them, and with all that manure, the grass regrows so quick that the cows can be back on it much sooner.”

Whit sniffs. “I know what rotational grazing is.”

“Then give it a try. It’s absurd that I only just got the cows back onto pasture, and it’s almost midafternoon. And I know, I know, I show up here and want everything to be different, I have stupid ideas, I don’t know anything, etcetera, etcetera, but really, Whit.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Yeah, sure you weren’t. But we should try it, okay? Drew’s farm—it should be the best one there is, you know?”

“We,” Whit echoes. He kicks at the cattle stop. When grass starts to grow over the edges of the grate, it won’t look as out of place as now, newly installed and too obvious with shiny metal that’ll be dinged and scratched soon enough.

Argue with me, Cooper wants to snap, but Whit stares off across the field without levying at Cooper the heated, exhaustive list of how and why everything he’s said is wrong.

Whit nudges the cattle stop again, like he’s decided it’s crooked, that Cooper fucked up installing it, along with everything else he’s ever failed at, and that tiny kick is enough to shift it into a neater position.

“It’s a couple weeks until I can get my stitches out,” Whit says.

“So?”

“So, I guess I gotta ask Penny to help out with chores and all, ’cause I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to get done.”

“I’m literally standing right in front of you.”

“You’d stick around that long?”

“If I can change everything that you’ve set up over the past couple years and make you watch me do it, then hell yeah.”

“You sound delighted.”

“You have no idea.”

“What about seeing your parents?” Whit asks.

“They can come visit,” Cooper says. They won’t, he thinks before he can begin to imagine it, all the excitement of a trip that’s never happened and never will. “And I’m serious. What the hell is your plan, Whit, if Drew needs to make more money around here? Clone yourself so if the herd grows, there’ll be two of you to slog around this place with double the cows?”

“Apparently I don’t need a plan with all your great ideas,” Whit says.

There it is, that perfect coolness to Whit’s tone. Though it’s not nearly as fun when Whit looks as tired as he does now, like Drew’s defeat wore off on him, too.

Cooper wants to fucking hug Whit. Walk forward, wrap him up in his arms, and promise it’ll all be okay.

Wow, he needs to get his head on straight. Or maybe he needs a time machine, needs to go back and warn himself that this is where he’ll end up if he gives in to the searching softness of Whit’s kisses. A rewind button for his entire fucking life.

“Look, I was thinking about this the other night,” Cooper says. Thinking about it while at dinner with Brad, he doesn’t say, just points across the pasture so he’s not looking at Whit any longer. Cooper wonders if Whit can see the mark he left on his throat, the one Cooper had touched a finger to as he’d brushed his teeth that morning. “Let’s leave that fence up so we can move the pigs onto this field.”

“The pigs are in the woods,” Whit says.

“Right, which is why I said move them. As in, relocate. Point A to point B.”

Whit’s lips purse. Cooper hates that he knows how soft they are. “They’ll make a mess of the pasture.”

“Well, that’s just rude. Don’t let them hear you say that.”

“They’re pigs.”

“They’ll kick up the grass a bit, but if we move them quick behind the cows, it won’t be that bad.” Focus, he tells himself. Talking about farming is good. Easy. He can do this. “It’s going to cut down on how long fencing takes each day.”

“It doesn’t take that long.”

“Whit, it’d be a better use of your time to watch paint dry. Or actually try training the squirrel army.”

Whit squints across the field. “You really want to put the pigs out on this? To graze?”

“No, to play croquet.” Keep it normal, Cooper thinks. “Yes, to graze, you goddamn genius. It’s gonna cut down on the grain bill. And I want to figure out how to give the pigs whey to eat out here in the field, too. A whey way, if you will. More milk, more pork, more money, less work.”

“A whey way,” Whit murmurs, his mouth pursing.

It’s too much to look at Whit, at the shadows of his cheekbones in the brightness of the afternoon light, the cast of stubble on his face. He didn’t shave this morning, Cooper’s suddenly sure. That must be a first for Whit. Cooper points at the corner of the field, trying to keep himself staring at the stone wall that leads along the edge of the forest and not at Whit, who’s close enough to touch.

“We can put a water tank up at the top of the hill,” Cooper says. “We’ll lay out a couple hundred feet of piping and set out a bigger trough, save all that time schlepping water around. We also need to get a lane set up.”

“Now you’re building roads?”

“Just a path for the cows to use to get back to the barn for milking so you don’t have to chase them across the fields.”

“They know the way,” Whit says.

“Well, if you set it up right and put the gate on a timer, you could have the herd walk themselves to the barn every morning and evening without you needing to go out there. They can even put themselves back out on pasture. You could be getting something else done in the meantime. May I suggest the spigot?”

“What about when it rains? They won’t want to leave the barn.”

“Cow umbrellas. And galoshes.”

“Cooper.”

“Okay, okay, inclement weather, and sure, they need some encouragement, but just ’cause it doesn’t work perfectly doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

Whit blinks once, slowly, those long lashes fanning over his cheek. “The farm is huge. Setting up a fence along all of the pastures will take a good while.”

“Well, invest the time now, and get it back tenfold once you’re done.”

“If it doesn’t work?”

Cooper shrugs. “It will.”

Whit’s shoulders draw up. “Do you ever worry about anything?”

Yes, that I’m going to embarrass myself confessing my love the next time you glare at one of my wayward socks on your damn floor. “Nah, seems like a waste of time.”

Whit holds up his bandaged hand. “I really can’t do much to help.”

“Look, I know this will surprise you, but I do actually know how to farm.”

Whit puts his other hand on his hip. He’s going to argue. Insist they go find Drew and get permission. Dig his heels in and simply refuse. Though, instead, he nudges the cattle stop again with his toe and says, “I’ll go get the trailer to bring the pigs over.”

“Yeah? Really?”

“And I think we have some pipe lying around that we can use for the water, but I’d have to look for it.”

“So you think this is a good idea?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“C’mon, throw me a bone.”

“Or, if you want to hunt down the pipe, I can get evening milking set up. I was going to head out to give Penny a hand after that.”

Work a shift, Whit doesn’t say, though Cooper hears it all the same. Right, because if Cooper’s here, Drew certainly can’t pay Whit any more. Whit kicks a tuft of grass toward him, one Cooper tore up with the tractor just the other day.

“Now’s where you say I’m never that helpful anyway,” Whit says.

“What? Oh, yeah, that. Right, get the hell out of here and quit bothering me.”

“There you go, what’s wrong with you?”

You, Cooper could answer. Sorry, sits on his tongue. For taking Whit’s extra pay here, for coming in and turning both of their lives upside down. For saying yes to the insistence of Whit’s hands and mouth, when one of them should’ve been thinking straight.

“I can’t believe you’re going to set up milking and then go work at a bar the same day you end up in the hospital,” Cooper says instead. “All with stitches in your damn hand. Though maybe you’re just staying on brand, mister brainiac over here.”

“Glad to hear you think I’m so smart.”

“Well, we’ll see if you can figure out whether you can get over that cattle stop, or if you’re more on Buttercup’s intelligence level.”

“Are you coming by tonight?” Whit asks, the words quick and his voice quiet.

“What, to Murry’s?” Of course Murry’s. What else could Whit mean than stopping by the bar? Cooper works his finger into the hole at the bottom of his pocket. “Maybe, just for the fun of messing with you. Order some complicated-as-hell drink and put you to the test.”

“You only drink beer.”

“With a perfect quarter inch of foam, thank you.”

Fencing, setting up those water lines, hell, just dealing with moving the pigs could take all day, and evening too, if Cooper let it. He could. The work would be enough to lose himself in, and Whit wouldn’t question it. It’s summer. It’s what they’re all used to, burning the candle at both ends, not carving out evenings to relax with each other. With Whit.

“Yeah, sure, I could swing by,” Cooper says.

Get yourself together, he tells himself as Whit heads off toward the barn. Cooper leans against the fence post, arms folded. He shakes himself when he realizes he’s just been staring at the far stone wall across the field, lichen-covered and so old the stones are weathered and dull against the brightness of the grass.

Later, Cooper stands in front of his gaping duffle bag. It’s Whit, he tells himself and pulls on a T-shirt, like he even has anything nicer stashed in there. Cooper’s been through this, and he isn’t going to walk backward into his teenage self and become a blushing, tongue-tied mess.

Whit just wants some company tonight. That’s the only reason he asked if Cooper’d be coming by. And Drew’s in Albany picking up more rennet, and Penny’s at Murry’s too, so what the hell else is Cooper going to do? Hang out with the squirrels? Cooper meeting Whit isn’t a thing. He’s just going to the bar, their bar, their very normal bar that all of them always go to.

There’s a spot of engine grease on Cooper’s T-shirt that long since stained the hem a darker blue. He rubs his thumb over it like it’ll budge now, when dozens of washings haven’t cleaned the grease from the fabric. Cooper’s stomach jumps and he frowns. Hungry, he figures, as if he didn’t just wolf down a sandwich.

It’s a slow evening at Murry’s, and Cooper gets his favorite parking spot, though not his favorite barstool. Where he and Drew normally sit, a man and a woman are perched, their fingers entwined and knees knocking together.

Sure enough, there’s Whit behind the bar, wiping a pint glass. He fills it as Cooper walks over, one hand on the tap, veins running down the smooth skin on the inside of his forearm. Whit’s pouring brown ale, Cooper’s long-standing favorite. Cooper slides onto a stool and takes the glass.

“Did you finish reinventing farming?” Whit bends down to grab the rack of dishes from the dishwasher, his shirt tight enough across his back that Cooper can see the ridges and dips of muscle in his shoulders.

“I gave up when the rooster protested.” Cooper holds up his hand. Whit barely glances at the mark there. “C’mon, feel bad for me, I’m injured.”

“Get a handful of stitches, and I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, you barely have a scratch, Mr. I’m-fine-let-me-just-keep-working-all-day.” Cooper spins his stool to the side and back again, his forearms on the bar. It’s weird to watch Whit put away cocktail glasses, one hand covered in a latex glove over the bulk of the bandage. “Besides, after I’m done with my grand plan, the farm’s going to be so laden with Drew’s cheese that it’ll be pizza night every night, and all my dreams will have come true.”

“Good to know you have such lofty goals.”

“Saving my favorite farm and eating my weight in cheese, all in a day’s work.” Cooper lifts his glass toward Whit. Absolutely perfect, really, that image he holds of Drew’s farm. His favorite by far, of all the different farms he’s ever seen, with its barn and fields and cows, and the house vibrantly full of Whit, Drew, and Penny, and Sadie tottering after them on her old, arthritic legs.

Something sharp pangs through his chest at the thought. Happy, he wants to think, but the image he has of them is more like watching through a window, caught outside of that cheerful tableau.

A hand touches Cooper’s shoulder and he turns. “Yeah?”

The woman on Drew’s favorite stool asks, “You make cheese?”

“Uh, no?”

“Oh.” Her head tips, straight brown hair falling over her forehead. “Sorry, I must’ve misheard.”

“The farm I work at makes cheese,” he says slowly.

She raises a finger. “Knew it. Brad? He was talking about ordering from you.”

Whit half turns from the computer screen he’s tapping at, looking over his shoulder at them.

“Brad?” Cooper asks. “Yeah, I was talking to him about selling some.”

“I’m Elaina, Brad’s boss at the market, and we definitely want to place an order. I was going to tell Brad to give you a call, but you’re here now.”

“That’s great,” Cooper says. Behind Elaina, her date counts out money onto the receipt Whit just handed him. “Um, I can—what in particular were you thinking?”

Whit picks up the handful of bills, then tosses a pen and a pad of paper to Cooper.

“Mozzarella, for sure,” Elaina says.

“Yeah, absolutely, and we’ll have even more soon.” Cooper writes mozzarella, then pauses, his pen hovering over the paper.

“The end of the week,” Whit says.

“Yeah, the end of the week. You want to just try some? A couple pounds?” Or no, Cooper should suggest a bigger order. Oh hell, this is not his strength. Fencing. He’s good at fencing, not actually selling cheese.

“We can get you a full batch of it,” Whit says, rubbing the cloth along the counter beneath the beer taps.

Cooper nods quickly. “Right, and we can get some ricotta to you quick.”

“And some cheddar,” Whit says.

“And the cheddar.” Cooper nods again. “The next round of Brie is nearly ready too, and the Camembert is, um—”

“Ready next week,” Whit says.

“Ready next week,” Cooper echoes.

“What’s your discount for wholesale orders look like? Any room to maneuver in there?” Elaina asks.

“Yeah, uh.” Cooper holds the pen just poised above the paper, like it’ll let him know what numbers to write down. He sucks his cheek between his molars. Wholesale discounts. Right. He can…he can figure that out. Quickly. Now. He can figure it out now. Math, he thinks desperately and touches the pen to the paper.

“In general,” Whit says, “we do fifteen percent, though we could do eighteen if you can commit for the rest of the season.” Whit’s just pulling that out of his ass, Cooper knows, though hell, if he doesn’t sound downright confident. “Twenty, if you pick it up from the farm.”

Elaina looks over at Whit, brushing her hair back from her shoulder. “And you are?”

“He’s my coworker,” Cooper says.

Whit holds out his good hand to shake hers. “I’m the farm manager.”

“Co-farm manager,” Cooper says.

“Cooper’s my assistant,” Whit says.

“Well now, that’s just a lie.” Cooper holds out his own hand too for a handshake. “He works for me, actually.”

“Call me.” Elaina looks between them. “Somebody, call me.”

“I will,” Cooper says.

“Tomorrow morning,” Whit says. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Absolutely,” Cooper says, and when she leaves, her date in tow, Cooper throws the pen at Whit, smacking him square in the chest. “Asshole.”

Whit neatly catches the pen on the rebound. “How’re the notes you took?” he asks.

“How clean is that counter? You gonna keep wiping it until you’ve rubbed a hole straight through to your feet?”

“Buttercup can be your assistant. I think that would work out great,” Whit says.

“M’gonna tell Buttercup to escape again just for you.”

“It won’t be too hard, since he’ll be able to just walk over one of your cattle guards.”

“Buttercup would never.”

Fresh air blows in and Penny steps through the door, smiling and waving to them both. Cooper waves back and says, “Brad’s boss was here, I singlehandedly secured a giant sale of cheese.”

“Wow, really? Awesome, Coop.”

“One part of what he said is actually true,” Whit says.

Penny rolls her eyes. “The two of you.”

She slips into the kitchen while Whit counts out his tips, turning each bill to face the same way. He probably puts them in order in his wallet, too. Cooper takes the last drink of his beer.

“Have you talked to him today?” Whit asks suddenly.

“Who?”

“Brad.”

“Brad?” Cooper shakes his head. “No.”

Whit’s eyes are on him. Cooper’s stomach shivers.

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m done here, if you want to head out.”

“Right.” Cooper sets down his glass. He would’ve had a second beer, if offered, still well within his ability to drive. But Whit’s still looking at him, and heat builds beneath Cooper’s skin.

That’s…that’s a hint. Cooper’s not so dense as to miss the look in Whit’s eyes or the tension that sings between them.

They should be arguing about the pig fence, by all rights. Poking at each other over wholesale percentages and who could sell more wheels of Brie. He shouldn’t be here at the bar on Whit’s invitation, returning the look in Whit’s eyes, and certainly not agreeing to leave together. No, he should say. He should stay and have a drink as Penny starts her shift, order a plate of greasy fries, and wander back to the farm late enough that the excuse of the hour and early milking can easily staunch the suggestion hanging in the air between them.

Or, he could get laid. With Whit. Again. Oh hell yeah.

He jumps off his stool. “Let’s go.”

In the parking lot, Cooper slips Whit’s keys out of his hand. “You’re not really driving with a palmful of stitches.”

“Got here, didn’t I?”

But Whit doesn’t argue when Cooper opens the driver’s door to Whit’s truck and climbs in. He’ll have to come back for his own. Drew might ask. Might notice tonight, when he’s back from Albany. And if not then, tomorrow morning, he’ll see Penny’s motorcycle and Whit’s truck are parked in the barnyard, but that Cooper’s is conspicuously gone.

Drank too much to drive, flat tire, Whit’s stubborn refusal to admit his hand is injured—Cooper pokes his tongue into his cheek and lines up his excuses as Whit fumbles with his seatbelt.

Cooper leans across the cab, adjusting the strap so it lies flat against the strong lines of Whit’s chest. He can smell his skin, can feel Whit’s breath on his cheek. “There.” Cooper clicks the buckle closed.

Whit’s good hand covers Cooper’s over his breastbone. Readjusting what Cooper just arranged.

No, drawing his thumb over the back of Cooper’s fingers, light enough to raise goosebumps on Cooper’s skin. Slowly, Cooper pulls his hand away, feeling for the gearshift. He finds cold metal instead and a curl of rough sisal twine. The wrenches, still tied together, set in Whit’s cupholder.

“That way I’ll know if you steal them again,” Whit says.

Cooper grabs the bundle, sticks them beneath his thigh, and turns the key. Whit fishes for them, like he’s going to snatch the wrenches back, then just rests his hand on Cooper’s leg and keeps it there as they drive back home.